Page 19 of The Backup Plan

I twist my lips and flip through the latest shoulder scans that his old medical team sent over.

Nothing impossible but no doubt has him still feeling pain, discomfort, and questioning whether he can make a full comeback or not.

I’ll improve his range of motion. I’ll ease his pain so that he can get him back in the saddle sooner rather than later. I just hope I can help him return without hurting him more during the process.

I sit back in my chair and grin. I’m here. I made it. A quiet thrill shoots through me with all this possibility at my fingertips.

The boys’ club out there can adjust.

They’ll whisper. They’ll doubt me. That’s nothing new or unexpected.

I didn’t work this hard to play it safe.

And something tells me Lucas Hale isn’t going to either.

Lucas

The best in the league have evaluated me.

Doctors with championship rings. Trainers who speak in acronyms and think they invented the “miracle” prescription. Physical therapists who treat bodies like machines and pain like a simple hurdle to leap.

So when I walk into the Rebels medical wing, I already know how this will go. A doctor or PT will discuss how they’re going to help me. They’ll follow this up with questions about pain levels and my current rehab regimen. Then there will be a few half-hearted stretches to test my range of motion. And within fifteen minutes, I’ll have the green light stamped on my file so everyone can say they did their due diligence, that I’m fine, while I know there’s nothing they can do to ease the pain that’s going to come after each and every practice.

The NFL is in the business of making money, and players are the commodity to do that. The quicker we’re on the field, the better.

Besides, why not green light the guy they know is here to be the fucking mentor? That’s one less case for them to have to deal with.

Mentor. I hate that fucking word. But it’s my gateway to showing the Rebels that I’ve still got it so I have to suffer through it.

Besides, my place on the final fifty-three-man roster is not guaranteed.

So I’ll do the song. I’ll do the dance. And then I’ll get on the field and show them how hard I’ve worked to be as close to the QB I’ve always been.

And to do that, all the doc needs to know is I’m good, pain-free, and then he’ll clear me.

I can charm my way through that in my sleep.

“Lucas Hale.”

I turn toward the voice and everything stills.

Shock hits first. Clean and sharp.

Then recognition.

Followed closely by a jolt of something dangerously close to relief.

She’s standing near the exam table, arms crossed, posture relaxed but alert. I carried her out of a bar less than twelve hours ago—how is she still standing? If you’d told me the poor, pale and shaking woman who had been drugged would not still be in a state of shock and falling apart, I would’ve believed you. She insisted she was fine. I didn’t believe her.

Now, clearly, I do.

I’m absolutely impressed.

She looks . . . different now.

Put together. Controlled. Spine straight like steel. Dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail that means business over aesthetics. Heels to complement a savvy business suit. And composed in a way that makes my chest ease and tighten simultaneously.

Thank God. She’s upright. She’s here.