Page 41

41

JAXON

T he first thing I feel is heavy, like my body weighs a thousand pounds, like I’m sinking into the mattress, like my limbs aren’t mine to move.

The second thing I feel is pain, a dull, pounding ache in my skull, radiating down the back of my neck into my shoulders.

I groan, shifting slightly, and that’s when I hear it—"Jaxon?"

My mom’s voice, soft but urgent.

I blink against the harsh fluorescent lights, my vision adjusting, the room slowly coming into focus.

White walls. IV drip.

Heart monitor beeping steadily.

A weird tube tickling at my nose.

A hospital.

My chest tightens, memories flooding back all at once?—

The game.

The final drive. The hit.

And then…nothing.

Shit.

I shift again, muscles protesting, and suddenly, my mom is right there, her warm hands cupping my face, brushing back my hair, checking every inch of me like she can see where it hurts.

"Oh, honey." Her voice trembles slightly, and that’s when I notice her eyes are red-rimmed, her face pale .

My dad stands beside her, hands in his pockets, trying to look calm—but I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw is clenched tight.

I force my lips into a smirk.

"Y’all look like someone died."

My mom sniffs, shaking her head.

"Don’t joke about that, Jaxon Montgomery."

Dad clears his throat.

"Gave us a hell of a scare, son."

I exhale, my head throbbing at the slightest movement.

"How bad?"

Mom grips my hand tight.

"No concussion. No fractures, no internal bleeding. They said it was a bad hit, but you’re going to be okay."

I nod slowly, processing.

I should feel relieved, but the tightness in my chest doesn’t let up.

Because there’s only one question on my mind.

I shift slightly, my voice quieter.

"Where's Madison?"

Mom and Dad exchange a look, and that tells me everything I need to know.

She’s not here.

The knowledge slams into me like a second hit, sharp and brutal.

I swallow against the ache in my throat. "She didn’t come?"

Mom squeezes my hand. "Honey?—"

Before she can finish, the door swings open.

"Well, look who finally decided to wake his ass up."

Carter.

Relief washes through me at the sight of him, his expression lighter than my parents’ but still tight with concern. He strides in, arms crossed, but his eyes scan me like he’s checking for himself that I’m actually okay.

I smirk weakly. "You miss me, Hayes?"

He snorts, dragging the chair beside my bed and plopping down. "Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head."

I huff then wince, because even that hurts .

Carter watches me carefully before his smirk softens slightly. "Scared the shit out of all of us, man."

I don’t answer, because there’s still one thing I need to know.

I clear my throat. "Have you seen Madison?"

Carter hesitates, and that’s all I need to know before my chest locks up again.

His voice is careful when he answers. "She’s here. She was in the waiting room when I got here."

I latch onto that. "So she’s coming back?"

Carter’s expression shifts with a flicker of something he’s trying to hide, and I feel the answer in my gut before he even says it. "She looked like she was about to leave."

I freeze.

Carter leans forward, his voice low, like he knows this is going to wreck me. "I don’t know, man. She was talking to your dad when we got here, then just…stayed out there. Said we could go ahead and see you first."

I swallow hard, trying to keep my expression neutral, trying to breathe through the weight settling in my chest.

She was here. She came.

But she’s still running, still keeping that space between us, still deciding for me that whatever we had isn’t worth saving.

And that?

That hurts more than anything I’ve ever felt before.

More than the hit.

More than every bruise on my body combined.

Because at the end of the day, the physical pain?

That'll heal.

Losing her? That won’t.

The locker room feels different now.

It’s quiet, no usual pre-game buzz or post-practice shit-talking. There’s only the hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the distant echo of weights clanking in the training room.

I walk down the hallway toward Coach’s office, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, my head still pounding with a dull ache that hasn’t completely gone away.

It’s been three days since Pacific Coast Academy won its first championship title in years.

Three days since I woke up in the hospital.

Three days since Madison sat in that waiting room and didn’t come to see me.

I grit my teeth, pushing the thought away as I knock on Coach Harding’s office door.

"Come in."

I push the door open, stepping inside. Coach is behind his desk, scrolling through something on his tablet, but he looks up the second I enter.

"Montgomery." He leans back in his chair, studying me. "How’s the head?"

I shift my bag onto the floor, dropping into the chair across from him. "Still there."

He raises a brow. "You get clearance from the doc yet?"

"Tomorrow morning."

He nods, satisfied. "Good. You took a hell of a hit out there."

I huff out a humorless laugh. "Yeah, so I’ve been told."

Coach gives me a look, like he knows I’ve been replaying it in my head nonstop since it happened, like he knows I’m pissed I didn’t see it coming, that I didn’t get to finish the game.

