Line Change (#1 of Boston-U Sports Romance Series)

RYAN

Fun-fucking-tastic.

If someone asked how I got here—flat on my back in a paper-thin pale blue gown, hooked to an IV, and staring at ceiling tiles like they might rearrange themselves into a way out—I'd probably say something sarcastic. Something like: "I didn't have time to stop."

But really? I knew.

I knew weeks ago.

It started as a tug. Not quite a scream, but definitely not nothing. My right hip felt like a rusty hinge every time I jogged. I told myself it was scar tissue breaking up. "Reckless," my physical therapist would've called it—if I'd actually told her. Or anyone for the matter.

Then it turned into a bite.

Sharp. Precise.

A scalpel pressed just beneath the muscle, slicing me one step at a time.

Still, I ran.

Five—Four-forty a.m. Sometimes, three thirty a.m., if the ache kept me from sleeping. The indoors stadium track always looked better under moonlight anyway. Less judgmental, at least.

For me, running has always being about control. Unusual, I know. Most people associate it with freedom, peace of mind even. Me? No. It has always been the one place where everything made sense —where inputs and outputs actually matched. You train, you bleed, you fix your pace, your diet, you get faster, jump higher. No variables. No chaos. No people screwing it up. Just breath, stride, rhythm. When I run, I shut down the whole world out the millisecond my spikes hit the line.

No family. No grief. No internships. No interviews. No fucking noise. Just me. Just motion.

And somehow, I always knew it was too good to be true, that it surely wouldn't last.

I'm not that delusional.

No one runs on this intensity forever. But I thought I'd be the one to decide when it ended. I thought I'd see it coming. Not like this. Not sprawled on a hospital bed waiting for a diagnosis I probably won't even be able to pronounce. Not for some time, at least.

I gave everything to the track since I was twelve. And I guess I just didn't expect it to take everything back. And the worst? The year barely started and I was having a pretty strong indoor season, with clear hopes to qualify for NCAA Indoor Nationals in March.

After everything—the fall, the hip surgery, months and months of limping through my own life like it was someone else's—I wasn't going to let a little bone ache ruin my shot at a Hollywood-worthy comeback.

I trained until my leg gave out mid-sprint.

I clenched my jaw and kept running.

One second, I was flying.

The next, I was face-first in the gravel, screaming like my body had just decided to quit on me.

Which brings us to now.

To this room.

To this doctor.

To the chart in his hands that might as well be a guillotine.

Dr. Patel clears his throat like he's about to tell me my dog died —and I don't even have a dog. "Ryan," he says gently, "as suspected...it's a femoral neck stress fracture. A significant one. Based on the imaging, it's likely been developing over time."

No shit, Sherlock.

I stare at him. I've heard it before. Not my first rodeo. FNSF is common amongst track athletes, and it can be recurring (my case). It worsens if the athlete keeps trying to run (which, again, me), and if untreated or worsened, can require surgery and eventually even screws or pins—ouch.

"So... what. Ice and elevation?" I'm half-kidding. Mostly not.

I save a silent prayer wishing he will agree with me and just discharge me already, but the way Dr Patel is looking at me I already know he's not about to give me good news.

His mouth tightens. "No. You'll need to be non-weight-bearing for at least six weeks. On crutches. Wheelchair for the first week. Strict rest. After that, we'll re-evaluate. But this isn't something you train through. If it displaces, we're looking at surgery, ok? Possibly screws or pins to stabilize the bone. And I'll be honest—"

That. That was the moment I stop listening.

Because I already know what he's about to say.

He's going to tell me that track might not be in my future—which I'm now fully aware of.

He's going to say something like "I pushed too hard"—which I did.

That I should've stopped. Listened. Slowed down.

He's been my orthopedics doctor for years, and yet he speaks as if he doesn't know me.

Slowing down was never an option. Not when the Olympics is—was—the goal.

The plan was to have an outstanding indoor season, followed by a stellar outdoor season that would no doubt impress Olympic scouts or qualify for a post-grad elite team.

I guess none of that is happening now.

So, what can I really say? I nod. Just once. It's the only movement I can manage without breaking down in tears.

What I really want? To bury myself in this bed and wake up from this absolutely horrendous nightmare.

"Okay," I whisper resigned. It's not. In fact, it's the furthest thing from being remotely close to okay.

My hands curl into fists under the blanket, and I feel my nails bite down my palm.

I welcome the pain.

Not because I'm angry—but because I'm empty. Like everything I've built, every blister I've bled through, every early morning and taped joint and ice bath and meal logged down to the last gram of protein... meant nothing.

Not. One. Thing.

Patel offers some paper handouts and tells me a nurse will be with me shortly.

Time stops and the buzz coming from the machines fills the void.

I don't remember seeing him leave. If he said something else or gave further instructions. All I know is that, suddenly, the room gets very, very quiet. The sounds coming from the machines humming in sync with my breathing pattern. Well, that and the burn behind my eyes that I refuse to let fall.

Because if I cry, I won't stop. And if I don't hold it together, then what the hell is left?

〰️〰️〰️

Fynn's tie is still on.

That's the first thing I notice when he walks into my hospital room, a posh dark leather briefcase in hand like he's about to lead a shareholder revolt—not check on his broken little sister.

"You didn't have to fly in," I mumble.

"Well, I kinda had to, bean. I'm your emergency contact," he replies flatly, dropping the briefcase by the chair assigned to visitors. "What was I supposed to do, let some overworked intern sign you out and pray they spelled your name right on the paperwork?"

I glare. "It's just a fracture."

"It's one serious helluva fracture, Ry. Your femur is cracked and you've been running on it like it's a Fitbit battery."

He grabs the discharge folder from the nurse's station at the corner of the room and rifles through it like it personally offends him. His jaw flexes. The same look Dad used to get before a courtroom closing. Or when he was the one set on my emergency contact. Back to when he cared.

