He spun toward me, and for a moment, his mask dropped. Relief flashed across his face, raw and desperate, before embarrassment took over. “You didn't need to come. This is just a medication issue.”
“Like hell it is.” I closed the door, creating a barrier between us and the hallway. The click of the latch felt final. “When did you take your last dose?”
“Last night.” He licked his lips, eyes frantic though he tried to speak calmly. “I thought I'd packed my refill before I left Denver, but I didn't. It's not here.” He wouldn't meet my eyes, the way his jaw clenched like he was holding words back. “Look, I just need enough to get through the weekend until I can call my doctor on Monday.”
“It's Tuesday, Cord.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. I watched his shoulders sag, saw the moment his defenses crumbled. For a heartbeat, I saw past the athlete's armor to the frightened man underneath—lost, hurting, and alone.
“When we talked, you agreed to cut down on these, remember?” I'd told him to call me instead, like I was somemiracle worker whose dick could get him through the tough times.
Silence stretched between us. I could map the tension in his body, the way his weight shifted from foot to foot, how his good hand clenched and unclenched, the micro-expressions that flickered across his face like he was having an entire argument with himself. Outside, I could hear the distant laughter of guests enjoying afternoon activities.
The Ranch continued its rhythm while we stood frozen in this moment.
“I need them,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. Each word seemed to cost him something. “Not because the pain is unbearable, but because when I don't have them, all I can think about is everything that's falling apart. The pills make it... quieter. In my head.”
The raw honesty of it took my breath away. This wasn't about physical pain. This was about silencing the voice that told him he was worthless without football, that coming out had ruined everything, that he'd never be whole again.
“You're more present without them,” I said, taking a step closer. “And I've seen how strong you are when you let yourself feel things. The medication doesn't fix anything. It just delays having to feel it.”
His laugh was bitter. “So what, you think I should just face all of this stone-cold sober? Deal with the fact that my career might be over, that I came out for nothing, that I might have thrown away everything I worked for?”
“I think you're scared.” I stepped closer, close enough to see the way his pupils were dilated, the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “And I think you're using pain as an excuse to avoid dealing with what really hurts.”
“Don't.” His voice turned sharp, defensive. “Don't psychoanalyze me. I came here to fuck, not for an intervention.”
“Then why are you panicking about leaving?”
The question hung between us. His breathing was getting shallow, rapid. I recognized the signs from years of watching people's bodies betray their calm facades. His chest was rising and falling too quickly, and I could see the panic building in his eyes.
“Because...” He stopped, swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was small and lost. “Because I don't know how to be anywhere else right now.”
There it was. The truth, raw as an open wound. He wasn't just afraid of the pain. He was afraid of facing who he was without football, without the identity he'd built his entire life around.
“Sit down,” I told him, keeping my voice gentle but firm. “We're going to breathe through this together.”
“I don't need—”
“Your body thinks you're in danger, but you're not. You're safe here. You're safe with me.” I kept my voice steady, the same tone I used to guide someone through a difficult pose. “Sit down and let me help you.”
Something in my voice must have reached him. His legs gave out, and he slumped onto the examination table, head in his hands. I could see his shoulders shaking, and it took everything in me not to pull him into my arms.
“Four counts in,” I said, moving to stand in front of him. “Hold for four. Out for six. Can you do that with me?”
His first few breaths were ragged, fighting the rhythm. But I kept my voice steady, counting out the beats, and his breathing began to match mine. I watched the color return to his face, saw his hands slowly stop shaking.
“Better?”
He nodded, still not looking at me. “I hate this. Feeling like I can't control my own body.”
“You are controlling it right now. You're choosing to breathe, choosing to be present even though it's hard as hell.” I wanted to touch him, ground him with more than words, but something held me back. “That takes more strength than throwing a football ever did.”
He looked up at me then, his dark eyes wet with unshed tears. “I don't know how to do this, Dusty. How to be this person.”
“You're already doing it, man. One breath at a time.” I sat down beside him on the examination table, close enough that our shoulders touched. The contact seemed to steady him. “Listen, I have an idea. But you have to trust me.”
“What kind of idea?”
