Page 138 of Hometown Halftime

“I’m serious,” he says quietly. “Nothing.”

“I’m scared,” I admit finally.

And God, saying it out loud makes me feel sick. Like every emotion is finally surfacing, rising like an uncontrollable wave.

He cradles my cheek in his palm. “I can’t imagine, Kinsey.”

I don't know what to do with the gentleness in his voice.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

He shakes his head. “I know how you hate it when people try to help you, but Kinsey, I would’ve been there for you. I could’ve taken you to appointments or just been here to talk through all of it with you.”

“I know.” I take a deep breath. “I just didn’t think it would be anything major and then, before I knew it, well, it was.”

He pulls my head to his shoulder, his chin resting on my hair.

“What else did you find out?”

“I don’t know what this means long-term,” I tell him. “The doctor said treatment helps, but all I can think about is whether rugby eventually becomes impossible or if my body’s just going to keep getting worse.”

Riley’s hand moves to my neck to pull me back, and I watch as his jaw tightens like hearing that physically pains him. Then his gaze drops toward the injector pen still shaking in my hand.

“So that’s the medication?”

I nod. “I have to inject it myself.”

Riley looks between me and the pen for a second before asking softly, “Is that what you’ve been trying to do?”

Another embarrassed tear slips down my face as I nod.

“It’s so stupid. I’ve been trying for like half an hour, but fuck, I can’t press the button. I know it’s ridiculous—”

“It’s not ridiculous.”

The firmness in his voice stops me.

“You were diagnosed with a chronic illness,” he says quietly. “That’s scary enough without having to self-administer meds. Don’t call yourself weak for struggling with this.”

My chest aches painfully because he says it so simply. Riley points at the injector pen still clutched in my hand.

“Can I help?”

The question comes softly, as if he’s giving me every opportunity to say no. But as soon as he says the words, some of the panic crushing my chest eases enough for me to breathe again.

I nod, and Riley stands from the bed.

“Okay. Let me wash my hands.”

I watch him disappear into the bathroom while I wipe uselessly at my face, trying to calm down before he comes back. A minute later Riley returns, drying his hands on a towel before kneeling carefully in front of me, between my knees. And something about seeing this big, steady man kneeling in front of me with nothing but patience and care written on his face almost makes me cry all over again.

“Tell me what to do,” he says, looking at everything laid out on the bed beside me.

I swallow hard before pointing toward the instruction packet beside me.

“Alcohol wipe first, then squeeze the skin and press the pen against my thigh. Once you press the button, hold it there for ten seconds.”

Riley nods once, like this is the most important thing he’s ever done.