He stares at the ceiling, expression unreadable. “How did it feel when my bone snapped? What went through your head, Sebring? Did it give you the closure you wanted?”
I clench my jaw. “I didn’t come here to relive this.”
His gaze flicks to mine. “When I took you out, I didn’t get the luxury of hearing a crack. Only the look on your face when you realized you couldn’t stand.”
It was a fabulous feeling, McRae, watching you fall.
But I’ll never admit that. Instead, I say nothing.
He studies me, perhaps trying to find the edge of my control.
“I’ll cut the bullshit.”
He shifts, winces, and gestures down at his leg. “Spiral fracture of the hip. Bone twisted clean out of the socket. Took hours of surgery to pin it back together.”
I cross my arms, unenthused.
“They ran multiple full-body scans before surgery. Said they had to check for vascular trauma or something like that. And that’s when they found it. Cancer.”
I go still.
Tyson nods. “Moderately advanced. Very aggressive. One of those bastard types that doesn’t show symptoms until it’s too late, but they believe they caught it in time.”
A beat passes.
“They never would’ve found it if you hadn’t busted me up. So congrats, Sebring.” His voice turns bittersweet. “You broke my hip and saved my life.”
I’m speechless.
He gives a humorless smile. “Bet you regret it now, huh?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say.” He closes his eyes. “I’ve got a long road ahead of me. Surgeries. Treatments. Therapies. But here’s what you need to hear, Alex.”
He opens his eyes. They’re bloodshot but clear. “Whatever score I thought I was settling is done. You win. I’m out. And where Magnolia is concerned… she chose you. And I love her enough to let her go.”
I search his face, trying to find the lie. The trap.
“I want to believe you, but you don’t have a great track record of being trustworthy.”
He doesn’t flinch. “True. But cancer has a way of burning the bullshit out of a man. You either clean up or you go down with it.”
I study him for a long beat. “Are you going to leave Celeste alone too? Whatever you’ve been holding over her—are you done with that shit?”
His eyes lock on mine, steady. “Done with all of it.”
“Hope that’s true.”
“It is,” he says. And for the first time since I walked in, there’s a flicker of something real. Something I might believe.
I take the long way home, windows down, no sound but the wind. The streets blur past in streaks of amber and brake lights, but I barely register them––just enough to stay between the lines and keep from rear-ending someone.
He said I saved his life with a break. A fracture. A twist of his body under mine in a moment I’ve replayed––and enjoyed––more times than I’ll ever admit out loud.
He’s still Tyson McRae. Still a bastard. But today, he looked human. Worn down. Burned out.
And for a second—for the briefest damn second—I saw a man in a hospital bed, not a rival on the pitch.
