Chapter One

TYLER FANTANAslammed into the dirt, and a meteor hit his chest with scalding force. His heart had stopped beating. Sixty-nine thousand fans shouting, the smell of sweat and grass. Blinding lights, all the cameras.

Groggy, Tyler blinked and shook his head slowly, trying to situate himself.

He flinched. This had happened before, he felt certain. Why did he feel so disoriented?

Right. NFL game at the top of the season, the pinnacle of his career with the San Diego Swells. A pile of guys on top of him.

Suddenly he was back on the ground, blood in his mouth, skull echoing with the impact of the tackle that had brought him down, an entire linebacker landing on his sternum and the sudden crushing pain in his chest as he hit the thirty-yard line sideways and knew in his bones that he’d never get up again in this life.

Team gone. Light gone. Not breathing. Just that jagged, grinding agony like a fist squeezing him into paste.

I already did this. Oh God, please, I already did this.

The world had winked out, only fading back into focus as he woke up in the back of an ambulance, his heart pounding erratically as he gasped for breath and grabbed at the EMTs.

“Tyler?”

Dr. Reynolds’s question yanked him back to the present. The older woman’s voice was firm, professional, and had a no-nonsense edge to it. “Talk to me. Slow breaths. What happened just then?”

He tried to take deep, slow gulps of oxygen. Counted heartbeats. Visualized. All that holistic new age crap. His stupid, screwed-up heart wouldn’t slow down. Where was he? He couldn’t get enough breath to answer her. Why couldn’t he talk? His eyes stung, and he blinked rapidly. “Bad.”

Dr. Reynolds’s office smelled of lemony antiseptic. It was autumn. November. Tuesday? This was another checkup with his cardiologist. His sister had driven him. He still wasn’t allowed behind the wheel. Right. Was Nadia here?

“Stay with me now.” Reynolds stood back, giving him space. “Are you all right? Can you describe the pain? Look at me.” She leaned back and ran a penlight over his pupils, frowning at something. “Your heart rate was— Does that happen often?”

“Maybe.” He shook his head, then nodded. Did she want the truth or the lie? “I don’t know.”

“I was taking your vitals,” Dr. Reynolds said briskly. “Use your three-three-three and breathe for me. Take a moment. Three objects. Three sounds. Three body parts.”

Tyler nodded and tried to focus. He found the objects as he inhaled slowly and shifted his eyes around the bright room, consciously counting each one: Clock. Pen. Shoe. This was so embarrassing.

“I’m going to remove this, if that’s okay.” She leaned in to unwrap the blood pressure cuff from his thick bicep with practiced efficiency.

Velcro rip. Hum of the AC. Paper rustling under him. He held the breath inside himself, and his galloping heart slowed to a trot.

As the cuff loosened, she unthreaded it and stepped back again, presumably to give him space. She glanced over his chart, and her brow furrowed in obvious disapproval.

His muscle mass was way off, whittled down by two months of sitting on his butt.

As she paused to make a note, he made his body parts move: open hand, lick lips, blink eyes. He let the breath out. “Better.”

“Excellent. You see?” Reynolds checked his eyes, waiting until he nodded to continue. She pressed a chilly stethoscope between his pecs and looked at the ceiling, listening for something inside him before she spoke. “Just a panic attack, yes? That’s common. Nasty but normal.”

“It felt like—” He shook his head, wiped his wet mouth. “How do I tell the difference?”

“You ask someone qualified.” Dr. Reynolds crossed her arms. “But anecdotally, cardiac arrest feels like crushing and panic attacks sharper stabs. With arrest, the pain spreads outward from the chest, but the pain of a panic attack stays in one spot. Neither one is pleasant.” Her stethoscope shifted to his back, and the slight pressure made him flinch like an idiot. “Try to distinguish between the memory of pain and your current level of discomfort. It’s not easy.”

“No.” Tyler took a few more deep breaths and let the air out slowly. “These were short and sharp. Memory, I guess.” He pressed a hand to his side. “Jesus.”

