Page 99 of Body Check

In full honesty, I don’t remember much besides the tremble in my hands and Jackson’s words on repeat in my head:I need you here with me, Holls.

He needs me.

He needs me.

He needs me.

It’s on a constant loop, never lessening to anything else but a thunderous roar in my head.

By some twist of fate, I spot Jackson’s car in the parking garage and pull my vehicle into the empty spot two down from his. I’d been on my way to a photo shoot with the Boston Celtics when he called, my backpack slung over one shoulder as I took the stairs down to my car.

I cancelled the photo shoot via email, my brain so wired on Jackson that I didn’t even think to send my team there without me. No, my brain went to one thing only: Jackson was in trouble and nothing else mattered.

I leave my backpack on the passenger’s seat where I tossed it haphazardly upon first getting in my car. If someone wants to be a jerk and steal it while I’m at a hospital, let them have it.

With lightning-quick steps, I hustle out of my car and toward the hospital with only one destination in mind.

I’m forced to ask for directions twice before I finally find Dr. Mebowitz’s office. My fist hammers on the closed door, matching the beat of my heart, before I hear two masculine voices talking.

The door swings open.

“Ah, Mrs. Carter.” The doctor staring down at me smiles widely. “I’m so pleased you could make it.” He steps to the side, gesturing for me to slip past him. “Come in, come in. Jackson has been waiting for you.”

Seated in a chair before a behemoth-sized desk, Jackson props an arm on the back of the seat and twists his torso. Meets my gaze silently.

We don’t need words, not in this moment. To anyone else, I’d have no doubt that they’d take one look at him and see the Jackson Carter he’s always portrayed to the world: formidable, unshakable, with confidence that borders the line of arrogance.

But I know him, and what I read in his dark eyes shatters me.

Oh, Jackson.

“Coffee or tea?” Dr. Mebowitz asks me. “If you’d like either, I’ll have my secretary bring us some.”

I shake my head. No, no coffee or tea.

Silently, I take the empty seat next to Jackson’s. Without waiting for him to move first, I reach out and slip my hand through his. Squeeze his fingers once, just to let him know that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

We’re a family. We’re in this together, no matter what a slip of paper says.

He’s utterly silent as he tugs our clasped hands up, up, up and presses a kiss to my knuckles. And then, so softly I almost don’t hear it, “Always you, sweetheart. Always you.”

Everything in me goes taut at the whispered words, meant for my ears only. I won’t cry, not here in an office in front of a doctor I don’t even know, but those aredefinitelypinpricks of tears blurring my vision right now.

With nothing to wipe them dry with, I settle for accepting that this is who I am right now: a woman so in love with a man that she’ll drop everything,everything, to behisknight in shining armor. For the length of our marriage, Jackson was the one, out of the two of us, who remained completely unflappable. He rescued me, fed my high on him and on love.

It’s my turn to return the favor—and I do.

As Dr. Mebowitz explains to me about traumatic brain injuries and CTE and his early suspicions as to Jackson’s symptoms, I don’t cry. I don’t whimper, even when each word feels like a knife being dragged through my heart. I remain strong because Jackson needs me to be.

Never once do I let go of his hand.

“And these tests—when will they happen?” I ask.

Dr. Mebowitz fingers through a calendar planner. “Sooner rather than later. They’ve been set up by my team, now that we’ve ruled out any possible skeletal possibilities.” As though realizing he’s given us a lot to digest, he presses a flat palm to the calendar. “This is not . . . this is not a short case study, Jackson. I’ve had players just like yourself walk in here with no memory to speak of, others who’ve lost the ability to walk. The longevity of which you’ve been experiencing all of your symptoms leads me to make the assessment that youdohave TBI. And, perhaps, maybe, CTE—although that remains to be seen.”

“But?” I push, when he trails off.

“But, you are certainly an early case. That works in our benefit, to be sure.”

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