Page 138 of The Backup Plan

“You said it yourself. You fix broken things.” His eyes are wild and words are manic. “Then fix this. It’s broken. Do what you do.”

“I don’t think you understand—”

“Fine. If you don’t want to help me, then don’t.” He stops pacing and glares at me. “I’ll find someone who will. Just . . . just don’t tell the coaches. Management. The team. I’ve played through worse. You don’t get to stop me from playing through this.”

I can’t keep up with the whiplash of emotions.

“I can’t do that—”

“Yes, you can. It’s easy.”

“Luc—”

“Stop saying my fucking name like I’m a goddam child,” he yells. “You don’t get to determine whether I can play. I do.” He thumps his chest. “Me. It’s my body,” he snaps, panic bleeding its way through the anger. “You know what this means to me.”

I take a deep breath, and yet I still feel like I’m starving for air. I can’t lie to the team. I can’t risk my own job for him. I can’t . . . I don’t know what to do. Logic is cut and dried and tells me I have to inform my bosses, but emotion and the man standing before me pleading with me says something totally different.

His eyes search mine, like he’s looking for the woman he thought he knew when I’m standing right before him.

“How long?” he asks quietly. “How long have you known?”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. He knows.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You let me celebrate. You celebrated with me.” The pain threaded through his voice is enough to bring me to my knees. “Who’s the liar now, Em?”

“You were so happy. I couldn’t—”

“I don’t want”—he holds his hands up for me to stop—“you should have told me.”

“I was trying not to break you.”

“Ironic.” His jaw clenches and eyes pierce right through me. “Too bad you just did.”

He turns and walks out.

And I stay where I am, staring at the door long after it closes. Oh, Lucas.

I love you so much it hurts.

His words, his understandable anger, his dismissal . . . it all makes sense, but I’m between a rock and a hard place right now. Ethically, morally, and according to the terms of my own contract.

Just . . . just don’t tell the coaches. Management. The team. I’ve played through worse. You don’t get to stop me from playing through this.

We never said the words out loud to each other, never said I love you, so why does it seem as though I’ve also just broken something I desperately want to fix?

Lucas

I don’t remember leaving her office.

Or the long stretch of the hallway I walked down. Or the noise of the facility pressing in all around me.

I remember breathing but feeling like I was suffocating.

Like my heart was racing but feeling like it had stopped.

Like the world around me imploded and yet people were walking through the Rebels facility like nothing had happened.

Stop playing.