“Talk to yourself. Listen to yourself.” She pressed her lips together, regarding him as though through glass. “Blood pressure is still higher than I’d like,” she noted. “And you’ve lost almost four pounds of muscle since our last visit. Potassium levels far lower than they should be. Iron too. Your recovery seems to have plateaued.”

“Sorry, Doc.” Tyler sat awkwardly, perched on the exam table, cringing as the paper liner crinkled beneath him.

“This isn’t blame.” She shook her head. “Your heart has been pushed past breaking, Mr. Fantana. Commotio cordis can cause severe trauma to the valve and surrounding tissues. It needs to heal. Just a time-out is all. A reasonable recovery window. You’re better, but not better enough.”

He nodded and waited for further scolding.

“The heart is a powerful muscle. You had significant bruising and other injuries besides. It’s barely been two months. One moment.” Dr. Reynolds picked up the phone and pressed a button. “Can you have Ms. Fantana come back to exam room five?”

Great. Now Nadia was going to get scolded too.

“Tyler, your sister needs to be aware. Team effort, right? Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

With a smiling nod, Reynolds left him sitting there feeling like a jerk. The door closed behind her with a hiss and clunk. The memory of his primetime collapse still swirled around him, almost visible, tangible around him, the exam room like a double exposure he could touch and taste. He stared at the speckled linoleum floor.

A tap on the door. “Hey, big bro. Everything okay?”

He turned to look and raised his voice so she’d hear. “Panic attack. Stupid.”

Nadia poked her head in. “Okay if I come in?”

“Doctor’s orders.” Tyler shrugged. “I think she wants to do more scolding than one dummy can handle, so you get some too.”

“Stop worrying, Ty,” she said, reaching out to place a hand on his knee, stilling the judder. “It’s just a checkup.”

“I guess.” Tyler sighed, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He couldn’t help but feel vulnerable, stripped of his armor. He’d been an MVP his whole life, and now… this. “I think she went to pull the labs.”

Tyler sat hunched, foot tapping an anxious beat. With each passing second, his eyes darted between the ticking clock and the closed door to the hall. The sterile peach walls and vague watercolor prints did nothing to soothe his nerves. Beside him, Nadia fidgeted with the strap of her purse, watching him less like a little sister and more like an anxious mom.

As they waited, Nadia tried to distract him with a silly story about Mr. Poops, a lazy marmalade cat that had wandered into her garage last year and decided her home was his, but Tyler’s mind was back on a stadium field a thousand miles away with his teammates.

Grass. Mud. Tackle. Agony. A stadium full of strangers and millions of screens across the country, all roaring for blood.

“Thank you,” Dr. Reynolds said to someone, then stepped back inside, flicking through a sheaf of pages. “Mr. Fantana?”

“Guilty.” Tyler straightened, shooting his sister a tense smile.

“Sorry about that. I asked your sister to join us because we all want the same thing.”

“Absolutely.” Nadia squinted, brave-facing it.

“You aren’t getting better.” Reynolds crossed her arms over her white coat and squinted at him kindly. “Trouble is, you know everything that I’m going to say to you. They punched you in the heart. You’re still a world-class athlete inside there, but your body and your mind need to heal.”

“I understand, ma’am.” He nodded, but the thought of doing anything more than what he was already managing seemed impossible. Hell, he had a worthless degree in sports medicine, and he still couldn’t get his ass in gear.

She wasn’t done. “I’ve told you before: you need to eat healthier, exercise more, and for heaven’s sake, do something about your stress levels. The memories will prey upon you if you don’t process them.”

Tyler swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her words press down on him. How could he make her understand the nightmares and the panic attacks? It sounded stupid and melodramatic to him, and he saw them up close and personal every day of his life since the accident.

Nadia watched him take the scolding, her eyes full of awful pity.

“I’ve been trying, Dr. Reynolds,” he protested weakly. “But it’s not easy. Not when I’m… like this.” He looked down at his boxer briefs, his grayish skin, his infamous muscle mass now tasked with hauling him from the bed to the couch and back. He felt like a wrecked car on cinder blocks.

