Page 38 of Game Face

“Yes, I know it’s ambitious. But if I’m not going to set bold goals, then what’s the point?”

He lifts his head to test my gaze, but I think when he reads in my eyes how serious I am, he accepts the reality I’ve written.

As he flips through the pages, I feel the urge to shift my position in the bed the closer he gets to the back. I can’t move my body, though. I don’t have the strength. So, instead, I wait in my physical and mental discomfort as he grows closer to the notes I made in the very back. It’s the top question that has me on the highest alert, and it’s the one question that I can’t seem to push out of my mind.

I watch his lips move slightly with the words, and I read along with him in my mind—Can I have kids?

Wyatt’s thumb traces that scribbled question, and he chews at the inside of his mouth for a beat before his head pops up and his eyes meet mine.

“You know that doesn’t matter to me, right?” He blinks twice, then locks his eyes open, awaiting my response.

“It matters to me,” I say, the fear obvious in the vibrato of my voice.

He nods slowly, his eyelashes flickering as his gaze drops to the binder. He closes it and sets it on the side table, then slides to the edge of his chair. Folding my left hand into both of his, his thumb gently draws circles on the back of my hand. I cherish how it feels—that I feel.

“It should have been me this happened to, you know?”

I smirk and breathe out a soft laugh, turning it into a joke.

“Statistically? Yeah, football is way more dangerous.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

I mash my lips together and hold his stare, the heavy pit in my stomach growing wider. I give a tiny nod.

“I know what you mean. But I wouldn’t want it to be you.” I stop short of adding how I wish it wasn’t me, either. How scared I am. How angry I am sometimes when I’m with my thoughts alone at night. When I should be sleeping.

The nurse pushes into the room and interrupts by thoughts.

“Good morning, Peyton. I’m Nat, and I’m here to take some vitals and get you prepped for surgery. Mind if I have your visitor wait outside for just a few minutes?” Nat’s my age, I think. Probably not, but she wears her hair in braids on either side of her face, and her wrist is tatted with pink butterflies. She has a bubbly personality, which is probably a nice addition to this place most of the time, but right now, I find her upbeat, ready-to-rave-out personality a bit overwhelming.

“I’ll go find the guys, then I’ll be right back. I want to see you before they take you back,” Wyatt says, his hand clinging to mine even as he stands and backs away.

“I’ll be sure to tell the doctor to wait for you,” I say, trying my best to keep my wry humor intact. It’s what’s been getting me through all of this.

“Good, glad to hear it,” Wyatt jokes back as he slips out of the room.

“You’re a lucky girl,” Nat says in a sassy, flirty voice, waggling her brows at me as she puts her stethoscope ends in her ears.

“You have no idea,” I respond. My voice comes out a bit dreamy, but also, her words sink into my mind, and I ruminate on them as she finishes running through my vitals.

I am lucky to have a love like this, but can it survive what I am starting to come to terms with as my future? I’m resolved to the fight ahead. I know I’m going to get back to a body that might be a little different than I imagined, but just as full of verve and drive. Maybe even more. And sure, it would be easy to lean on Wyatt through it all. But at what cost for him?

“All right, your family can come back in. They’ll be up to take you to prep soon.” Nat scribbles a few notes on my chart, then updates some numbers in her computer before dipping out of my room just as my father steps in.

He blows out his cheeks, puffing them like one of those fish that kisses the glass of the bowl.

“Gee, you don’t look stressed at all,” I tease him. He takes over the chair Wyatt left a few minutes ago, flopping back and exhaling.

“Sorry, I’ve never been good at poker.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes, almost as though he’s resetting his face. His new smile seems less forced, but it’s just as worn-out.

“I’m sorry.” My words make him laugh, short and hard, and he takes my hand and kisses it.

“You need to stop saying that.”

My face eases into a tight-lipped smile.

“I know. I just hate that everyone’s world was thrown into chaos because of me. I hate it so much,” I choke out. I wipe the tear away fast. I don’t need to get emotional before they wheel me back and knock me out. I don’t need to carry any of this into my anesthesia dreams.

---