Page 107 of Hometown Halftime

“So what does all of this mean for me, exactly?”

Dr. Patel folds her hands together loosely. “Based on your symptoms, MRI findings, and bloodwork, I suspect you might have a condition called ankylosing spondylitis.”

“Ankylo…what?”

“Ankylosing spondylitis,” she repeats carefully. “It’s an autoinflammatory disease that primarily affects the spine and SI joints.”

I blink at her. Then blink again. The word autoinflammatory echoes around my skull as if someone shouted it into the Grand Canyon.

“That sounds…” My voice catches slightly. “Serious.”

“It can be,” she says. “But the good news is we caught this relatively early, your joints still look good. There are excellent treatments available now that can slow progression and help manage symptoms.”

My stomach drops. Questions start colliding with each other so fast I can barely grab onto one long enough to ask it.

“Can I still coach?” I ask.

Dr. Patel looks surprised for a second before answering.

“Yes. Movement and exercise are actually very important for managing inflammatory conditions like this.”

Some of the panic loosens in my chest.

Okay. Good.

Because my time with the team has become too important to me to lose. But then another thought crashes in immediately after.

“What about…” I swallow hard. “Later in life?”

“This condition affects everyone differently,” she says carefully. “Some people manage symptoms extremely well and stay very active long-term. That’s why I want to refer you to a rheumatologist now instead of waiting.”

She reaches for a referral form on the counter beside her.

“They specialize in autoimmune and inflammatory diseases. They’ll guide you through long-term treatment options and help confirm the diagnosis.”

Everything after that starts feeling strangely distant. Like my brain twisted the volume down on the room. I nod while she explains the next steps. But underneath all of it, one thought keeps circling louder than everything else.

Something is wrong with me.

After the appointment is over and I make it back out to the parking lot, my chest feels hollow. I climb into my Jeep but don’t start it right away. Instead, I sit there gripping the steering wheel while reality finally starts settling heavily into my chest. Then I open my phone and begin Googling everything I can think of and spiral down a rabbit hole.

Chapter forty-three

Riley

By four o’clock Thursday afternoon, I’ve officially become a chauffeur and an unwilling participant in an argument about glitter glue.

I think I deserve financial compensation.

“Jackson,” I say patiently from the driver’s seat, “if you put glitter glue in Emma’s hair again, I’m telling Mom.”

“It was an accident,” he complains.

Lucy twists around dramatically from the passenger seat. “You literally said, ‘Watch this.’”

I catch his shrug in the rearview mirror before he says, “That doesn’t prove intent.”

From the back seat, Emma gasps loudly. “You should go to jail.”