Page 151 of The Backup Plan

I swallow.

“You ignore the risk?” I ask.

“There’s always risk,” she says. “That’s why informed consent exists. That’s why autonomy matters. Athletes aren’t glass . . . they’re partners in their own care.”

I open my eyes, staring at the frozen image on my screen.

“And if management tells you that your job is to report predictions?”

“I’d tell you the same thing. As a doctor, we report facts. We report what we see. This is science, not fortune telling.” She falls quiet for a beat.

“I’m just trying to do the right thing even though it feels wrong.”

“That’s why medicine isn’t for the faint of heart. I understand your dilemma, I hear what they’re asking you, but my advice still stands.”

We hang up a minute later.

I don’t move.

I sit there with Lucas’s scans glowing softly in the darkened office, and Coach’s voice looping in my head.

We’re counting on you for the future.

I don’t know whether that feels like trust or a warning.

Or a line I’ve already crossed.

But Mirna is absolutely correct. I can’t predict the future. I can provide facts, present observations, not projections. That’s what truth is.

And I need to trust in that.

Lucas

This game is a shitshow of epic proportions.

Regular season opener, and we’re being completely shut down. Every point we’ve scored has been a struggle to say the least. Cole’s doing his job just fine, but it’s like the Comets know every play we make before we run it.

Either they studied every offensive play Peter and the Rebels have ever made, or they have a direct line into our comms and are stealing them.

I’m thinking the former, but it doesn’t make the game any goddam easier.

Their defense is disguising looks well, shifting safeties late, and linebackers are cheating half a step before the snap.

We’re down by seven with three minutes left—a lifetime in football—and we have possession of the ball.

“Hale,” Coach shouts.

I jog over to him, helmet in hand, nowhere close to believing I’m going in with the game this close and Cole holding his own.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Get with Peter. Work whatever that fucking magic you have and help him figure some plays that will get us down the goddamn field.”

“I’m on it,” I say and move to stand beside Peter.

We spend the next few plays finessing things, and we’re able to make some progress and march down the field bit by bit.

“That’s a great call,” he says on our fourth play in the sequence that nets us fifteen yards.