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“Your diet is critical. Lay off the starches and dairy fat. Start incorporating lean proteins and fresh produce. No soda, no snacking. Stretch!” She raised both hands in exasperation. “Again, you know all this. And you must, and I mean today if at all possible, start exercising regularly. Even just walking twenty minutes a day will make a big difference. Looking good is not enough. Get yourself moving again. Blood flow. You still have your drive, your competitive oomph.”

He tried to focus on Dr. Reynolds’s words as she scolded him, shamed him, but he wanted to run.

“All right,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “If it kills me, I’ll try harder.” Tyler clenched his fists, his clammy legs sticking to the paper under him.

“Not harder. Smarter,” she emphasized, tapping a pen against her clipboard. “No killing. And light exercise. All of you. Not just your body, but your mind too. Therapy. To talk through this process. You need both to heal.”

“He will. He is,” Nadia said.

“Uh, yeah,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the heaviness of stagnation and regret like a lead weight in his chest. He’d never seen a therapist in his life. “Therapy and exercise. Got it.”

“Good.” Dr. Reynolds gave him a stern look, her eyes drilling into him. “You need to take this seriously, Tyler. Your life depends on it.”

“Understood.” He swallowed hard, feeling her words more than he heard them. It wasn’t like he didn’t understand the severity of his situation. But it was harder than he’d anticipated to come to terms with the fact that his body, which had once been a well-oiled tackle machine, had betrayed him so completely. And now he needed to confront that reality, to face the fact that he couldn’t outrun his own mortality.

“Okay,” he said finally, meeting her gaze. Even the suggestion of therapy was a hard pill to swallow. “I’ll do it. I’ll take responsibility for my health.”

Nadia nodded. “We got this, Ty.”

“Excellent,” Reynolds repeated as she looked back up. “We have faith in you, Tyler. And I know you can do this.”

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with misery.

“Good,” she replied, giving him a curt nod. “Your team doctors will receive my report by Thursday. The Swells care a lot about you.”

He didn’t answer that. The team docs were nice enough, but he knew who paid their bills and why. He was already past his prime, and plenty knew it. The coaches had more complaints each year. The owners ragged him about his endorsements and his rowdy rep. The San Diego Swells cared about his cost and his stats. Keeping him healthy was money to them. Boris Jarlson wanted to squeeze as many seasons out of him as possible before tossing him on the heap.

Dr. Reynolds looked him over again, making him feel like a rump roast. “I know you can get back to top form, Tyler. You can play again, win again. But you need to put in the hard work. If you’ll—excuse the expression—tackle this problem before it flanks you. Just take the steps. You’ll get where you’re going.”

Tyler nodded, still avoiding her eyes. The weight of stagnation and regret settled upon his shoulders like a heavy cloak, threatening to smother him.

Dr. Reynolds opened the door and patted him on the back as he stepped through it. Nadia lingered behind to mutter something with the doctor. He didn’t even have the energy to feel angry or sad, but maybe feeling stubborn would be enough.

He stepped back into the hall, and the door closed behind him. Knowing they had another long drive back to Cinnamar, he swung by the bathroom to pee and splash his face.

The real work was just beginning. He was staring down a long road to recovery, but maybe he was finally ready to tackle it head-on, fueled by the same determination and grit that had once propelled him to football stardom.

Back in the waiting room, he stood shifting his weight, anxious to escape.

Finally Nadia emerged, looking anxious, linking her arm through his in wordless support. With his sister’s help, perhaps he could regain control.

“You good?” she whispered, her gentle touch a balm against the harsh reality of his prognosis.

The lingering scent of disinfectant filled Tyler’s nostrils as he pushed through the glass door of Dr. Reynolds’s building, the warm sunlight outside a stark contrast to the sterile environment behind him. He squinted against the brightness.

“That was fun, huh? Good ol’ Dr. Reynolds,” Nadia called out softly, her deep-set brown eyes searching his face with concern. She leaned against their car, arms crossed over her chest. “You look like you just went ten rounds with a grizzly.”

Tyler snorted, despite the turmoil brewing inside him. His sister always had a way of lightening even the darkest moments without getting maudlin. “More like two rounds with a cardiologist who doesn’t believe in sugarcoating.”

“You can take it,” she replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth, though her eyes remained worried. “She’s tough, but she knows her stuff. Come on, let’s get you home.”

Nadia held the passenger door open for him, waiting until he eased himself into the seat before shutting it gently. She kept up a steady stream of chatter during the drive, clearly trying to distract him from spiraling into despair. He was grateful for her snarky optimism, even if he couldn’t muster a response.

Instead Tyler stared out the passenger side window, watching the familiar scenery pass by without really seeing it: long stretches of late wildflowers over the valley slope. Cinnamar was about fifty miles northeast of Reynolds’s office in San Diego, so the drive both ways ate up a lot of his sister’s time. IT work was flexible, but she had her own life.

His mind kept drifting back to that fateful third quarter, the crowd’s exhilaration, the lightning pumping through his veins, the satisfying smack of helmets, pads, and hard muscle colliding as he dodged tackles, in the zone.

Until suddenly, a blindside hit took his legs out from under him. Then muddy grass, staring at people’s shins. He remembered the referee’s whistles shrilly blaring as he clutched his chest, his vision spotting, fading, failing. Then waking up in the ambulance, an oxygen mask strapped to his face.