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MADISON

I should feel something.

Anger. Sadness. Relief.

Anything.

But all I feel is hollow.

Empty. Like I lost something before I even had the chance to fully hold it in my hands.

I should be used to this feeling by now; it’s not the first time I’ve had someone ripped away from me.

I was twelve when my mom died, twelve when I sat beside her in that sterile hospital room, her frail hand resting limply in mine, her body so different from the mother I used to know.

Cancer stole everything from her—her smile, her strength, the warmth that used to live in her hazel eyes, the same ones I inherited.

The ones that now only seem to reflect pain.

I’d held onto her fingers so tightly that day, as if my grip alone could keep her here, as if the force of my love could fight something as merciless as stage four cancer.

It couldn’t.

It never could.

She took her last breath while I sat beside her, a part of my soul breaking with her as the monitors flatlined.

And my dad ?

He was supposed to be the one to take care of me, to be my safe place.

Instead, he destroyed me.

It started with the drinking.

At first, it was just bottles left out, slurred words, forgotten dinners.

Eventually, it became more.

He stopped paying the bills, stopped coming home some nights.

And then came the anger.

The shouting.

The slamming of doors.

The violent rage that burned in his eyes when the grief got too heavy, when he needed something—someone—to blame.

That someone was always me.

The first time he hit me, I convinced myself it was a mistake, that he was just hurting, that he didn’t mean it.

But the bruises kept coming, and I learned real fast that mistakes don’t happen over and over again.

I kept my head down.

I stopped speaking unless spoken to.

I did everything I could to avoid setting him off, to avoid the way his hands—the same hands that used to tuck me in at night—left bruises on my skin.

But it was never enough.

One night, he got behind the wheel drunk.

I was in the passenger seat, begging him to stop, to slow down, to let me call someone to come get us.

He didn’t listen.

He never listened.

The impact came fast. One moment, I was gripping the seatbelt so hard, my knuckles turned white, and the next, everything was flipping.

Glass shattered. Metal twisted.

Pain screamed through my chest, and when I woke up in the hospital, everything was different.

My ribs were bruised, my body sore, scars I would have forever covering my left shoulder, but I was alive.

My dad was in handcuffs, and I was alone .

Until the Montgomerys stepped in.

Jaxon’s parents took me in, gave me a roof over my head, a home to heal in.

They fed me, helped me piece my life back together, helped me finish high school when I wasn’t sure I could even keep going.

And Jaxon? Jaxon was the only reason I survived those years.

He was my best friend.

My comfort. My constant.

But he was also the person I never wanted to hurt, which is why I pushed him away.

Why I ran the second I knew he wanted something more than friendship.

Why I put so much distance between us for three years.

And now?

Now, I don’t know if there’s anything left to run back to.

Lyla shifts next to me, adjusting her position on the hard stadium seat, pulling her coat tighter around herself.

"I still don’t get why we’re sitting all the way up here," she mutters, leaning closer so I can hear her over the roar of the crowd.

I keep my eyes trained on the field, tiny, fast-moving figures shifting and colliding under the bright stadium lights.

"Because," I say quietly, "I didn’t want him to see me."

Lyla sighs.

"Maddy…"

I know what she wants to say—that it’s not fair, that I should at least talk to him.

That Jaxon deserves more than what I’ve given him.

But she doesn’t say it.

She knows I already know.

Instead, she just shakes her head, pulling her scarf up higher over her chin.

I focus on the game, trying to pretend I’m just another fan in the crowd, trying to pretend my stomach doesn’t twist every time Jaxon touches the ball, every time he moves across the field with so much confidence, so much purpose.

Like this is his moment.

Like this is what he was made for.

The crowd surges when he makes a catch, the entire stadium shaking with the sheer volume.

I watch as he pulls himself up from the turf and flips the ball to a ref, barely taking a second to celebrate before jogging back to the huddle.

My chest aches.

Because he’s still him.

The boy I grew up with.

The boy I pushed away.

The boy I love.

The thought slams into me so hard, I have to clench my hands into fists and press them against my thighs to keep myself from shaking.

I love him.

I think I always have.

I don’t know how to be loved by someone like Jaxon Montgomery, someone who doesn’t just say things—he proves them, every single time.

I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared to let him love me the way I know he would.

The way I know he already does .

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.

This is Jaxon.

This is the boy who was my home when I had nothing.

The boy who held me together when I was breaking.

The boy I pushed away because I was too scared to accept that I love him.

Now, I might not get the chance to tell him.