That I woke up in a hospital instead of celebrating with my team.

But he doesn’t dwell on it. Instead, he clicks his tablet off and leans forward, resting his forearms on his desk. "Alright, let’s talk about what’s next. You’ve got Pro Day coming up in March, and from everything I’m hearing, the scouts are already circling. That game may not have ended the way you wanted, but your tape speaks for itself. "

I nod, trying to focus, trying to shift my head to what actually matters. "Which teams?"

"Same ones as before," he says. "A lot of interest on the East Coast. New Haven, Atlantic City, and Charleston are all still in the mix. Plus, I got a call from a couple of others asking for updated medicals after the hit. No one's backing off. You’re still a projected first-rounder."

I exhale slowly, nodding. I should feel excited, relieved.

This is what I’ve worked for, what I’ve built my entire life around.

And yet…

There’s an ache in my chest I can’t shake.

Because no matter where I go, no matter how big the contract is, no matter which team calls my name on draft night?—

She won’t be there.

I shake my head, forcing my focus back. "What’s the plan between now and then?"

"First, we need you cleared," Coach says. "Then, it’s training. Your agent’s already lining things up for you—combine drills, private workouts, interviews. Pro Day is gonna be your big moment."

I nod. I expected that.

Coach studies me for a second. "You ready for it?"

Physically? Yes.

Mentally?

I have to be.

I square my shoulders. "Yeah. I’m ready."

Coach nods like he believes me. "Good. Because in a few months, your life’s gonna change, and I need you locked in, Montgomery."

I exhale, steadying myself, shoving everything else down.

I step out of Coach’s office, the weight of the conversation still sitting heavy on my chest.

Pro Day. The draft. My life changing in a few months.

I should be pumped. Every kid who ever picked up a football dreams of this moment, of getting that call, hearing their name announced, walking across that stage with their new team’s jersey in hand.

It’s everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve built my life around.

And yet, as I climb into my truck and grip the steering wheel, it all feels...hollow.

Because every version of my future, every possibility that plays out in my head?—

None of them have her in it.

I throw the truck into reverse, backing out of the lot and taking the familiar route back to the football house, my fingers tight around the wheel. I try to picture it, what my life is going to look like in six months.

Option One:

I go first round. I end up on the East Coast, with one of the teams that’s been after me since the season started.

New city. New apartment. New everything.

I wake up, go to practice, and grind every damn day to prove I belong there, that I deserve the spot I was given. I go home to an empty place. I eat dinner alone. I stare at my phone, wondering if she’s thought about me, wondering if she even cares where I ended up.

Wondering if she’s still here, on campus, finishing her last semester, pretending we never happened.

Option Two:

The exact same thing—except Madison is there.

Except she’s waiting for me after practice, curled up on my couch, stealing my hoodies like they belong to her.

Except we’re cooking dinner together, laughing as she burns the garlic bread, sneaking kisses while the TV plays in the background.

Except she’s in the crowd at my first game, wearing my number, her hands tucked into the sleeves of my oversized sweatshirt, proud of me .

Mine.

I blink hard, forcing my grip to loosen on the wheel.

But that future? It doesn’t exist.

Because she left. She sat in that hospital waiting room and still chose to walk away from me. No matter how much I want her, no matter how much I’ve always wanted her?—

She doesn’t want me the same way.

I exhale slowly, shaking my head as I pull onto my street.

The football house comes into view, and I instinctively scan the driveway, half-expecting Carter’s truck to be there, half-expecting the guys to already be celebrating the end of the season with too much beer and a busted speaker system.

Instead, my gaze snags on something I don’t expect.

Someone .

Sitting on my front steps, arms wrapped around herself, dark hair spilling over the shoulders of a hoodie that’s too big for her, is Madison.

My chest tightens.

She hasn’t looked up yet, hasn’t realized I’m here, but she’s here.

Waiting for me.

For a second, I just sit there, staring, afraid if I move too fast, if I breathe the wrong way, she’ll disappear. I worry my mind made her up, like she’s just another daydream—another piece of the life I wish I had.

But then, she shifts slightly, tucking her knees closer to her chest, and I know she’s real.

I pull into the driveway, my pulse hammering in my ears, my hands suddenly damp against the wheel. I have no idea what she’s doing here, no idea what she’s about to say.

But what I do know?

No matter how much I try to tell myself I should be angry, that I should make her feel the ache of missing someone like she forced on me, I already know I won’t .

Madison Blake is sitting on my front porch, and I still want her more than I want my next damn breath.

But when her broken eyes meet mine, I get the feeling she didn’t come to stay.