“Just so you know, if it looks like I’m not reading this properly, it’s not because I don’t care. I’ve got severe dyslexia. Reading’s always been a bitch for me.”

Dr. Tate’s gaze sharpens, but not with judgment. With understanding. He gives a quick nod and starts explaining instead.

“For the first six weeks post-surgery, you’ll be in a cast or boot with minimal weight bearing. Then we’ll get you back on your feet, focusing on mobility and strength over the next few months. At the six-month mark, you’ll start working on more sport-specific training—jogging, controlled exercises, agility work. Full-contact play, though? You’re looking at anywhere from nine to twelve months before you’re cleared to play.”

Nine to twelve months. Up to an entire year of my life facing rehab, of waking up every day and fighting for something that isn’t guaranteed.

“It’s a long road, but if you put in the work, you can come back stronger than before.”

“And if I rush it?”

He gives me a pointed look. “You don’t rush it. Not unless you want to risk blowing it all over again.”

Reality sinks in. This isn’t only about getting back on the field. It’s about doing it the right way, about giving myself the best shot at a future I thought was out of reach.

“Brutal truth… what are the odds of success?”

“Stay committed, follow my instruction, and I’d say your odds are damn good. At least ninety percent.”

Hope flares in my chest.

It’s going to be hell. But for the first time in almost three years, it feels like there’s a way forward.

“There are conditions about signing on for this that you may find difficult.”

Okay, here we go.

“You must stay in Dallas for the first twelve weeks post-op. No exceptions. The success of your recovery depends on doing proper therapy. I don’t trust that task to anyone other than my team.”

Twelve weeks. Three months away from home. I let that number settle in for a moment.

Being here all alone is daunting, but what other choice do I have?

“It’s a lot to take in. If you need time to process, discuss with your people⁠—”

“I don’t need time. Let’s get it done as soon as possible.”

A flicker of satisfaction crosses Tate’s face. “All right. I’ll have my assistant put you on the schedule.”

I shift forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “How soon can we do this?”

He turns his attention to his computer and makes several clicks. “Looks like I can get you in next week.”

Next week. I nod, rolling the possibility over in my mind. It’s enough time to get my head straight and tie up loose ends.

He stands, offering his hand. “This won’t be easy. But it’ll be worth it.”