Page 13 of You Owe Me (21 Rumors #2)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rumor has it, he's dying.

Maverick

Sitting in a paper gown with wires strapped to my chest and a heart monitor chirping doesn’t exactly scream invincible.

134 BPM. 141. 138.

Numbers. Just data points, blinking like a warning light I’ve been ignoring for too long.

Still not the worst I’ve seen on this screen, but high enough to make the nurse pause.

She doesn’t say much. Just narrows her eyes and taps her tablet like maybe if she clicks hard enough, she’ll find a way to fix what’s happening in my chest.

“Your resting rate’s elevated.” No inflection. Just clinical and bland, like she’s giving me the forecast. “We’ll wait for Dr. Patel.”

I grunt in response. Which is my way of saying noted, now leave . She doesn’t.

Instead, she fusses with the cuff on my arm, checks the lead placement like it’s not already perfect, and then leaves the room like I’m made of glass and bravado.

The second the door closes, I exhale and adjust in the chair, the paper lining beneath me crinkling like a fucking candy wrapper.

Every move I make feels louder in this room. Exposed. Controlled.

No privacy. No armor. Just fluorescent lights humming above my head and cold metal pressing into my spine, designed to remind me who’s in charge in here. For once, it’s not me.

I tap my fingers against my thigh. I don’t like waiting. Waiting gives my mind too much space to run simulations I don’t want to see. I know what’s coming. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.

The door opens.

Dr. Patel walks in, eyes on the file in his hands, not even pretending this is going to be a friendly catch-up. That’s why I picked him. He doesn’t coddle. Doesn’t soften the blow. He reads the numbers and calls it like it is.

Usually, I respect that.

Today, I hate it.

“Lexington.”

“Doc.”

He takes a seat across from me and flips open the file.

I already know what’s in there: two months of logs from my watch, screenshots of elevated spikes, missed doses I chalked up to being busy, even though we both know I just didn’t take them.

Not because I forgot. Because I didn’t want to admit I needed them.

He clicks his pen. That sound cuts through the room sharper than it should.

“The beta blockers aren’t enough.”

No shit.

“I figured,” I say, voice flat. Controlled. Same tone I use in meetings when the numbers turn red but I can’t afford to panic.

Patel studies me for a beat. Probably looking for a reaction. He won’t get one.

“Then you know what I’m going to say.”

“Try me anyway.”

He leans back slightly, not breaking eye contact. “You need an ablation.”

The words don’t land like a punch. They land like a confirmation. A data point that just became a deadline.

I lean back, mirroring him. Arms crossed. Breathing even. My eyes drift to the ceiling. There’s a tile above him that’s stained brown near the vent. Probably water damage. Or mold. Doesn’t matter. It’s something to focus on that isn’t the word ablation and the list of things it drags with it.

“Schedule it with the front desk,” he adds. “Soon.”

I nod once. Barely a movement. Just enough to acknowledge it without conceding anything. I can already feel the gears turning in my head. How to spin this. How to cover it. I’ve been playing this game long enough to know the moves. I just haven’t had to use them on myself before.

“Risks?”

Not because I need to hear them. I’ve read everything—every journal article, every patient forum, every horror story disguised as a success rate. I ask because I want to hear how he says it. If he’ll flinch. If he’ll soften the blow.

He doesn’t.

“Bleeding,” he says. “Infection. Damage to the blood vessels. Arrhythmia getting worse before it stabilizes. Pericarditis. Stroke. And in rare cases?—”

“Death,” I finish.

He nods once. Doesn’t sugarcoat it. Doesn’t look away.

“You’ll be out for at least a week. Possibly more, depending on how your heart responds. But if it works… tachycardia becomes manageable. Maybe even cured.”

A week. Might as well be a month in my world.

He says it like it’s a promise. But all I hear is a gamble.

And I’ve never been good at folding. I shift forward, elbows on my knees, fingers steepled. “What happens if I wait?”

“Episodes get longer. More dangerous. You risk permanent damage. Stroke. Worse.”

There it is. Just like I thought. No middle ground. Just a choice between calculated risk and open fire.

My brain starts sorting names. Tasks. Lies.

Who owes me. Who’ll keep quiet. Who can cover my classes, my meetings, my poker games. Who can intercept Ainsley’s questions and feed her just enough bullshit to keep her from showing up at the hospital in full-blown panic mode.

“You’ve had episodes you haven’t told me about.” It’s not a question. It’s a fact. He knows. Doctors always know.

I stand and put my shirt back on. Not because I’m ready to leave. Because I’ve heard enough. And because sitting in that chair for one more second makes me feel like a patient.

“Probably.”

“Maverick—”

“I’ll schedule it,” I cut him off, already walking toward the door. “Thanks, Doc.”

He doesn’t stop me.

He won’t.

Because I already made the decision the second he said ablation.

I’m not telling Ainsley.

Not Pops. Not Sebastian. Not anyone.