“Mr. Fantana, this isn’t the end, just a change. Six months ago, you were one of the fittest athletes in the world, but you are not twenty anymore. Or even thirty,” she admitted. Her fierce scrutiny made him feel raw and scalded. “Your heart may have taken a hit, but it’s not irreparable. You need to take responsibility for your own well-being.”

“Responsibility? You think I don’t—” Tyler began, anger bubbling up inside him before he caught himself, clamping down. He couldn’t afford to let his rage get the best of him. Not now, when everything was so precarious.

“We can get you whatever you need, Mr. Fantana.” Dr. Reynolds didn’t look away. “Give yourself time.”

“Time.” He gave an ugly laugh as her words sent him spiraling back into that mud and pain and the game that had stopped his entire career stone-cold.

“I say the same thing, Doc.” Nadia squeezed his hand, reminding him where he was. “But he’s so much better than he was. Every day, he’s better.”

“Tyler,” Dr. Reynolds said, her tone cautious, “we both want the same thing: for you to heal. But I can only do so much. The rest is up to you.” She tapped his chart and raised her brows. “Your muscle tone, your blood pressure, even your oxygen levels are still way beyond normal levels for an average man your age, and the whole country knows that you are much more than average.”

He bobbed his head but couldn’t look her in the eye. “Yes, ma’am.” He did know better.

“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.

“Heart attack,” he heard the EMT say, a hand touching his head gently. “Tyler Fantana, dude. Would you believe? We need to get him to the hospital stat before he codes.”

Just like that, at the peak of his career, his whole life yanked from under him. Now here he was, trapped in his hometown, lying awake every night in his childhood bedroom, adrift and unsure how to climb back to the fancy life he’d wanted way back when.

Tyler snorted awake and realized he’d dozed off in the rocking car.

“Feel better?” Nadia glanced over at him, her expression sympathetic.

“Maybe.” A late fall rain had covered the low hills with California poppies, asters, and purple lupine that would die fast once December hit. He shrugged.

She turned to consider him. “It’s not a race, huh? You can do this. I know you can.”

“Exercise. Therapy,” Tyler muttered, staring out the window at the sloped landscape. He could feel the weight of his sister’s vigilance, knew she was searching for any signs of weakness or self-pity.

Nadia glanced at the rearview before responding. “She’s putting you on notice. This has as much to do with your mental state as your heart. And she wanted me as a witness. It’s going to be okay.”

“Therapy? I know I got to take responsibility for my health, Nadia. But it’s… hard. My whole life I’ve been this invincible meathead, and now—”

“Hey,” she cut him off gently, reaching over to place a comforting hand on his bulky forearm. “You’re not a meathead. And you don’t have to be invincible, Ty. You just have to be the best version of yourself that you can be right now—bum heart and all. You’ve faced worse than therapy.”

“Thanks,” he said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the car engine. He turned to look at her in a moment of raw vulnerability. “I just… I don’t want to disappoint anyone, you know?”

“Wow. Okay… Tyler Fantana, NFL superstar, America’s Tightest End, reduced to seeking validation from his little sister?” Nadia teased, though her voice was warm with old affection. “Who would’ve thought?”

“Hey, now,” Tyler huffed, trying to muster a playful glare but ultimately failing. “Don’t go getting a big head about it. Last thing I need is an even more insufferable sibling.”

“Too late,” she laughed, reaching over to ruffle his hair affectionately. “But seriously, Ty, you can’t ever disappoint me. Or anyone who truly cares about you. We just want you to be happy and healthy, okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed, his throat tight with emotion. He tried to smile, but it felt false.

As they drove through their small hometown, familiar streets and businesses whizzing past them, Tyler felt the first glimmers of determination blooming within him. The road to recovery might suck, but with Nadia by his side, he knew he had a fighting chance. And maybe, just maybe, he could find a little happiness in the process. Though the doctor’s words still stung, Tyler felt a faint flicker of stubborn hope.

“Promise me something.” Nadia took the exit that led to their childhood home. “Promise me you’ll do whatever it takes to get better. No excuses, no half-assing it. No ditching me. Just… promise me you’ll try.”

“I promise,” he whispered, meaning it for once. It was time to take control of his life again, to face his demons head-on and reclaim the future that had been snatched away from him on the thirty-yard line. “Full-ass only.”

