Chapter 19 POST OP
RYAN
Everything hurts. Not just in a bruised hip, cracked ego kind of way. No. This is the kind of pain that lives in your bones. That hums beneath your skin like a war drum, steady and merciless. Like I've been steamrolled by a trolley carrying twenty tons of bricks—and someone hit reverse, just to make sure I got the message.
My right side is dead weight, all thanks for the queen of painkillers, Mrs Morphine. My ribs ache. My jaw feels like I've been grinding it through concrete. I can't feel my right leg. Not really. There's this numbness around my hip, this terrifying blank space where sensation should be. I whisper a silent prayer that it's just the morphine numbing the pain and not something worse. Though, considering the absolute shitshow I've been, maybe I deserve worse.
And just like that, it breaks me again.
Like—really breaks me.
The last few weeks, I've been collecting the splintered pieces of my old self—bit by bit, like glass from a car crash—and trying to puzzle it all back together. But the pieces don't fit. They never did. The shapes are jagged, warped by pressure and time. The colours don't match. One version of me is still on the track, sprinting toward Nationals. The other is on the bathroom floor with blood on her towel and two boys screaming her name.
And just like that, I'm adding another major surgery to my medical history, getting me closer to a titanium hip before I turn 30—sexy.
I sure did make way too many sacrifices to just end up in yet another hospital bed. I skipped birthdays. Winter break. I trained until my body gave out, until my femur cracked from the inside like it was trying to scream before I did. And what did I get? Nothing.
No Olympic classification and definitely no closure to what I planned to be one helluva tracking career. The commercial worthy kinda story to tell. I want to scream until my ribs crack open and the noise rips through this sterile ceiling and sets fire to the sky. But instead of screaming, I open my eyes.
It's bright. Too bright. Everything's bleached in this nauseating white-gold light. There's a tube in my arm and beeping somewhere to my left.
And sitting in a chair that looks wildly out of place in a hospital room—
"Fynn?" I croak. My voice sounds like I gargled gravel and regret.
He looks up instantly, eyes pinning me like I've just set off a nuclear device with my face. Shit. Still in a navy suit, his tie a little loose now, jacket folded over the back of the chair like even he couldn't pretend to be casual about this.
"Hey, crippled queen," he says softly.
I groan. "That's the best you've got?"
Behind him, I feel the shift. The weight of more bodies in the room. My eyes drift—slow, blurry—and land on two more figures I absolutely did not expect.
Sean.
Andrew.
Sean's by the window, perched on the ledge like he's been trying to keep himself out of the way. His shoulders tense, legs wide, hands curled into loose fists on either side of him. He looks... wrecked. Like he didn't sleep.
Andrew's leaning against the far wall with a water cup and way too much confidence for a guy who just witnessed me practically feral on a bathroom floor. When I say their names, it's not a question—it's a groan of disbelief.
"Sean? Andrew?"
Andrew gives me a crooked smile. "Look who's alive." At the same time that Sean says. "You're awake."
I blink. "What— are you both doing here?"
Sean rubs the back of his neck, gaze dropping. But my darling brother is quick to intercept any conversation to be had between myself and the two hockey players crowding the room.
Fynn doesn't move, though, and neither do the other two idiots still cluttering my room. "Off you go," he repeats, sharper this time, but neither Sean nor Andrew even blink. "They both asked to stay," Fynn adds, sighing like this detail alone has shaved ten years off his life. He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, and levels me with that unblinking older-brother stare. "Unlike the rest of your circus crew. This is a hospital, Ryan. Not a tailgate."
I groan into my pillow. "You didn't have to chase them all out."
Fynn's head swivels, catching the silent standoff in the corner—the window ledge, the wall, the two boys who look like they're waiting for the bell to ring so they can finally swing at each other. His
voice drops, cool as courtroom ice.
"Don't think I forgot about you two." He jerks his chin toward the door. "This isn't your scene. She doesn't need a fan club or a pissing match while she's hooked up to an IV. Out."
Andrew pushes off the wall, opening his mouth like he's about to make some smug retort. Fynn lifts a brow, sharp enough to slice it clean off. Andrew mutters something under his breath, tosses the empty cup in the trash, and slinks out.
Sean hesitates longer. His eyes flick to mine, and for a fraction of a second, I want to tell him to stay. Fynn doesn't give me the chance.
"Now, Callahan." His tone leaves no room for interpretation.
Sean's jaw works, silent protest caught between his teeth. Then he stands, slow and stiff, and moves toward the door. The last thing I see before he disappears is the way his shoulders curve inward, like he's folding himself smaller just to leave me space.
Fynn exhales once they're gone, like clearing smoke from the room, before turning back to me. "Didn't I?" His voice sharpens, the lawyer edge creeping in. "Maybe if you'd told me about needing another surgery before it landed you on a gurney with morphine in your veins, I wouldn't be getting calls from Emma at midnight. Or Tyler Alvarez. Or half your group of friends like you're some goddamn fraternity mascot."
The sting is instant. Shame coils hot in my chest. "I didn't want to worry you."
"Newsflash," he says, tone flat. "That's my job. To worry. To know when my little sister is reckless enough to end up under anaesthesia—again."
The words land heavy. I bite the inside of my cheek until it tastes metallic. "I wasn't reckless."
"Ryan." He drops his voice, just this side of breaking. "You should know better."
