Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
I glance at her, the sincerity in her eyes cutting through the fog of my frustration. I let myself believe her.
The next couple of days are hell.
Molly doesn’t let me push myself the way I want to, forcing me to slow down and focus on healing.
She sets up a makeshift rehab schedule, using every resource she can find online to help me work through the pain.
Molly is incredible. I don’t deserve her.
“You need to let the muscle rest,” she says, her tone firm as she wraps my arm in an ice pack for the third time today.
“I don’t have time to rest,” I snap, the frustration bubbling over.
She doesn’t flinch, her hands steady as she secures the ice pack in place. “You don’t have time not to. If you go back too soon and make it worse, you’ll be out for the whole season. Is that what you want?”
I grit my teeth, hating that she’s right. “No.”
“Then trust me,” she says, her voice softening. “We’ll get through this. You just have to let me help you.”
I don’t say anything, but I nod, the weight of her words settling over me.
Mornings start early with gentle stretches and mobility exercises that make me feel like an old man. Molly stays by my side through all of it, her patience endless even when I snap at her out of frustration.
“You’re doing great,” she says one morning, her voice calm as I struggle to lift a light dumbbell with my injured arm.
“Yeah, right,” I mutter, the pain sharp and unrelenting.
She kneels beside me, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. “You’re stronger than you think, Hudson. You just have to give yourself time.”
I glance at her, the softness in her eyes making my chest ache. She believes in me, even when I don’t.
By the third day, there’s a small glimmer of hope. My grip is steadier, the pain more manageable, and I can handle basic movements without feeling like my arm is being stabbed with a knife dipped in acid.
“You’re getting there,” Molly says as I practice stickhandling with a ball in the living room.
“Barely,” I mutter, but the words feel less bitter now.
She smiles, leaning against the wall. “You’re stubborn, but it’s working in your favor for once.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Don’t get used to it.”
Her laugh is soft, and for a moment, the tension between us fades.
That night, as we sit outside watching the stars, I find myself thinking about how much she’s done for me.
She didn’t have to stay or put up with my temper or my endless frustration.
But she’s here, fighting for me when I can’t fight for myself.
“I don’t deserve you,” I say quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
She glances at me, her brow furrowing. “What are you talking about?”
“All of this,” I say, gesturing vaguely. “I’m a mess, Molly. And you’re still here.”
She sighs, her gaze softening. “You’re not a mess, Hudson. You’re human. And I’m here because I want to be.”
Her words hit me harder than I expected, and I can’t speak.
“Thank you,” I finally say, my voice sounding rougher than normal.
She smiles, her hand brushing against mine. “We’re a team, remember?”
I nod, my chest tightening with a feeling I’ve never felt before, something I’m not ready to name.
86
Molly
Damn, it smells good in this kitchen.
I stride inside and find Hudson’s mom standing by the stove cooking up a storm.
Onions sizzle in a pan, the bread is in the oven, and the unmistakable scent of homemade tomato sauce bubbles on the stove.
“Can I help?” It’s the same question I’ve asked every day since we’ve been here, and just like every other time, Mary doesn’t turn around, too busy sautéing. Instead, she points at whatever she wants me to do.
A cutting board with carrots already on it. Great, I can do that.
With a smile on my face, I make my way over and start chopping.
I love this.
I feel so at home here.
Which is kind of nuts.
But it’s the truth, nonetheless.
Hudson’s family farm has brought me comfort.
The pace here is slower, the expectations lighter, and for once, I feel like I can breathe.
It’s a bit brisk today, and I’m happy I packed my old letterman jacket to keep me warm. I haven’t worn it in years, but I’m thankful I did, ’cause I’m cold.
“Where’d you get that old thing?” Mary’s voice cuts through my inner rambling. I turn toward her to see her glancing over her shoulder from where she’s stirring the sauce with a peculiar look on her face.
I pause mid-slice, looking down at the jacket. “Oh, um, I’ve had it for a while,” I say casually, though my heart does a little flip.
Mary wipes her hands on a dish towel and then squints at me. “You found Hudson’s jacket?”
I blink. What is she talking about? “What do you mean, Hudson’s jacket?”