"Jesus. We should've kept you tied to a chair after the hip surgery...Care to explain what the hell you were thinking?" he asks without looking at me. "Waking up at 4am? Running on an injury?

Lying to your PT? Ryan, what the actual—"I cut him off with a sigh. "Spare me the Ted Talk, Fynn. I already got one from Patel, alright?"

He finally meets my eyes. "Yeah? Did he remind you that you're twenty, with no Olympic trials on the calendar and a summer internship application season about to open up?"

I look away.

"You're a junior," he continues. "One more year to lock down a full-time. No one's expecting you to be Wonder Woman right now. You could actually use this—"

"—as a chance to study, prep for interviews and rest," I finish, voice flat. "Great. I'll knit a scarf and join a book club while I'm at it."

Fynn sighs and sits beside me, letting the sarcasm slide like he always does. "You don't have to be good at everything all the time, you know."

"I kinda do," I whisper, mostly to myself.

He's quiet for a beat. Then, softer, "You're not a machine, bean. And you are allowed to take time to heal."

I don't reply. Because if I do, I'll cry. And there's no fucking way I'm crying in front of Fynn in a hospital gown.

Luckily, a knock at the door saves me.

Emma pokes her head in, pre-med calm already assessing the room like a field medic. "Hey, is she cleared?"

"Signed and stamped," Fynn answers before I can.

Rae bursts in behind her holding a set of pink balloons that say: Sorry for your loss.

I blink. "Please tell me that is ironic."

"Meh," Rae's laugh is a comforting kind. "It was only two bucks, though." She shrugs her shoulders.

Emma's already shifting into action mode, grabbing the duffel bag Fynn apparently packed for me and inspecting the IV line. "Vitals look good. Bruising should be manageable. I've got ice packs back at the dorm."

Fynn watches the chaos unfold with a mixture of horror and admiration. "These the roommates?"

"Yep," I say, adjusting my crutches.

"Jesus," he mutters. "You're in good hands, bean. Maybe too good."

"I heard that," Emma says without looking at him.

"He's married," I chuckle and continue teasing my brother. "To Morgan...JP Morgan."

Fynn stands, straightens his tie again, and presses a kiss to the top of my head. "Text me when you're settled. And don't be a dumbass."

"I'll do my best."

"Or I'll have to tell Theo and Dad." He lingers one second longer than necessary—his investment banker instinct probably still reading the room for any liability—and then he's gone.

And just like that, it's Rae's circus again, poking my crutch like it's cursed. "So... do you get, like, damaged athlete parking privileges now?" she asks.

"Only if I can crutch my way into hell first."

The girls exchange a glance. And I see something in their eyes that I wish I didn't.

Pity.

I hate that. Absolutely hate that.

The Uber ride back to our south campus dorm is silent. Well, for most of it. Except maybe for the balloons hitting me in the face every time the driver hits a pothole.

Rae is already typing furiously on her phone, probably drafting a passive-aggressive email to the event organizers for their lack of seating accommodations. She mutters something about ADA compliance and friction coefficients under her breath.

Emma, seated on my other side, gently adjusts the strap of my bag so it's not digging into my shoulder. "You okay?" she asks quietly, not pushing. Her hand hovers near mine, not quite holding it, but steady enough that I feel it anyway.

I nod and flash her a smile so forced it might crack my face.

When we finally reach the Brownstones, I stare up at the three steps leading to our building's front door like they're the Mount Everest.

"Do we have a ramp?" I ask, defeated.

Emma frowns. "You know we don't".

"Then why am I not in a medically induced coma right now?"

"I can carry your bag," Rae offers. "Or your dignity. But not both."

Getting upstairs is hell.

For every step, I silently ask for Hades to accept me in his kingdom. The stairwell smells like Febreze and regret, and I feel every jostle like a knife up my thigh. The crutches dig into my palm. By the time we reach our door, I'm swearing —and sweating— like a sailor.

Our dorm is...well, it is what happens when three young women try to live in a glorified shoebox with zero boundaries and one aggressively floral glade plug-in. Emma's already pulled my mattress lower into the frame. Rae's replaced my desk chair with a pile of pillows and a folded towel that definitely used to be hers.

"Do I want to know how you got this ready so fast?" I ask.

"Your location settings are on," Emma says.

"And I stalked your discharge nurse on Instagram," Rae adds.

We love our little accommodation space, but the real kicker? The bathroom. Communal. Shared with twelve other girls on our floor. Shower stall tile that looks like it predated the Cold War. The world's smallest ledge for toiletries and nowhere to sit unless you count the floor, which I do not.

"How the hell am I supposed to shower without moving my leg?" I say, thinking about the half-mouldy curtain like it personally wronged me.

Emma offers a solution like she's been planning this since I fell. "We fill the collapsible camp chair, cut the legs, wrap them in plastic bags, and set it in the stall. I Googled it."

"You want me to shower in a plastic lawn chair."

"It's that or sponge baths."

Rae whistles. "Sexy. Very Jane Austen."

I don't say anything. Not at first. But when Rae kneels to unstrap the hospital braces and Emma quietly lines up my medications on my desk like a tiny pharmacy, something in me cracks. Just a little.

Not enough to cry, but enough to finally breathe and feel it hitch. "Thanks," I say, voice shredded.

Emma doesn't look up. "We've got you, babes."

Rae plops beside me, leans into my shoulder. "Even when you're a stubborn nightmare."

"Especially then," Emma murmurs.

I exhale.

For the first time in weeks, I let someone else hold the weight for a minute. And surprisingly? I don't think I mind it that much.

I send a prayer to thank for the existence of my roommates and how incredible they are.

It's going to be longass six weeks.