The doc in the white coat stands at the end of my bed. I sit on the side, dressed and ready to get the hell out of here. Brady stands, grabbing my overnight bag, his to-go coffee gripped in one hand like he’s ready to make a run for it, too.
The white coat pins me with his seriousness. “I would highly recommend never getting on another bull. The concussion you have is not to be taken lightly. Another hit to your head could result in permanent injury or worse.”
Brady’s gaze alternates from me to the doctor.
I meet the white coat’s tone. “There’s only another week until the season’s over, I can ride it out.”
“Another week won’t change the effects of this concussion. Nor will it keep you from harm if you come off and take another hit. Please listen to what I’m telling you, Hadley. I’m not trying to ruin your career. This is not about that. It’s about keeping you safe. Alive.”
I slip off the bed and stave off the wobble threatening to knock my legs out from under me by gripping the edge of the mattress.
“I’m fine,” I grind out. “With all due respect it isn’t your existence on the line.”
I walk from the small hospital room that’s been holding me captive for more hours than I’d like to remember. The blue cast on my right forearm hangs like lead.
Footsteps falling in behind tell me Brady’s following. We make it outside before he chips in his two cents. “Hads, bud, I know you’re like this close”—he holds a hand up, pinching two fingers together—“but the title and the money ain’t worth it.”
I stop in my tracks and spin back. “You think that’s why I do this?”
“Don’t we all?” He looks taken aback, brows fallen, as he studies my face as if what I haven’t told him would be written right there. “What’s this really about, then? Maggie?”
Her name brings back the ache that’s been humming below the surface with each hour that passes that I don’t hear from her.
“Where’s my damn phone?” I snap.
“Oh, shit. Sorry.” He slips the phone from the pocket of his button-down.
Fuck me, Brady.I ought to wring his goddamn neck. I snatch the phone and slide the screen open.
Nothing.
Not one text.
No calls.
The screen is empty of notifications.
That can’t be right.
I tap the message icon and scroll, double-checking. Nothing new. I tap on her name and read the last messages...
Only the ones we sent before the event, two days ago.
My gut sinks as something heady and sickening courses through me in waves.
“Where is she, Brady?”
He shifts on his feet.
“She left, Hads. She quit.”
“The fuck?”
“She handed over your gear to Spence yesterday morning and hightailed it home. At least that’s where we think she went.”
I stare at the phone.
She left? Just like that.
