Page 159 of The Backup Plan

“I know. I knew last night.” She lifts her eyebrows when I gasp. “But I thought you deserved to hear it here, from Coach. Like this.”

And she’s right. Seems she is more than she’s not.

“Thank you,” I say, unable to stop myself from studying her face. Every instinct in me wants to pull her into my arms, to promise her I won’t break, that she won’t have to fix me anymore.

“Please don’t thank me.”

“Everything’s going to be okay,” I whisper.

She doesn’t respond. Instead, she just exhales, stands, and reaches for her tablet. “Let’s go into the therapy room. We need to get you as ready as we can for Sunday.”

“Em—”

She finally looks at me then. Really looks.

“Let’s get you ready,” she repeats, eyebrows lifted, eyes begging me to drop it. For me to remember where we are and that she’s not Em here. “Okay?”

I nod.

Because this is her line in the sand.

And I see it now—clearer than I ever have.

What she compromised so I could stand here.

Her integrity. Her peace. Maybe her career if this goes sideways.

For me.

No one has ever showed up for me like that.

And as she starts talking through reps and flexion movements she can control, I realize something terrifying.

If this goes wrong, it won’t just be my body that breaks.

It’ll be me letting Emery down. It’ll be me proving to her that she risked consequences and compromised her moral code for nothing.

Don’t think that way, Lucas.

Let her do what she does best—prepare you. Let her do all she can so she knows, with absolute certainty, that your arm is ready for this challenge.

Show her that this trust she’s always talking about is a two-way street.

Emery

By the third quarter, the noise finally fades into the background.

Not because it isn’t loud, it is, but because my brain won’t let it matter.

The Rebels are up. The offense is clicking. Lucas is calm in the pocket, decisive and confident. He’s throwing like the quarterback everyone knows him to be and has revered for years. He’s playing with clean spirals, smart reads, and controlled movements.

It’s a sight to see.

And still, every snap tightens something in my chest.

Because this is how it always goes.

Pain doesn’t announce itself. Damage doesn’t scream when it’s happening. It whispers later, when the adrenaline wears off and the inflammation settles in like a debt coming due.