AGAINST the ODDS

Chapter 3: The Cage

(Jaxon's POV – He wakes up in the hospital, furious about being sidelined.)

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Pain drags me out of the darkness.

It's the first thing I register—the deep, throbbing ache radiating from my right knee, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Then comes the sound of beeping monitors, distant voices, and the sterile scent of disinfectant. The telltale signs that I'm in a hospital.

No.

I force my eyelids open, squinting against the bright overhead light. The white ceiling, the stiff sheets, the IV line taped to my arm—it all hits me at once. I'm in a hospital bed. I'm not at the stadium. I'm not on the field.

I'm out of the game.

The realization slams into me harder than any tackle I've ever taken.

I push up onto my elbows, but a sharp, searing pain in my knee stops me cold. A low, involuntary groan escapes my throat as I drop back against the pillow. My hands clench into fists against the sheets, frustration boiling in my chest.

I shouldn't be here.

I should be in the locker room, reviewing game tape, preparing for next week. I should be with my team, not lying in a hospital bed like some washed-up rookie who couldn't take a hit.

A sound from the doorway makes me snap my head up. A woman in navy-blue scrubs steps inside, holding a tablet. She's petite, with dark brown eyes and sleek, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. There's something familiar about her.

Then it clicks.

The doctor from the field.

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Doctor or Warden?

She approaches the bed, her expression unreadable. "You're awake," she says, like she's been waiting.

"No kidding," I mutter, adjusting my position carefully to avoid another bolt of pain. "Where the hell am I?"

"Presbyterian Hospital," she answers. "You were brought here after the game."

I swallow hard. "How bad?"

She hesitates. Not a good sign.

I narrow my eyes. "Say it."

She exhales, glancing down at her tablet before looking back at me. "You tore your ACL and your MCL," she says evenly. "There's also damage to your meniscus."

The words land like a punch to the gut.

I force myself to stay calm, even as my heart starts hammering. "So what? A few weeks of PT and I'm good to go?"

Her expression tightens slightly. "No. You're looking at surgery, followed by at least nine to twelve months of recovery."

Twelve months. A full year.

The walls feel like they're closing in.

"No," I say automatically, shaking my head. "That's not happening."

She watches me carefully, but I see no sympathy in her gaze—just quiet determination. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but it's reality. If you try to rush back too soon, you risk permanent damage."

Permanent damage.

I grind my teeth, my pulse pounding. "There's gotta be another option."

"I wouldn't be doing my job if I told you otherwise," she replies. "Surgery is the only way to repair the damage. Without it, your knee won't be stable enough to play again."

My whole body stiffens. She's saying everything I don't want to hear, spelling out the one thing I can't accept.

I've played through pain before. Sprained ankles, dislocated fingers, bruised ribs. I've always found a way to push through.

But this? This isn't a sprain or a bruise. This is something I can't just tape up and ignore.

And for the first time in my career, I don't have control.

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Losing Control

I force a slow breath through my nose, trying to stay calm. "When's the surgery?"

"Tomorrow morning."

I snap my head up. "That soon?"

"We need to repair the ligaments as quickly as possible to prevent further instability," she explains. "Delaying only increases the risk of long-term issues."

It makes sense, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

Silence stretches between us.

Finally, she softens—just slightly. "I know this is hard."

I let out a rough laugh, though there's no humor in it. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough," she counters, unfazed. "I know you're a quarterback who just lost control of his own body. I know you're already thinking about how to fight your way back. And I know you're angry."

She pauses, tilting her head slightly. "You wouldn't be Jaxon Reid if you weren't."

I blink, caught off guard. She says my name like she already knows exactly how I operate, how my mind works.

And the worst part? She's right.

I'm furious. At the Titans' defense. At my knee. At my own body for betraying me.

But most of all, I'm furious because for the first time in my life, I don't know what happens next.

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The Unwanted Truth

I let my head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. "What happens after surgery?"

She steps closer to the bed, flipping through the tablet. "You'll be in a brace for the first few weeks. Physical therapy starts almost immediately, focusing on regaining mobility and strength."

"And football?" I press.

A flicker of something crosses her face, but it's gone in an instant. "If the rehab goes well, you could be back by next season."

"But?"

She hesitates. "There's always a chance you won't be the same player when you come back."

I close my eyes for a beat, swallowing the lump in my throat.

This is my worst nightmare.

I open my eyes again, locking onto hers. "I'm coming back."

There's no hesitation in my voice. No doubt.

For the first time, I see something shift in her expression. It's subtle, but it's there—respect.

"I figured you'd say that," she murmurs.

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The Name Behind the Scrubs

I study her for a second. "What's your name?"

She blinks, caught off guard. "Dr. Carter."

I shake my head. "Not your title. Your first name."

She hesitates before answering. "Lillian."

Lillian Carter.

A doctor with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. The one person standing between me and the career I've spent my entire life building.

I glance down at my knee, then back up at her.

"Alright, Dr. Carter," I say quietly. "Fix me."

She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.

"I will," she replies. "But you're going to have to listen to me."

I let out a slow breath. This is going to be a long road.

But one thing is certain—I don't have a choice.