“You get this surgery, you put in the work, and you’ll be back on the field. Trust me, when you’re out there again, everything else fades away.”

Everything else.

Magnolia.

The ache that never quite leaves me.

The thoughts that haunt me late at night when I’m alone with nothing but the weight of what could’ve been.

Kye’s unwavering belief in me stirs something in my chest. “It’d be good to play again.”

“Damn right, it would. You’re not done yet, Sebring. I know it. You know it.”

I let his words settle, rolling them over in my mind. He’s right. I’m not done yet.

For now, the thought of stepping back onto the field and getting that rush is enough to get me through another day. Even if it’s temporary, it’s better than nothing. And right now, I’ll take it.

Chapter 22

Alex Sebring

Dr. Harrison Tate studies his computer screen, his eyes scanning the images of my ankle with a focus that makes my stomach twist. The large monitor casts a cool glow over his face, highlighting the lines of concentration etched into his features. He’s one of the best in the world—people fly from all over the globe just to sit in this chair.

I’ve been in Dallas for two days, going through one test after another. Now comes the part I’ve been dreading.

The verdict.

He clicks through a few more scans before giving me his attention.

“Alex.” He exhales, folding his hands together on his desk. “Your injury is more extensive than we first expected.”

The words hit like a wrecking ball to the gut, but I keep my cool, my hands gripping the armrests a little tighter. “How bad?”

His lips press into a thin line. “It’s obvious that the injury didn’t heal as it should. There’s extensive scar tissue, and the alignment is off.”

He turns his monitor around, and points to the glaring problems on the 3D scan, explaining a lot of medical terms I remember from before but still don’t understand.

“There was never any real chance of you returning to play rugby with your ankle in this kind of condition.”

The weight of his words hits like a physical blow. A part of me wants to argue, to push back, to tell him I’m a hard worker and this won’t keep me down. But the evidence is staring me right in the face.

“I don’t have to tell you that rugby is a demanding sport,” he says.

The last thread of hope I’d been holding on to frays and snaps. I should’ve known better. Should’ve listened the first time they told me it was over.

A bitter laugh escapes me, hollow and resigned. “Guess I was foolish for hoping I could make a comeback.”

“Hope is never foolish.”