Playbook for the Broken

The Breaking Point

Jessie's POV

The roar of the stadium swells like a wave—crashing into Jessie as he jogs onto the field, helmet under his arm, his knee already stiff beneath the tape. His mask is flawless: wide smile, chin up, laser-focused. A few camera flashes catch the gleam of sweat already dotting his brow.

Scouts are watching.
Dad is watching.
Everyone wants a show.

He gives them one. His warm-up passes slice through the air like nothing's wrong. But the truth pulses in his leg like a siren. Every pivot on the turf is a needle under his kneecap. Every fake, every drive—it hurts. It's been hurting. He's just gotten better at lying to himself than to anyone else.

First quarter—manageable. He throws clean, avoids scrambles, doesn't push the edges.
Second quarter—sloppy. A linebacker breaks through the line, slams him from the side. His body hits the ground, his knee twists, and for a second the world goes white.

He gets up like nothing happened.

On the sidelines, he sucks in air and scans the crowd—and there she is. Olivia. Clipboard in hand, brows furrowed, lips pressed tight.

She's not cheering.
She's analyzing.
Watching him like he's a ticking time bomb.

And worse—he can tell she already knows it's going to go off.

Jess turns back to the field and forces the next drive. It's uglier. He rushes a throw and barely misses an interception. On the next snap, he takes off running—more from habit than logic—and barely makes it five yards before he's yanked down.

He hears the murmurs from the crowd.

He hears his father's voice in his head: We didn't buy silence for you to fall apart.
——

The halftime buzzer blares.

Jess limps toward the medical tent, trying to look like he's not limping. He waves off two trainers who rush forward.

"I'm good," he mutters. "Just tight. Stretch it out. I'm fine."

"Bullshit," Olivia's voice cuts in, sudden and sharp.

Jess stiffens. He wasn't expecting her to be this close. Her eyes are dark, stormy, her stance defiant.

"He's compensating," she says, speaking to the head trainer. "Look at his left quad—it's overfiring. He's protecting the right knee."

The trainer shrugs. "He's cleared. Randall says let him play."

Olivia's jaw flexes. "Then Randall's going to lose him."

Jess turns, ice blooming in his chest. "What are you doing?"

She steps closer, voice low. "Trying to keep you from doing something you can't undo."

His voice flares louder than he means it to. "It's not your call. I've got it handled."

"No, you don't," Olivia hisses. "You're bleeding at the seams and everyone's pretending not to notice."

Before he can argue back, the coach yells for players to huddle up.

Jess tears his eyes away from her, but her words echo behind his ribs, all the way to the huddle.
——

The win is ugly.

By the fourth quarter, Jess is limping so hard even the announcers can't pretend anymore. He tapes himself tighter between plays, throws shorter passes, hands off more than he ever has. But they pull through. The scoreboard flashes victory.

He can barely walk off the field.

Inside the locker room, it's all shouting and backslaps and sweaty celebration—but Jess doesn't feel any of it. He tapes his knee tighter, changes fast, slips out through the back tunnel before Coach Randall can try to talk to him.

And she's there.

Waiting by the concrete wall, hair half up, dressed down in jeans and a hoodie that's way too soft to be angry in—but her arms are crossed, and her jaw is locked.

"If you're here to gloat, don't," Jess mutters.

"I'm here," she says coolly, "because you're acting like you're invincible, and it's going to destroy you."

He tries to brush past her. She steps into his path.

"I'm fine."

"No," Olivia says, her voice low. "You're lying."

He scoffs. "You don't know what you're talking about."

She doesn't flinch. "I know you're hurt. And I know this isn't the first time you've done this."
Beat.
"I know about the shoulder."

Jess goes still. The air shifts. Rain threatens above them, silent thunder pressing on the skin.

He turns slowly. "Who told you?"

"No one had to," she says. "I paid attention."

Something behind his ribs sinks. "Then you should've reported me."

"I almost did."

They stare at each other, the tension snapping tight.

Jess's voice is hoarse. "Why didn't you?"

"Because I was hoping you'd trust me enough to tell me yourself."

That hits. Harder than any tackle he's taken tonight.

"I don't know how to do that," he says, barely above a whisper. "Let people see that part of me."

Olivia steps forward. "Start here. Start now."

For a long moment, Jess just breathes. His chest rises, falls. His knee throbs like hell, but that's not the pain that scares him. He steps forward—not kissing her, but close. Too close.

His forehead touches hers. His voice trembles: "You terrify me, Olivia."

"Good," she says. Soft. Firm.

She pulls back—not angrily, but deliberately. Grounded.

"If you want to keep doing this—hiding, pushing—you will. I won't stop you."

Her eyes shine, not from tears, but clarity.

"But I won't lie for you. I care too much for that."

Jess stares at her, everything loud in his chest.

"You care?"

She nods once. "Yeah. I do. And it's exactly why I might walk away."

Then she turns and walks off, not fast, not dramatic. Just gone.

And Jess is left in the tunnel, heart pounding, knee screaming, and more afraid than he's ever been—because for the first time in a long time, someone saw him break... and stayed anyway.

——

He won the game. But somehow, it felt like the beginning of a loss he couldn't outrun.