AGAINST the ODDS

Chapter 7: Spiraling

(Jaxon's POV – Surgery is scheduled. He's spiraling.)

⸻

The world doesn't slow down just because I do.

I learned that the hard way.

It's been three days since Dr. Carter delivered the news—torn ACL, meniscus damage, season over. Three days of reporters speculating, social media dissecting my career, and my name being dragged through every sports debate show.

And now, the surgery is officially scheduled.

Three days from now, they'll wheel me into an operating room, cut into my knee, and decide my future with a scalpel.

I tell myself it's just a procedure. That it's routine. That plenty of guys have come back from this.

But that doesn't stop the way my hands clench into fists every time I think about it.

Because for the first time in my career, I'm not in control.

And I don't know how to handle that.

⸻

The Noise Won't Stop

I stare at my phone, scrolling through headlines I should ignore.

"Jaxon Reid's Injury: A Career-Ending Blow?"

"Reid's Road to Recovery—But Will He Ever Be the Same?"

"Should the Rockets Start Planning for Life Without Jaxon?"

I throw my phone onto the bed with a sharp exhale, dragging a hand down my face.

It's all the same.

Doubt.

Speculation.

People deciding my future for me like I'm not even a part of the conversation.

The worst part?

A tiny, traitorous voice in the back of my head whispers that they might be right.

⸻

Avoidance Tactics

Drew has been calling all morning. I ignore every one.

The team's medical staff wants to check in. I let it go to voicemail.

Even my mom called earlier. That's how I know things are bad—she only calls when she senses something is wrong.

But I don't want to talk. I don't want to hear another speech about recovery timelines and comeback stories. I don't want empty reassurances or motivational clichés.

I want to disappear.

So, I do what any rational, totally well-adjusted person would do—I drag myself out of bed, crutch my way to the kitchen, and pour myself a drink.

Well.

More than one.

I'm on my third whiskey when there's a sharp knock at my door.

I freeze.

Drew wouldn't show up unannounced. My teammates know better than to drop by when I'm like this.

That only leaves one person.

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face before pushing myself up, hobbling over to the door. I open it to find exactly who I was expecting.

Dr. Lillian Carter.

She's in her usual navy scrubs, arms crossed, eyes scanning me like she already knows what kind of mess I'm in.

Her gaze flicks to the glass in my hand. Then to the bottle on the counter behind me.

Her lips press into a thin line. "Really?"

I take a slow sip, not breaking eye contact. "You here for a social visit, Doc?"

She steps inside without waiting for an invitation. "I'm here because you missed your check-in this morning."

I scoff, shutting the door behind her. "Didn't realize I needed a babysitter."

"You don't," she says coolly. "But if you keep making bad decisions, you're going to need a full-time one."

I roll my eyes, limping back to the couch. "I'm fine."

"Are you?"

Her voice is even, but there's something underneath it. Something sharp.

I don't answer.

Because if I do, I might actually have to admit that I'm not fine.

⸻

Breaking Point

She walks over, picks up my phone from the couch, and holds it up.

"Drew called you six times."

I shrug. "Probably just more PR nonsense."

"And the team?"

"More of the same."

She sighs, setting the phone down. "Jaxon."

There's something in the way she says my name. A thread of exhaustion. Of frustration. But also something else—something that almost sounds like concern.

I stare at the drink in my hand, fingers tightening around the glass.

"Do you know what I see every time I walk into a hospital room with a player like you?" she asks.

I don't respond.

She answers anyway. "I see someone who's spent their entire life outrunning fear. Who believes that if they just push hard enough, fight long enough, they'll always come out on top."

She steps closer.

"But that's not how this works," she says softly. "You can't outwork this injury. You can't power through it on sheer will. And you sure as hell can't avoid it by drinking yourself numb."

Her words cut through me in a way I wasn't prepared for.

I scoff, but it's weak. "You don't get it."

"Then explain it to me."

I shake my head. "It's not just about the injury."

"Then what is it?"

I exhale sharply, staring at the floor.

What am I supposed to say? That I've built my entire identity around football? That without it, I don't know who I am? That the idea of waking up one day and realizing it's over is enough to make my chest tighten until I can't breathe?

Instead, I mutter, "I don't know how to be anything else."

The words come out rough. Unsteady.

Lillian doesn't speak right away.

Then, quietly, she says, "Maybe it's time to figure that out."

I finally look at her.

Her gaze isn't judgmental. Isn't pitying.

It's just there. Steady. Unwavering.

And for some reason, that's worse.

Because it means she sees all of it.

Not just the anger. Not just the frustration.

But the fear, too.

⸻

The Decision

After a long silence, she exhales and gestures at the drink in my hand. "Pour it out."

I tense. "I don't—"

"Jaxon." Her voice is firm. "You want to come back? You want to prove everyone wrong? Then act like it."

She holds my gaze, waiting.

Daring me to make a choice.

I grit my teeth. Look down at the whiskey.

Then, with a sharp exhale, I push myself up, limp to the sink, and dump it out.

I don't look at her as I do it.

Because if I do, I might see approval in her eyes. And I don't want that.

I don't want her to be right.

But damn it, she is.

I brace my hands on the counter, exhaling.

After a long pause, I mutter, "I hate this."

She nods. "I know."

I drag a hand down my face. "Surgery's in three days."

She tilts her head slightly. "Are you ready for it?"

No.

But I don't say that.

Instead, I meet her gaze and say, "I will be."

She studies me for a moment, then nods. "Good."

And somehow, for the first time in days, I actually believe it.