CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tristan
The hospital room is too quiet after the doctors leave.
Machines hum.
Hallway noise bleeds faint through the door.
Isa sits propped up, ankle wrapped and elevated, an ice pack melting slowly against the swelling. Her hair is pulled into a loose knot now, a few strands falling around her face. No makeup. No performance.
Just her.
Human.
Real.
I lean back in the chair beside her bed, elbows on my knees, hands clasped.
“They said it’s a tear,” she says finally.
Her voice is steady.
Too steady.
“How long?” I ask.
“Six to eight weeks. Maybe more if rehab’s slow.”
That lands heavier than anything else tonight.
Season.
Momentum.
Everything she worked for?—
Paused.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She lets out a small breath.
“You didn’t tackle me, Vale.”
“I was there.”
She turns her head.
Looks at me.
Really looks.
“And?” she asks softly.
“And I should’ve—” I stop.
What?