“Good,” she said, her lips curving into a small, proud smile. “Now let’s get you home and start planning your Super Bowl comeback.”

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

The car turned on the block and then bumped onto the drive as Nadia slowed to a stop and glanced his way again.

“Stop. I’m fine. Reynolds is still a tightass, though,” Tyler grumbled as he climbed out and slammed the car door with a huff. “Like I’m not trying hard enough. The panic attack rattled me, is all.” He headed toward the porch. Nadia had renovated the place twice since their mom passed.

“Uhh. Yeah.” Nadia caught up with him, keys jangling. “She’s just worried. We all are. You’ve been through a lot, and it’s time to get back on track. Baby steps.”

“Mom always said I was a big baby. Like, the biggest ever in this town, twenty-two inches or something and eleven-plus pounds. A mutant.” He grinned, but she didn’t.

“Ty, listen,” Nadia said, her voice gentle yet firm as she unlocked the door. “You need to take this seriously. Therapy and exercise will help you get better, on all fronts.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “But what if it’s not enough? What if that’s the last game I play? The last yardage. My legacy for all time. Eating mud on the thirty.”

“Glory ain’t everything, you know.” Nadia knocked their shoulders together, giving him a small smile. “Mom wanted us to love our lives. That’s all.”

Tyler sighed, running a hand through his messy hair as he thought about their mom, gone almost nine years now. It felt like forever since he’d last truly loved his life.

A high-pitched meow as Mr. Poops trotted up and headbutted Nadia’s leg. “See? Poops agrees.” She scooped up the fat feline and draped him across her shoulder. “Hello. Yes, I know…. Hey, mister.” Poops kept pushing his face against her ear and hair.

“All right,” Tyler said, determination in his voice. “I’ll do it. I’ll go to therapy, I’ll exercise, and I’ll work on getting better—for myself, for Mom, and for the people who matter.”

“Good,” Nadia replied, squeezing his knee before unlocking the door and pushing inside. “I’m proud of you, Ty. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. And I don’t mean your biceps or your butt.”

“Thanks, sis,” he murmured, a small smile playing on his lips. Deep down, he knew she was right—he could face all this crap and come out stronger on the other side.

He left her checking the mail.

Tyler pushed open the door to his childhood bedroom, the creaking hinge a familiar sound that turned him thirteen again. The walls needed repainting, still hidden under faded posters of his favorite football players and bands, smothering him in memories of his early gridiron glory. Big fish, small pond. Old banners from childhood championships and postcards from people he didn’t remember. He ran his fingers along the dusty trophies lining the shelves, reminders of a time when he was unstoppable on the field, when football was the only way he could save his life and his family.

Nadia wouldn’t take his money, but at least he’d paid off the mortgage on this house. The rest of his savings was more than enough to tide him over if they killed his contract.

“Wow,” Nadia said, leaning against the doorframe, cradling the cat again. “Hello, time capsule. Now I know why you’ve been keeping me out.”

“Yeah,” Tyler murmured, his hazel eyes lingering on a photo of their mother. “Feels like a lifetime ago. I’ve been tossing stuff, but then I lost interest.” Tyler had been about twelve when their dad had finally pissed off. From that moment, his poor mom had put everything into keeping the house note paid and keeping them safe.

“Get some rest,” Nadia advised softly. “We can talk more tomorrow.” She left, closing the door behind her.

Alone with his thoughts, Tyler sat down on the edge of his twin bed, the springs groaning beneath his beefy frame. His glamorous NFL career now felt like a mirage.

Guilt gnawed at him as he remembered every well-wisher, every teammate, every fan he’d let down. He clenched his fists as he laid back, the frustration building inside him like a bonfire. But beneath it all, he still felt that dim glimmer of hope—the chance to rebuild himself, maybe even find happiness again.

“Mom only wanted us to care about stuff,” he whispered to himself. “I’ve got to try, for her sake.”

But sleep eluded him as he lay in the dark, his mind racing with thoughts of his past and the uncertain future that awaited him. Restless and agitated, he finally threw off the covers and padded to the window. The night sky beckoned, stars sparkling like distant promises.

