Chapter 54
Blaze
“What… What the heck did he say?”
I mutter that shit under my breath, eyes still shut, body stiff, pretending like I’m out cold. I hear the doctor’s voice, low and clipped, but every damn word slices through the fog in my head.
Infection, my legs got that bad cos the old bastard abandoned me in the most crucial moment.
Now, I still need to do the surgery after limping all these years…
Fucking amputation? Amputation is certainly not something I want to accept ever.
My chest tightens. I don’t move. Don’t twitch. I just lay there like a goddamn corpse while my brain starts spiraling. My leg aches like hell, deep, hot, pulsing pain that’s been eating at me for weeks now. I thought I could handle it. Push through. Like always.
But hearing that? That I might lose my fucking leg?
No. No, no, no.
The memory hits me like a truck. That race. The way my bike skidded, the screaming metal, the crunch when I hit the pavement. The blood. My leg bent at a sick angle. That shit’s branded into me. I fought like hell to get back up. Lied to everyone about how bad it was. Got mocked for limping. Gritted my teeth through every fucking shift at the club. Through every damn morning after I’d wrap that leg in heat packs and meds.
But Carlo knows now.
I can hear his voice. Cold. Controlled. But I know him. He’s fucking scared. The way he talked to the doctor? That edge in his tone? That’s not anger. That’s fear. And I hate it. I hate being the reason he sounds like that. I hate that he always sees me at my worst.
I wait till the door clicks and it’s just him. I force myself to open my eyes.
It’s bright. Too fucking bright. The ceiling’s spinning a little. My throat’s dry as shit. But my eyes find him fast—Carlo. Sitting there like a damn statue. Jaw locked. Eyes on me. Or maybe through me.
“Hey,” I croak.
He jumps slightly, then leans forward.
“You awake?”
“No, I’m just having a vivid-ass coma dream,” I mutter, but my voice is hoarse, barely sarcastic. That joke doesn’t land. Nothing about this fucking moment lands.
Carlo leans in more. His hand reaches for mine.
I yank it away.
“Don’t.”
His brows pull together. “Blaze—”
“I said don’t fucking touch me.”
He backs off, both palms up, like I’m some wild animal ready to bite.
I try to sit up, but pain explodes through my leg. I hiss, suck in air through my teeth, and drop back against the pillows.
“FUCK!”
I slam my fist against the bed. The wires attached to me rattle. My head spins. My eyes blur. And before I can stop it, I’m crying. Not the quiet kind either. Fucking loud, messy, ugly-ass sobs that wrack through my chest and shake my shoulders.
I hate this. I hate crying. I hate feeling this fucking broken.
Carlo moves like he’s about to get up again.
“I said don’t,” I whisper, voice cracking.
“You’re crying, Blaze,” he says softly.
“No shit, leave the hell now, please.”
I look away, wipe at my face, but the tears keep coming. Hot and fast and angry. Like years of shit I’ve been burying just cracked open.
“I can’t do this again,” I say, voice shaking. “I can’t go through all that shit again.”
Carlo doesn’t speak. He just watches. Like he knows better than to say anything right now.
“You know how much shit I’ve eaten in this life?” I laugh bitterly. “Racing fucked up my leg. My old man died before he could pay off that loan. My mom’s health tanked. That chairman beat the hell outta me in front of everybody ‘cause I couldn’t pay the damn debt. And now this? This fucking bullshit? Again?”
He looks down, jaw tight. He remembers that day too.
“You paid it off,” I mutter. “All of it. Just like that. Like it was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing.”
“Well, it looked easy for you,” I snap. “But I still had to live in that shame. Still had to walk with that limp and pretend I was fine.”
Carlo sighs. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel small.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches between us. My chest still heaves. The pain won’t stop. My leg feels like it’s on fire. But the worst part is this fear. It’s sitting in my gut like a goddamn bomb waiting to go off.
“What if I can’t walk again?” I say.
Carlo looks at me. “Then you’ll figure it out.”
I scoff. “Yeah, real easy for you to say, Mr. Moneybags with two perfect legs and a hundred people ready to wipe your ass.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this.”
He leans back, rubs his hand over his face. “The doctor said it’s 50-50. You got a shot.”
“A shot.”
“Blaze…”
“No. I’m just some broken fuck with a dream that went to shit, and now I’m lying here, wondering if I’m gonna wake up tomorrow with one fucking leg.”
“Stop.”
I blink at him.
“Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that,” he growls. “You’re not broken. You’re not fucking useless. And if you lose the leg, then we deal with it. Together.”
I shake my head. “You say that now.”
“You think I’m gonna walk away?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
He stands up, pacing now. “You think I give a shit if you can run or not? You think that’s why I’m here?”
I stare at him.
“You think I didn’t notice that limp weeks ago? You think I didn’t see how you winced when you thought no one was looking? I stayed quiet ‘cause I didn’t want to push you. I didn’t want to be another person making you feel like shit.”
“Congratulations. You didn’t push me. And now I might lose my leg.”
He walks over, grabs the chair again, and sits.
“You scared?” he asks.
“Fuck yeah, I’m scared.”
“Good. Means you care.”
I laugh again, bitter and hollow. “I’m not some inspirational story waiting to happen. There’s no fucking silver lining to this.”
“Maybe not. But there’s still you. And as long as you’re breathing, we figure it out.”
I’m quiet.
The door opens again. The doctor walks in, holding a clipboard. He looks at both of us, then clears his throat.
“We’ve stabilized his vitals,” he says. “But we can’t delay the surgery. It needs to happen tonight.”
“Chances?” I ask, voice flat.
“Fifty-fifty. Either the infection clears, the bone takes the graft… or it doesn’t. If it doesn’t, we’re looking at long-term disability. Possibly a prosthetic.”
The air in the room drops. Everything feels muted. My ears buzz. My heart thuds.
“What do I sign?” I say after a beat.
The doctor hands me the papers. My fingers shake. I hold the pen. Carlo watches me.
“You sure?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I just sign. Fast. Messy.
“There,” I mumble. “Happy?”
No one answers.
“Now get the fuck out, all of you,” I say. “Let me breathe before they cut me open.”
Carlo hesitates.
“I said go.”
He stands. Walks to the door. Pauses. “I’m not going far.”
I nod, not looking at him.
Then he leaves.
And I just sit there. Alone. Staring at the ceiling.
Fifty-fucking-fifty.