Page 24

Alex Sebring

Practice ends with the familiar ache in my legs and sweat clinging to my skin. The pitch is quiet now, boots clicking against concrete as the guys head for the showers, laughter trailing behind them. I roll out my shoulders, grab my water bottle, and start toward the locker room.

“Sebring.”

I glance up at the sound of my name.

David stands outside the admin building, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Not stern. Not casual either.

“You got a minute?”

My stomach doesn’t drop—at least, not yet. We’ve had plenty of conversations since I got back: salary renegotiations, captain responsibilities, preseason PR. All standard stuff. But there’s something off about the timing of this one.

“Won’t keep you long. I know home’s calling with a new fiancée waiting for you.”

I follow him in, wiping sweat from my brow, bracing for some sponsorship obligation or media request I’ll have to fake enthusiasm for. But the second we sit, I sense it—he’s uneasy. And David is never uneasy.

He leans back in his chair and folds his hands together. “Have you spoken to Tyson McRae?”

The name is a punch to the ribs.

I answer flatly. “No.”

David nods once, slow. “I figured as much. He called me this morning.”

Every muscle in my back tenses. Of course, the fucker called.

I wait for the other shoe to drop—for the formal complaint, the legal jargon, the veiled threat dressed in athlete-friendly language. It would be classic Tyson. Throw elbows in the game, and cry foul when someone hits back harder.

“He requested a meeting with you.”

That throws me for a fucking loop. “What?”

“At the hospital. He wants you to visit him.”

I blink. “For what?”

David shrugs. “He didn’t say.”

I stare at the wall for a second, trying to make sense of it.

Tyson McRae doesn’t do important. He does messy. Petty. Calculated. The type of man who’d rather burn the whole field than admit he lost the game.

So what the hell is this?

My instincts scream don’t go—but my pride won’t let me ignore it either. He’s playing a game, but I haven’t determined what kind yet.

David adds, “You’re not obligated to go. I’m only passing along his request.”

I nod, pushing back from the chair.

“Appreciate the heads-up.”

I walk out, heart pounding harder than it did during drills.

This has trap written all over it. But if this has anything to do with Magnolia—if his reach even grazes her—I have to know.

I need to look him in the eye and figure out what kind of game he’s playing.

Whether this is revenge or something worse.

Whether I’m keeping it between me and him… or dragging it into the light.

Either way, I won’t let him get near her again.

A nurse points me down the corridor to his room. I knock once, don’t wait for a reply, and step inside.

The light is low—a dusty stripe of sun slanting in through half-closed blinds. Tyson’s propped up, face pale, leg wrapped and elevated in a traction sling. He looks like hell. Worse than I expected.

For half a second, I almost pity him. And then I remember lying in a bed with my own leg shredded, all thanks to him.

I bury the sympathy before it has a chance to surface.

He opens one eye when I enter. The corner of his mouth curves up, slow and mean.

“Well, would you look at that? Come to admire your handiwork?”

I won’t rise to it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He lets out a low, dry chuckle. “Sure you don’t.”

Silence stretches.

“It must’ve been satisfying. Hearing the snap and watching me go down.”

I stay quiet, letting him fill the space. I’m not giving him anything he can twist.

Tyson narrows his eyes. “Jesus. You believe I’m recording this?”

I arch a brow. “With you, I wouldn’t rule anything out.”

He smirks. “Relax. No cameras. No lawyers. Just two former teammates.”

I shift my weight but stay near the door. Not close. Not friendly. But present.

“Talk. You asked me here. Say what you want to say.”

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.

I still don’t trust him. I don’t think I ever truly will. But if he meant what he said––if he’s really finished coming for me, coming for Magnolia––I might be able to let the weight of the last few years go.

Maybe.

My tension melts away when the driveway comes into view because of who’s waiting for me inside the house. And I’m grateful I get to come home to her.

The door clicks shut behind me, and the smell of something delicious drifts in from the kitchen.

She’s barefoot, swaying to one of her weird songs humming through the speakers, a tea towel slung over one shoulder. Her hair’s clipped up in that way that always looks unintentional, even though I know better.

She looks up when I enter. “Hey, you. Practice ran late?”

I go to her without answering and pull her into my arms. She melts into my embrace, and I rest my chin on the top of her head, closing my eyes.

“Has something happened?”

“David called me into his office after practice.”

She pulls back enough to see my face. “Why?”

I take a breath. “Tyson called him and asked to see me. At the hospital.”

Her eyes flash. “You didn’t go, did you?”

“I did.”

Her brows lift, and she stiffens in my arms. “Let me guess. He’s going to use his injury as an opportunity to cause trouble for you?”

“He’s in worse shape than I guessed. Spiral fracture. Surgery, traction, the works.”

Magnolia goes still. She opens her mouth, closes it, and finally says, “Oh.”

“They did scans—standard pre-op stuff––and found cancer.”

Magnolia’s breath catches. “ Cancer ? Are you serious?”

“Yeah. It’s aggressive, advanced, but caught early enough to treat. He’s got a solid shot at remission.”

She leans back against the counter, stunned. “Damn, Alex.”

“He told me if I hadn’t taken him down, they’d never have caught it. That hit saved his life.”

Magnolia exhales. “Guardian angel—bet you never saw that coming.”

I shake my head, half smiling. “Guardian angel’s a stretch. But he told me we don’t have to worry about him anymore—and somehow, I believe him.”

Magnolia comes to me, arms sliding around my waist as I fold her into a hug. We stay that way, grounded in each other, while the music hums low in the background. Just the two of us and a silence that doesn’t have to be filled.

Then she leans back, brushing her lips over my jaw. “Go sit down, babe. I’ll make us a drink.”

I nod, giving her one last squeeze before heading to the living room.

A moment later, she comes to the couch with drinks in hand. She slides close as she passes me my glass. We sip in silence at first. No rush, no pressure. Just the warmth of the whisky and her thigh pressed against mine.

“Life’s weird. Dominoes are always falling, and we never see them,” she says after a moment, eyes on the amber swirl in her glass.

She leans her head against my shoulder, and the weight of her there settles something in me. For a while, we don’t speak. We just finish our drinks and sit.

Eventually, the glasses are empty, her body curled into mine, with my arm around her. I study her, the way the light touches her cheekbones, the curve of her mouth, and all I can think is I don’t deserve this beautiful woman .

But somehow, she’s mine.

And for the first time in a long time, the future isn’t a storm I have to brace against.

It feels like peace.