Page 170 of The Backup Plan

What the hell is this?

I didn’t ask for this, and I didn’t know this was coming. And probably wouldn’t have come in for the meeting this morning if I knew this was what awaited me.

A celebration for my demise?

But the farther I walk down the hall, the more the emotions creep up. The more they take over. The more they fucking own me.

These guys only had a couple of months with me, but this is how they react? This is how they show me appreciation for whatever they felt I brought to the table?

Emotion clogs in my throat, and I blink away tears.

It’s the pain pills making me emotional. Has to be.

I clear my throat and try to push away the warring emotions, but I fail when Cole steps forward.

He waits until I reach him, then grips my left hand, firm and steady.

“I know right now you’re all over the place with what happened”—his eyes veer toward my shoulder and the sling holding it immobile—“but just know that this isn’t the last time we work together,” he says quietly, eyes locked on mine.

I frown. “What?”

He just smiles. Small. Knowing. And steps aside.

I don’t get it. I don’t have the energy to ask. I’m embarrassed over how emotional I am. Over how ridiculous I probably look. But before I can do or say or react further, the door to the conference room opens, and Coach glances out at everyone before meeting my eyes and motioning for me to come in.

When I enter, Emery’s there, as I knew she’d be. There’s Coach, of course. Grant. A few other members from the front office. Two PT staffers. Peter. It feels . . . formal. Heavy. Like something irreversible is about to happen.

Maybe more like inevitable.

I take a seat. I’m not ready for this. I’m just not ready.

My shoulder throbs. My chest hurts more.

I think of this morning—Emery helping me shower because my arm must remain immobile. Her fingers gentle in my hair as she washed it for me. The way she didn’t rush. Didn’t speak unless I did.

She knew how hard this was going to be for me today. It’s one thing to know in your head your career is over, it’s another thing to have the team sit you down and let you go.

Yeah, it’s a fucking formality, but it’s also a brutal truth I can’t run from anymore.

Emery has let me be with my own thoughts. She hasn’t asked how I’m feeling. She hasn’t pushed me to talk about where my head is at. She’s allowed me to ignore everything I want to without judging me for it.

I look up.

She’s looking at me. Her eyes are wrecked. Red-rimmed. Exhausted. Braced for something she doesn’t want to say.

That’s when it hits me. She’s supposed to do this. She’s the one with the official diagnosis that my shoulder isn’t reparable and my career is over.

I’ve been so busy in my own head, in my own misery, that I never once thought about how this was weighing on her.

She’s been giving me time to process and evaluate while stressing about her proposal that’s due on Friday and the fact that she has to end it for me.

Fucking hell.

That’s not fair.

Not her. I can’t let her own any more guilt over something she’s not responsible for. Over something I’m too chickenshit to say myself.

I straighten my shoulders and for the first time in weeks, face the reality that is only mine to own.