Page 119 of Fighting Fate

My phone vibrates, and even before I read the message, a feeling as if a band is tightening around my ribs makes it hard to breathe, as if I already know what it's going to say.

Luke

They got his medical history from Dr. Reynolds—his cancer is definitely back.

"What do you mean, he can't play anymore? Don't you understand how vital this year is for him? Scouts, opportunities..." My father's voice cracks the air, each word a hammer to my already fragile state.

I blink slowly, the world around me a blur. His voice, though, cuts through the fog—unmistakable, unavoidable. It's Dad. I rest my head back, trying to find comfort in the rhythm of my breath.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Focus, Miles.

My eyes flutter open again, this time a little clearer. Dad's standing there, toe-to-toe with Dr. Reynolds, his face a canvas of frustration and fear. "This could destroy everything we've built!"

His voice booms, echoing off the sterile walls, each word a jolt of pain through my head, a stark reminder of the reality crashing down on me.

This can't be real. Not now, not like this.

I clear my throat, desperate to drown out the pounding in my skull and the rising tide of my dad's anger. My mind is a whirlpool of confusion—hospital, IVs, pain. Why am I here?

You know why, Miles. You've always known.

As if on cue, Dad's eyes lock onto mine, and he rushes over, his hand gripping mine in a vice-like hold. "Thank God, Miles, you're awake."

Dr. Reynolds has a melancholic smile that feels more like pity than relief as he approaches. "Good to see you, Miles."

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Stay calm, Miles.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Reynolds' voice is soft, cautious.

Like I'm on death's doorstep. The pain, the aches, the rawness in my throat—it's all too familiar, a haunting echo of the past.

I manage to nod, my throat a raw scrape of pain. Dad releases my hand as I reach for the water, his touch fleeting, leaving a void. I understand his true concern—not for me, but for the future he envisages, the NFL dreams he harbors for me. It's suffocating; I'm living his dream, not mine.

"I feel like I've been run over," I say, the words rough and hollow.

Dr. Reynolds chuckles softly, a hand on my shoulder. "With your condition, that's not surprising."

Condition. That word hangs heavy in the air, a truth I've dodged for too long.

As if he's reading my mind, Dr. Reynolds shakes his head, his eyes briefly meeting mine before dropping to his clipboard. Just then, a voice pierces the tense silence.

"Oh my God, you're up. You've been asleep for days." My mom's voice trembles as she rushes to my side.

Days?

Confusion etches my features, deepening as my dad chimes in, his voice heavy with concern. "Miles, you've been here for a week."

A week?

A whole week lost to this haze? The realization hits me like a freight train.

Dr. Reynolds breaks the news gently. "You had a minor seizure during the game last week. The hit was hard."

A seizure. The words echo in my mind, piecing together the fragments of that day. The collision, the spinning world, then nothing but darkness.

"A seizure?" My voice is a scratchy whisper, barely audible.

He nods, his face lined with empathy. "Yes, and it led to some complications. You've been drifting in and out since then."

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