Page 145 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

He has an early MRI. I don’t want to be the person who hovers, who sends a million question marks, but my fingers itch to type something anyway.

Deep down, there’s a worry I haven’t said aloud, and neither has he.

What if he can’t finish the Final?

My chest clenches just thinking it, so I grab my phone and open social media. Anything to keep my mind from going there.

Bad idea.

The first thing that pops up is a slowed-down replay of the hit. I watch it once, then again, my breath stuttering in my chest. The comments underneath are a swirl of panic and sympathy:

Brutal hit, hope he’s okay.

Any update on Hart’s shoulder?

We need him back ASAP.

I lock my phone and push it face-down again, as if that can shove the images out of my mind.

I try to focus on the smell of the ginger tea steeping beside me, breathing in the warm, spicy scent. I pour it into a mug and sit, wrapping both hands around the warmth.

I take a sip, even though my stomach flips at the taste.

I tell myself it’s just stress and exhaustion. All of it. The fatigue, the queasiness, the dizziness.

I drift past the office door without looking in.

The test is still there.

But I can’t do it today.

Not when I’m already worried about Jackson’s injury.

One unknown at a time.

Instead, I focus on the kitchen: the faint hum of the fridge, the ticking clock on the wall. I force another small sip, telling myself that today is about Jackson. About waiting for his text, his call, his face walking through that door.

I think about starting work. Maybe I should answer emails, review grant proposals, or call the board chair who’s been asking about our next literacy event.

My phone buzzes with a text from Jackson.

MRI done. Not torn. Sitting with the trainer now. I’ll call you soon.

Relief pours through me so fast my knees almost buckle.

Maybe he can still finish the Final.

That’s amazing news. Can’t wait to see you.

I head into the kitchen, determined to focus on small, ordinary things: cleaning up breakfast dishes, wiping down counters, anything to avoid that test and all the questions it brings.

I’m halfway through stacking the dishes when Jackson calls.

“Hey, how are you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady as I answer.

There’s a pause on the other end, just the soft shuffle of movement, maybe him shifting in his chair. Then finally, his voice, low and a little rough.

He exhales, like he’s trying to let something heavy go. “Sore. But it’s not as bad as it could’ve been. They think a week of rest, rehab. No surgery.”