The silence stretches, filled with the soft beep-beep-beep from the monitor beside me. My eyes slide shut, like maybe darkness can shield me from the burn of being seen this way.
Fynn exhales slowly, then shifts gears. "How bad was the phone call with Dad?"
I laugh, brittle and humorless. "Nuclear winter bad."
He doesn't look surprised. "And?"
"And he called me tired, which you know means not obedient to his highness's wishes and plans. He thinks I should put more effort into the second round of interviews prep—which I am—and hung up before we continued because he had to go to dinner with a client."
Fynn's jaw tightens. "Classic Tyler."
I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Doesn't matter. I had first-rounds already with Goldman and Morgan Stanley that time in NY. Guess what the big takeaway was?"
Fynn arches a brow.
"That I'm a nepo baby. Thankyouverymuch." My laugh cracks halfway out. "They basically implied I'd be fetching lattes for six months if I get the spot. Which—shocker—might be all I'm worth now."
My brother leans back, his eyes softening. He doesn't correct me about the lattes. We both know coffee runs are the rite of passage. Instead, he says, "Household banks don't ignore legacies, Ryan. You're a McKenna. Dad, me, Theo—we left a pretty solid track record for you. Rejection email or not, two phone calls and you're back on the list."
I shake my head, throat tight. "I don't want handouts."
"You want a career," he counters. "And you can handle the technicals. That's what matters."
Before I can snap back, his eyes flick mischievous. "Speaking of... walk me through how you'd value a company with negative earnings."
I groan, dragging the blanket over my head. "You're unbelievable."
"Discounted cash flow doesn't stop because you're on morphine," he teases.
"DCF assumes cash flows exist," I mutter.
"Good. She remembers." His grin is the kind only brothers can weaponize—half proud, half smug. "Now, tell me about comps. What multiples are you pulling?"
"You're evil." But I answer anyway, because it's easier than thinking about my hip, or Dad, or the two boys flanking my hospital bed like dueling storm clouds.
For a few minutes, it's almost normal—me and Fynn trading jabs over EV/EBITDA versus revenue multiples, him raising his brows every time I stumble, me flipping him off with an IV taped to my hand.
Then the door swings open.
"Ms. McKenna?" The voice is calm, measured, with the kind of authority that fills every sterile corner. Dr. Emory Smith steps in, white coat trailing, clipboard in hand. She nods toward Fynn, then the other two silent shadows in the room. "Glad to see you awake."
I straighten—or try to. Pain lances through my side.
Dr. Smith steps closer, her tone clinical but not unkind. "The procedure went well. We added pins to stabilize the femur fracture and addressed additional complications with your hip. The good news is, with proper rehab, we expect mobility to return. The recovery will be long, but we're confident in the outcome."
Pins. Hip. Recovery. Her words wash over me like water I can't catch. I grip the blanket tighter.
"Any questions?" Dr. Smith asks, gaze flicking between me and my brother.
My mouth is dry. A thousand questions crash in my head, but only one makes it out. "How long until I can run again?"
The silence stretches until it feels like another weight pressing into my ribs. Dr. Smith doesn't sugarcoat it.
"You need to reset your expectations," she says finally. "Our priority is not running. It's getting you walking without braces or crutches. One step at a time. We'll start with a structured rehab plan, focused on regaining strength, balance, and mobility. Running is... not on the horizon. Not yet."
Her words land like shrapnel. I hear them, but my chest tightens as if I've been shoved underwater, ears ringing, lungs burning. Not on the horizon.
Dr. Smith continues, merciless in her calm. "I've reviewed your scans, and frankly, the aggressive track you were on wasn't sustainable. Dr. Patel's approach had merit, but I believe we need to shift. If you'd like, I can take over your treatment plan and oversee the rehab personally. It means starting as soon as possible. No shortcuts. No ego. Just slow, methodical work. Do you understand?"
I stare at her. A part of me wants to laugh—slow, methodical work? My whole life has been speed. Speed on the track, speed in the classroom, speed in every decision I've ever made. And now she wants me to crawl.
"Yeah," I rasp, though it sounds anything but convincing.
"Good." She straightens, efficient and unshaken. "I'll work with your PT to coordinate next steps. We'll keep a close eye on the hip—pins need time to settle before we push further."
Out of the corner of my eye, Fynn clears his throat. For the last ten minutes, he's been scrolling his phone like he's waiting for the stock market to open, thumb flicking, screen lighting up his face.
I'd assumed he'd tuned most of it out.
But then he speaks. "Yes. I want you to take over. Whatever she needs, I'll authorize. Patel was too cautious—Ryan doesn't need someone to coddle her, she needs someone who'll get her results."
My head whips toward him. "You were listening?"
Fynn doesn't even look up from typing. "Of course I was listening. I multitask. You think I can run an M&A desk and not listen to two conversations at once?" He finally glances up, expression sharp. "This is important, Ryan. So yes—Dr. Smith, please take point."
Dr. Smith gives a small, approving nod, like she's just closed a deal with him instead of diagnosing my broken future. "I'll draw up the new plan and brief you both tomorrow." She gathers her clipboard, decisive, already moving toward the door.
Meanwhile, I sink further into the pillows, my chest tight. Not on the horizon. Not yet.
The beeping of the monitor fills the silence until it feels deafening.
I don't know whether to scream or thank them.