“Maybe some fresh air,” he muttered. He slipped quietly out the back door and into the cool night. He knew staying with Nadia was only enabling his inertia.

Baby steps for the biggest baby.

The soft grass whispered beneath his feet as he walked, the familiar scents of the small backyard calming him: mowed grass, his mom’s beloved gardenias, the tangled passionflowers covering the back fence. He gazed up at the stars, feeling small but maybe connected to something bigger than himself.

“All right, universe,” Tyler whispered, his breath visible in the chilly air. “I’m going to take control of this healing crap. I’ll work out, I’ll eat organic broccoli, I’ll even get counseling—whatever it takes to get back to the stuff I know how to do better than anyone.”

His decision made, determination surged through him like an electric current. He knew the road ahead would suck, but with Nadia’s support and their mother’s memory just out of sight, he was ready to get in the game.

“Here’s to getting better,” Tyler murmured, raising his gaze to the heavens once more before turning back toward the house, a newfound sense of purpose propelling him forward.

A couple minutes later, the dim glow of Tyler’s laptop lit his rough knuckles as he sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by the quiet darkness of the house. He could hear the faint ticking of an old clock on the wall, a gentle reminder that time was still moving forward, even when he felt stuck in place.

Even without having a panic attack, he used Dr. Reynolds’s three-three-three trick to anchor himself where he was. Raising his eyes, he saw three things: juice, flowers, cat. He heard three things: the hum of the fridge, the hall clock, Poops purring on the sill. He moved three things: opened the laptop, patted his chest, sat down.

“All right,” he whispered to himself, inhaling deeply. “Let’s do this.”

His oversized fingers skittered across the keyboard as he tapped out an email to a local therapist he’d found through a quick search. His hands always seemed clumsy using any kind of technology. The weight of admitting he needed help was heavy, but with each word he typed, he felt a little bit lighter.

Hi, Dr. Bailey, Tyler wrote, swallowing his pride. My name is Tyler Fantana, and I’m interested in scheduling an appointment to discuss my current issues. I don’t know if you follow football, but I’ve experienced a major health setback at the start of the season, and I’m not coping so great with the necessary adjustments.

He hesitated for a moment before adding, I want to get better, but to be honest, I don’t know how to do that without some professional help.

Before he could start messing or second-guessing, he clicked to send the email on its way. First step toward regaining some balance. His stupid heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of anxiety and hope swirling within him. He allowed himself a slight smile, proud of taking the initiative to confront his depression head-on.

Next, Tyler turned his attention to finding a place where he could begin his physical rehabilitation. He browsed through various gym websites, but he quickly realized that he couldn’t just walk into any random workout studio without drawing all the wrong kinds of attention. The locals would get weird, and once the word got loose, the paparazzi would be relentless.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “Going out in public will just make things worse.”

A small head butted his leg. Mr. Poops obviously thought a human in the kitchen meant mealtime and mandatory massage.

Tyler bent to scritch the purring cat’s ears and give him one long stroke to smooth his back and up his extravagant tail. “No way, Poops. I feed you now, I’m toast come morning.” Mr. Poops had been a feisty stray that just kept being cute until Nadia gave up and offered him room and board in exchange for being loud and adorable.

Though skeptical at first, Tyler had become a big fan. Poops spent a lot of nights curled up on the foot of his bed, for which he was deeply grateful. Some nights, just having another heartbeat close made all the difference.

Lost in thought, Tyler chewed on his lip as he tried to come up with a solution. He knew how badly he needed to regain his strength, but the thought of being hounded by photographers, their cameras capturing his every hiccup and falter, was unbearable.

“Maybe there’s a private gym somewhere,” he mused, fingers tapping restlessly on the table. “Or a trainer who can come to the house.” Mr. Poops hopped into his lap, stalked in a circle, then settled down to nap while Tyler googled and growled at the screen.

Money was no problem, but privacy was something else entirely. He continued his search for someplace close enough to use often, growing more frustrated by the minute as he scrolled through endless listings that wouldn’t suit his odd situation.

