He wasn't wrong. Seven years of being the stable one, the healer, the guy who had his shit together. I didn't know how to be the one falling apart.
The communication tablet chimed again. Another message from Cord's suite:I know you're dealing with family stuff, but I'm here. Whatever you need.
The simple kindness of it nearly broke me. Here was this man, fresh from his own crisis, offering support he didn't even know I desperately needed.
“I should go to him,” I said quietly.
“Yes, you should.”
“And tell him what? That everything we talked about at the cabin is impossible now? That I'm stuck here indefinitely while he builds his new life?”
“Tell him the truth. That you're hurting and you need him.”
The words felt foreign. I need him. When was the last time I'd needed anyone?
“Tomorrow,” I said. “I'll tell him tomorrow.”
But we both knew tomorrow I'd find another excuse, another reason to protect him from my disaster. Because that's what I did, protected people, even when it meant drowning alone.
Ramon finished his beer and squeezed my shoulder. “Don't wait too long,hermano. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is let someone catch you when you fall.”
After he left, I sat alone in my studio surrounded by seven years of art that would never hang in my gallery. Outside, The Ranch continued its rhythm of pleasure and release, fantasy and fulfillment. The sound of other people getting exactly what they wanted while my own dreams turned to ash.
Tomorrow I'd have to start making calls. Disappointing artists. Explaining to my mother. Watching my carefully constructed future collapse one conversation at a time.
But tonight, I just sat with the weight of it all, letting myself feel the full scope of the loss. Not just money, but possibility. Not just independence, but the chance to meet Cord as an equal, to build something together from solid ground instead of shifting sand.
The sketches of him were still spread across my desk. In one, he was laughing at something I'd said, his whole face transformed by joy. I'd captured that moment perfectly—the exact way his eyes crinkled, how his shoulders relaxed when he really let go.
I gathered them carefully, storing them in my portfolio. Whatever happened next, I wanted to preserve these. Evidence of those perfect days when everything had felt possible.
Even if possibility was all they'd ever be.
Chapter Twelve
Cord
The legal pad was covered in my chicken scratch handwriting, coffee rings staining the margins. Three genuine opportunities spread before me like plays on a whiteboard, each with their own risk-reward calculations.
I clicked my pen a few times, a habit from team meetings that drove my offensive coordinator crazy, and started writing on a clean sheet.
“STANDARD SURGERY - LA”
Five percent complication rate, eighty percent recovery. Safe choice. I'd be able to play again, just not at the level I was before. Backup quarterback material, maybe a few more years holding clipboards and coming in when the starter got injured.
Below that: “EXPERIMENTAL SURGERY - ISTANBUL”
Dr. Arslan's technique. Stem cell integration, advanced microsurgery. Ninety to ninety-five percent recovery—potentially better than before the injury. But fifteen to twenty percent chance of permanent nerve damage that would end everything immediately.
One in five odds. Same as completing a pass into tight coverage against an elite corner. I'd made those throws a thousand times in my career, but this wasn't a game where you got another down if you failed.
My hand gripped the pen. The thought of surgery—either surgery—made my shoulder twinge. Dusty's smile flashed through my mind, the way his hair fell across his face when he leaned over me. I wondered what family business he was handling. Missed him more than made sense for someone I'd known barely a week.
Focus, Morales.
Next column: “ALABAMA QB COACHING.” Guaranteed money, respected program, chance to develop young quarterbacks without my body taking more punishment. Safe choice, but still meaningful. Still connected to the game I loved.
I thought of my dad, coaching high school ball back in Santa Fe. How he'd come home exhausted but satisfied after molding raw teenage talent into something resembling actual football players. Could I find that same satisfaction?
