Page 160 of The Backup Plan

Every throw he makes, I count what number repetition this is in my head.

Every hit he takes, I assess where the impact is so I can fear the damage.

Every time he rolls his shoulder between plays like he’s loosening it up, my stomach knots.

The fear has dulled enough that I almost let myself believe, that I almost doubt and question my own assessment.

Almost.

“Doc!”

I turn at the call from farther down the sideline, instinct snapping me back into place.

A receiver is on the bench, grimacing as the trainer removes his ankle tape. Knee or maybe ankle injury. I head over and kneel down to get a better look at it. Normally this falls to the trainers, but there have been a lot of injuries this game, and most of them are tied up.

I have the player’s ankle between my hands, watching his face as I palpate his ankle and check range of motion when the crowd groans.

The sound ripples through the stadium like a warning bell, followed by a sharp intake then, as I look up at the stands behind the bench, a collective flinch.

I whip my head toward the field, and through a tangle of legs and cleats and trainers rushing onto the field, I see Lucas on the ground.

My world narrows.

I don’t hear the whistle. I don’t hear the announcer. I don’t hear my own name being called again.

I just see him down on one knee, head bowed, left hand braced against the turf.

My body tries to move before my brain does.

Don’t run. Don’t react. You are not his girlfriend out here.

I force myself to finish what I’m doing—clearing the receiver. He’s done for the game. On automatic pilot, I get someone to help him hobble to the locker room. And once he’s set, my attention’s already torn somewhere else.

By the time I look back, Lucas is on his feet.

Walking very slowly.

Relief hits so fast it almost knocks me dizzy.

Then I see his expression.

Tight. Controlled. Too controlled.

He rotates his shoulder once. Twice. Too slow. Too deliberate.

This is not good. I can feel it somehow. Know it somehow.

He doesn’t look toward the bench as he crosses over into the sidelines. For a split second, he looks toward me.

And in that glance, everything inside me drops.

Because I know that look.

That’s not pain.

That’s realization.

That’s the moment the body tells the same truth as the scans.