Because Jaxon Montgomery is still lying motionless on that field, and I have never been more terrified in my entire life.

Hospitals smell like antiseptic and bad memories .

The bright fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the hum of distant voices blending with the beeping machines behind closed doors.

The air feels thick, heavy with anxiety and the weight of the unknown.

I sit in the waiting room, arms wrapped tightly around myself, my leg bouncing erratically as I stare at the closed double doors leading back to the emergency wing.

It’s been over an hour since they rushed Jaxon off the field.

He was strapped onto a stretcher, an oxygen mask covering his face.

I heard the trainers talking too fast, using words like loss of consciousness and possible concussion protocol .

I still feel cold, like the blood in my veins hasn’t started moving again since I watched him collapse.

The door swings open, and I jerk my head up so fast, my vision tilts.

Mr. Montgomery steps out, exhaustion etched in every line of his face, but his expression is calm.

When his eyes land on me, I know before he even says a word.

Still, I hold my breath as he walks toward me, stopping just a few feet away.

"He’s okay," he says gently, and my lungs finally unlock.

I exhale shakily, nodding, my hands still tight around my arms. "He is?"

Mr. Montgomery gives a tired smile.

"Yeah. He’s starting to wake up now. He’s banged up pretty good, but nothing permanent. CT scan was clear, no internal damage. They’re keeping him overnight for observation, but he’s going to be just fine."

I nod again, blinking rapidly as I stare down at my lap.

I can’t cry right now.

I won’t.

I feel him watching me, like he’s waiting for me to say something, but I don’t know what to say.

Finally, after a beat of silence, he speaks again.

"You should go see him."

My stomach drops.

I knew that was coming, and yet, I’m still not ready for it .

I shake my head quickly, my fingers tightening around the fabric of my hoodie.

"I—I can’t. We’re not exactly on good terms right now."

Mr. Montgomery watches me for a long moment, then lowers himself into the chair next to me.

His movements are slow, thoughtful, like he’s measuring his words.

"What happened?" he asks gently.

I let out a breath, my chest aching.

How do I even explain this?

That I let my own fears ruin everything?

That I ran when I should have stayed?

That I let my pain consume me and pushed away the only person who’s ever truly seen me?

I shake my head, swallowing hard.

"It’s…complicated."

He exhales through his nose, nodding slightly.

"Love usually is."

My throat tightens, and I stare straight ahead, focusing on a stain in the linoleum, the words echoing in my head.

Love.

Is that what this is?

What else could it be?

I force my voice to steady.

"I just… I didn’t know if I could be what he needed. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I think I did anyway."

Mr. Montgomery hums, like he’s processing.

Then, softly—"Sometimes, the biggest risks are the ones worth taking. Sometimes that also means taking a step back and working on ourselves for a bit. You’ve had a rough go of it, Madison, I won’t lie to you. But you are a brilliant young lady. You are resilient, strong, smart, and my son has been head over heels for you since that boy first laid eyes on you.”

I finally turn to look at him, and his expression is warm, understanding.

"Sometimes, we have to take a step back and ask ourselves if the risk is worth the reward," he continues, "even with the potential heartache.

" With that, he pats my leg and heads back towards Jaxon’s room.

I swallow, my fingers twisting in my sleeves .

I don’t know if I can handle that kind of risk, but isn’t that what I had already done?

I left. I pushed him away. I made the decision for him.

And it still hurt like hell.

So what was worse? The pain of trying, or the pain of never knowing?

Before I can process it further, the doors swing open again, and Carter’s voice cuts through the tension. "Alright, where the hell is he?

"

I look up to see Carter striding into the waiting room, his face set in hard lines, followed closely by a couple of Jaxon’s other teammates. They’re all still in their game-day sweats, their faces tight with concern.

Carter’s gaze locks on mine immediately. "Madison, what’s going on?

Is he okay?"

I nod quickly, standing. "Yeah.

He’s okay. He’s awake.

"

Carter exhales, rubbing a hand down his face before looking toward the double doors. "Can we see him?

"

I hesitate for half a second.

I could go back there right now. I should . Instead, I take a step back and gesture toward the hallway. "You guys go ahead.

"

Carter studies me, his brows pulling together, like he knows there’s more to this. He knows I should be the first person walking through that door, but thankfully, he doesn’t push.

He just nods, clapping me lightly on the shoulder as they make their way past me, disappearing behind the door.

I exhale, my shoulders sinking. I realize, right at this very moment, that not taking the risk doesn’t save you from pain.

It just guarantees it.