I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared to let him love me the way I know he would.
The way I know he alreadydoes.
Lyla bumps my knee. "Maddy, look?—"
And that’s when I see it.
The snap. The throw. The perfect spiral arcing toward Jaxon’s hands.
Everything slows.
He leaps, body stretching, fingertips grazing leather?—
He secures it.
His feet land inbounds.
For a split second, the crowd erupts.
And then?—
CRACK.
The sound slices through the air, so sharp, so brutal, I feel it in my bones.
A full-speed, blindside collision, helmet to helmet.
Jaxon’s body whips back, the force of the impact ripping him off his feet. His head snaps back violently, his entire frame folding before he slams into the turf.
Hard.
The ball rolls free, forgotten.
And Jaxon?—
He doesn’t move.
The roar of the crowd evaporates. A single, unified gasp swallows the entire stadium, followed by silence so thick, so unnatural, it’s like the world itself is holding its breath.
I can’t breathe. My fingers clench the cold metal railing in front of me, my vision blurring, my lungs burning.
"Get up," I whisper. My voice is nothing, lost in the dead silence of the crowd.
He has to get up. Any second now, he’s going to move. He’s going to push himself up, shake it off, and flash that stupid, cocky smirk. He’s going to wave off the trainers, say he’s fine, tell Carter to stop looking at him like that.
He’s going to be okay.
But he doesn’t move, not an inch.
The trainers sprint onto the field, their movements frantic, their urgency making my stomach twist into knots.
And then, I hear Lyla, her voice urgent, hands grabbing at me. "Madison—Maddy, breathe."
But I can’t.
This isn’t just a game anymore.
This isn’t just a bad hit.
