AGAINST the ODDS

Chapter 4: The Hard Truth

(Lillian's POV – She delivers the bad news: torn ACL, meniscus damage—his season is over.)

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I've had to deliver bad news before.

Athletes break. It's a reality of the job. Some injuries are minor—sprains, bruises, tweaks that heal with time. Others are devastating, career-altering. I've stood in front of players who built their entire lives around this game and watched their worlds tilt when I told them it was over.

And yet, as I step into Jaxon Reid's hospital room, tablet in hand, I feel something unusual curling in my stomach.

Apprehension.

Because I already know how this conversation is going to go.

Jaxon is sitting up now, leaning back against the pillows with his arms crossed over his chest. His strong jaw is set tight, and his blue eyes snap to mine the second I enter.

He's not the type to wait for answers. He wants them now.

I stop at the foot of his bed, meeting his gaze evenly. "You ready to talk about what's next?"

His fingers tighten against his biceps, but he nods. "Yeah. Give it to me straight."

I hesitate for only a second. Then I exhale and tell him the truth.

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The Verdict

"You tore your ACL and your MCL," I say, keeping my voice steady. "There's also damage to your meniscus."

His reaction is immediate—a sharp inhale, followed by a barely perceptible flinch.

He doesn't speak right away, but I can see the battle happening in his head. He's an athlete, a competitor. He's running through every possible outcome, searching for an angle that keeps him on the field.

Finally, he exhales through his nose. "How long?"

I grip the tablet a little tighter. "Recovery will take nine to twelve months. Minimum."

The muscle in his jaw jumps.

I press on. "Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. After that, you'll begin rehab—first to regain mobility, then to build back strength. It's a long process, but—"

"My season's over," he cuts in, his voice rough.

I hesitate, then nod. "Yes."

The room goes silent.

Jaxon doesn't move, doesn't blink. He just stares at me, like he's willing me to take it back.

Like he's willing the universe to rewrite the last twenty-four hours.

But I can't change reality.

And he knows it.

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Breaking Point

His entire body tenses, and then—without warning—he rips the blanket off his legs and swings them over the side of the bed.

Pain slams into him immediately.

His right leg buckles the second it bears weight, and he lets out a guttural, frustrated curse, catching himself against the bedside table. The heart monitor attached to him spikes, beeping frantically in protest.

I step forward instantly. "Jaxon, stop."

"I'm fine," he snaps, gripping the edge of the table like he can will his knee to work.

He's not fine. He's barely holding himself up. But I can see it—the pure, stubborn desperation in his eyes.

This isn't just about an injury. It's about everything he's worked for. Everything he's spent his entire life chasing.

And now it's slipping through his fingers.

"Jaxon," I say firmly, moving closer. "You need to sit down before you make this worse."

He doesn't listen.

Instead, he takes a step—and instantly crumples.

I lunge forward just as he starts to fall, grabbing his arm and bracing against his weight. He's heavy, solid muscle, but I manage to steady him just enough for him to collapse back onto the bed instead of the floor.

His breathing is ragged, his face pale.

And for the first time since I met him, I see something new in his eyes.

Not just anger.

Fear.

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Reality Sets In

I kneel beside the bed, meeting him at eye level. "You can't do this alone," I say, softer now.

His hands tighten into fists. "I don't have a choice."

"You do," I counter. "But it starts with accepting that this is real."

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, staring down at his knee like it betrayed him. "I was at the top of my game."

I don't say anything.

Because what do you say to a man who just lost the thing that defines him?

Football isn't just a job for Jaxon. It's his identity. His purpose. His way out of whatever life he had before this.

And now, at least for the next year, it's gone.

Finally, he speaks again—quiet, raw. "What if I can't come back?"

There it is. The thing he's really afraid of.

Not the pain. Not the surgery.

The unknown.

I exhale, choosing my words carefully. "The road back won't be easy. Some guys never make it. But others do. And if I had to bet on anyone fighting their way back to the top, it'd be you."

He looks at me then, something unreadable in his expression.

I hold his gaze, unwavering. "But you have to be smart about it. You can't rush this. If you try to come back too soon, you could damage your knee permanently."

His jaw flexes, but after a long moment, he gives a short nod.

It's not full acceptance. Not yet. But it's a start.

⸻

An Unlikely Team

I push myself to my feet, smoothing my scrubs. "I'll be overseeing your rehab personally."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Why?"

Because I don't trust anyone else to handle this right.

Because I know he's going to fight this process every step of the way, and if he has any chance of coming back, he needs someone who won't let him cut corners.

But I don't say any of that.

Instead, I cross my arms. "Because I don't have time to argue with someone who won't listen to medical advice. If I'm in charge, at least I know you won't be doing something reckless the second I turn my back."

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to smirk—but he doesn't.

Instead, he nods slowly. "Alright, Doc. Guess that means you're stuck with me."

I arch an eyebrow. "Guess so."

The air between us shifts—just slightly.

He still doesn't like me. Not yet. But for the first time, there's something other than resentment in his expression.

Maybe respect. Maybe understanding.

Maybe something else entirely.

Either way, one thing is clear—Jaxon Reid's fight isn't over.

And whether he likes it or not, I'm going to make sure he makes it through.