There’s a lie coming. One I’ll craft with precision. A clean story. Covered by IOUs, sealed with silence. One more con to keep everything standing.

Because I don’t get to fall apart.

Not now. Not ever.

The door clicks shut behind me, and just like that, the world keeps spinning like it didn’t just shove a scalpel into my chest and tell me to pencil it in.

Outside, the sky is that washed-out gray that looks cold even when it’s warm. The kind of light that makes everything look sterile. Fake. It fits. I walk with my hands in my pockets, keys digging into my palm like an anchor.

Every step toward the car feels heavier. Not in some poetic, emotional sense, just tactical. Like my body’s adjusting to the new weight of what I’m carrying.

Ablation.

It loops in my head, clipped and clinical. I hate the way it sounds. It’s like they gift-wrapped ‘bodily betrayal’ and slapped a pretty co-pay on it.

I slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

The silence inside the car hits hard. Not real silence.

There’s still the distant thrum of traffic, the soft creak of cooling metal.

But it’s close enough. It’s the kind that makes your ears ring.

My hands are steady as I grip the steering wheel.

My pulse isn’t. 129 BPM and holding. A little better, but not great.

My watch vibrates once, and I ignore it.

The center console still has Ainsley’s glitter-covered ChapStick in it. Probably fell out of her bag last week. I flip it open. Strawberry or some other bullshit. I don’t even smell it, just close the cap and put it back. It grounds me.

She can’t know.

Not because she wouldn’t understand. But because she would. She’d drop everything. Rearrange her entire world to orbit mine. She’d cry when I wasn’t looking. She’d cancel her internship, stop taking care of herself, and watch me sleep like I might stop doing it.

And I can’t have that.

I’d rather go through it alone than watch her try to carry me like I’m made of glass. Like I’m dying. Like I’m the one who needs protecting.

Same goes for Pops. He already thinks I quit the firm.

That I walked away when he told me to. If he finds out I didn’t, if he finds out I’ve been running the business behind his back, he’ll blow.

He’ll change the passwords, call the board, lock me out before I get the chance to fix what the old guard keeps screwing up.

That company is the reason I haven’t lost everything. It’s how I pay for Cooper’s gear. For the apartment. For every favor I’ve leveraged into this web that keeps the roof from caving in.

If Pops finds out the truth, he won’t be disappointed.

He’ll cut me off.

So, I’ll lie.

Not because I want to. Because it’s the only way to keep them from pulling me off the board.

The phone buzzes.

Ainsley: Lunch is sea lion-themed. Don’t ask. Call me when you’re done pretending you’re not stressed.

My thumb hovers over the screen. I could text her something dumb. Deflect. Joke. She’d see through it anyway.

I lock the phone without replying.

Instead, I swipe over to the IOU list. The real one. The one with leverage.

I scroll:

—Graham, J. — Class proxy (ethics, econ, intro to psych)

—Matthews, K. — Email rerouting / IT override

—Aldrin, T. — Lab coat + ID swap for med shadowing (knows hospital schedules)

—Viv — admin front desk at Havemeyer Medical—flirted once, thinks I’m British

Enough. I’ve got enough to vanish for three days. Maybe more. Long enough for the procedure, recovery, and to come back without limping.

But it’s risky. Being gone three days? With Carter sniffing around, running his mouth, making plays?

I don’t like it.

The guy’s not just ambitious. He’s calculated.

The type to circle while I’m down. To flash his credentials and his bullshit smile and talk Ainsley into thinking he’s not just another entitled asshole with a grudge.

He knows just enough to be dangerous. And he wants what he didn’t earn, her included.

The idea of leaving her while he’s still lurking?

Makes me want to cancel the whole damn thing and handle it myself.

But I can’t.

So, I’ll have to make sure my absence is locked down.

Now, the story.

I’ll tell Ainsley I’m heading to watch Cooper in the regional championship. That I’m staying a few extra days to check on Pops. That I need a break, and this is the only version of rest I can tolerate. She’ll buy it because it’s half-true.

She’ll smile and pack snacks in the bag I won’t actually use. She’ll tell me to hug Pops for her. Text her when I land. Bring back a sweatshirt that smells like sawdust and old leather from his chair.

And I’ll lie to her face.

I’ll check into some off-map hotel a few towns over. Give a fake name if I have to. Show up at the hospital alone, let them burn the glitch out of me, and disappear until I look stable enough to sell the story.

I’ll come home tired, not stitched. Quiet, not bleeding. Just enough to pass as a guy worn out by family obligation, not a guy who almost let his heart go code red.

The guilt settles low, behind my ribs. Heavy and constant. But manageable. Like the rest of it.

I hate that I’m lying to her.

I hate that I have to.

But this secrecy? It’s protection. It’s strategy.

It’s the only way I keep the people I love from building a cage around me with their concern.

This is the cost of keeping everything else alive.

And I’ll pay it every damn time.