Page 37 of The Backup Plan

“I always document everything,” I say.

“Good.” Grant nods then says quietly, “This team has one season to prove it deserves to exist. We can’t take any chances.”

The weight of that settles, and not just for the franchise’s sake. But for Lucas’s too.

And I can’t shake the feeling as we touch briefly on the other athletes who are under my care. There are questions and concerns but not as outright obvious as their vested interest in Lucas.

He matters more than they’re letting on. Good for him. More pressure on me.

The rest of the meeting is efficiency and information, most of which don’t pertain to me or my position here, but it’s good to hear so I can get an overall gist of the machine running the organization.

After an hour and with people noticeably getting restless, the meeting adjourns with scraping chairs and murmured conversations. People file out, already pivoting into strategy and metrics.

I remain seated, staring at the empty room and the slide on my tablet that highlights Lucas’s statistics.

This isn’t just rehab for him like I was initially told.

This is survival.

Mine. His. The Rebels.

My tablet vibrates as a few emails hit from other departments. I close its cover and stand, resolve locking into place.

Lucas Hale doesn’t know it yet, but I’m not just the person overseeing his rehab. I’m also his voice in meetings like this, where they’re discussing his future.

I can help him. I can end his season early—and possibly his career.

That’s a heavy realization. But none more so than the fact that if he keeps lying to me about his injury—if he keeps taking my ability to help him away from me—then the consequences won’t be mine to bear.

I won’t be able to return the favor and save the man who saved me.

With a sigh, I gather my things and leave the conference room just behind the rest of them. Within minutes, I’ve collected my things and prepare myself for the next new task of the day—moving into my new place.

The heat suffocates me when I step out into the parking lot despite the late afternoon sun in the sky. My head still aches faintly, a reminder that I haven’t fully shaken off last night no matter how hard I pretend otherwise.

I pause beside my car and draw in a steadying breath. Somewhere inside the facility, Lucas Hale is icing his shoulder, planning his next move and convincing himself he is fine.

And somewhere deep in my chest, the memory of him standing in a hotel doorway at dawn—concern written across his face like he didn’t know how to look away—refuses to fade.

Emery

Temporary.

That’s the word that comes to mind as I unlock the door to my apartment.

Temporary housing. Temporary furniture. Temporary calm before whatever storm this season decides to throw at me.

And temporary energy, because my body still feels like it’s moving through a fog. The adrenaline from the day is long gone, leaving behind a dull headache and the faint reminder that last night still lives under my skin no matter how hard I scrubbed it away this morning. What if Lucas hadn’t come to the bar last night?

Shake it off, Em. Focus on the here and the now. On the convenient accommodations near the training facility that the Rebels set up for you.

On the small, modern apartment, whose plumbing issues have been fixed, and is now ready for you to move into.

Beige walls. Tan couch. Brown metal barstools pushed in at a quartzite countertop that look like they’ve never been sat on before. It’s neutral to the point of being aggressively forgettable.

The space smells faintly like fresh paint and disinfectant, and judging by the sticker still clinging to the refrigerator, I’m probably the first person to live here.

I’m not complaining about that in the least.