“Come on, there has to be something,” Tyler whispered to himself, determination refusing to let him give up. As he browsed, he absentmindedly stroked the dozing cat.

To be fair, he’d started his physical rehab and occupational therapy in San Diego five weeks ago, until the team’s primary PT had leaked a story and pictures of his big naked butt to TMZ for fifty grand. The pictures didn’t bug him all that much, but the “insider” gossip made him sound like a grouchy basket case with a sex addiction. The team had clamped down swiftly, but the press proceeded to lose their minds with theories and predictions based on nothing.

The Swells owners had apologized and groveled, but Tyler wasn’t having it. He’d put his foot down: no more NFL leeches, no more leaks, no more Mr. Nice Patient. Apart from cardiac oversight from Reynolds, he’d do his recovering in Cinnamar. With that much egg on their face, the Swells didn’t have much choice.

Trouble was, organizing discreet treatment and physical rehab out here in Never-Heard-of-It, California, was almost impossible.

As the first hint of dawn filtered through the curtains, Tyler’s eyes remained glued to his laptop, his fingers clattering on the keyboard to suss out a solution. He rubbed his weary eyes, but he refused to give up.

The soft creak of the kitchen door caught his attention, and Nadia shuffled in wearing her favorite fuzzy socks and yawning behind a hand. The cat hopped down to greet her with a hopeful yowl. Nadia’s gaze fell on Tyler, and she made a grim face.

“Tyler, tell me you have not been up all night flipping out,” she said, her voice tinged with worry. “You should have woken me.”

“Couldn’t rest, stay still,” he admitted, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “I been trying to figure out this workout situation. Sounds dumb, but I’m not just some guy when I go to a gym, so I need a PT clinic or a club where there’s no cameras allowed.”

“Oh. Oh shit. Yeah. I didn’t even consider—” Nadia leaned against the counter, studying him for a moment before completing the thought. “You know, there might be another option,” she said, her words slow and thoughtful. “What if you went back to our old high school and asked if you could use their gym and track after hours? It’d be private, and if paparazzi hassle the kids, the sheriff will throw ’em in jail.”

“Hey. Hey!” A wide grin spread across Tyler’s face. He closed the laptop, pushed it aside, and stood up from the table, his eyes wide. “Nadia, you’re a genius!” He swept her up in a bear hug that lifted her off her feet and shook her until she giggled.

“Hey, easy there, mister!” she laughed, playfully swatting at his arm. “I’m just trying to help.”

“So you did,” he assured her, setting her down gently. “This may be exactly what I need. Thank you.” For the first time in months, he felt right about something. Confident. Baby steps.

“Hey, no problem.” Nadia smiled wide. Mr. Poops made a plaintive, pitiful sound at her shins. “Now, how about some breakfast, huh? You look like you could use some fuel.”

“Deal,” Tyler agreed. “As a reward for your brilliant idea, I’m making you a huge spread. Flapjacks, eggs, bacon, the works!” Even that felt like a step. Getting off his ass. Participating in the world.

Nadia laughed. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Tyler insisted, already gathering necessaries from the fridge, pantry, and cabinets. “It’s the least I can do. And I’ll even clean up when we’re done!”

“Wow, and next thing pigs fly,” Nadia teased, her laughter filling the kitchen. “I need to feed Mr. Poops.”

As Tyler bumped around the kitchen, he couldn’t help but feel grateful for his sister’s unwavering support. Her offhanded suggestion had given him something to strive for, a concrete goal that could help him take back control of his life.

“How about this?” Nadia broke through Tyler’s thoughts by rattling the canister of cat food like a maraca. “Maybe you should stop by the school this morning and see if it’s possible. No time like the present, right?”

“Right.” Tyler nodded, flipping pancakes with a casual dexterity that surprised even him. For the first time in a long while, he felt motivated. “I will. Right after breakfast.”

“Mom would be really happy to see you being so brave, getting back up,” Nadia said gently, as if reading his mind. “She only wanted you to be happy, Ty. However you make that happen.”

“First, though,” he added with a grin, “I got to get my ass back to high school.”