Boyfriend Cheated with Cheer Captain, I Left

The other end went dead silent, and then Evan's voice shot up.

"Lillian, are you threatening me?"

"This is publicity. A marketing strategy. Do you even understand that? We're a friendship duo. Sophia's helping me build buzz. This is the most critical time in my career, and you're pulling this crap?"

I swallowed the ache in my throat.

"Do you even remember what you promised me?"

A pause. Then a sigh, and his voice came drifting over, light as air.

"Lillian, I know. You've been waiting for me to go public with you."

"But have you ever considered what kind of damage it would do to my image if I suddenly announced some no-name girlfriend? I'd take a massive hit."

"I didn't have a choice. If you could help my career the way Sophia does, I wouldn't need to do any of this."

My knuckles whitened around the phone.

He was right about one thing: I was nobody compared to Sophia. She had the body, the face, and she'd been the most popular cheer captain in the country for years.

All I had was eight years. Eight years he now considered too embarrassing to show the world.

I let out a quiet breath.

"You're right. It was my mistake."

"So from now on, I won't stand in the way of your future, superstar."

Silence stretched on his end. Then his fury erupted.

"Lillian, do you have any idea how much pressure I'm under? I've barely gotten a foothold, and instead of supporting me, you're picking fights at every turn!"

"What happened to the girl who used to put up with everything? When did you become so unreasonable?"

He hung up. Nothing left but the flat drone of a dead line.

A sharp pain shot through my right foot. I crouched down, pressing my fingers gently against my ankle.

The dull throb pulsed over and over, a reminder that the person who used to rub the pain away was gone.

Back then, Evan wasn't some star, just a scrawny kid who kept getting hurt playing football.

Football was expensive: the gear, the travel, the injuries. Evan was always covered in bruises.

To save every penny I could, I turned down a full scholarship to a top university, scrounged together basic medical supplies, and taught myself how to treat wounds until my hands were thick with calluses. I ground my way to a medical license through sheer willpower.

In eight years, I'd stitched and bandaged every single wound on his body myself.

Then, during a game, an opponent delivered a dirty hit. Evan went down hard. His right fibula shattered.

The doctors said he'd never play again.

I rushed to the hospital. Seeing his face, empty and shattered, felt like a blade dragging across my chest.

Evan was born to stand under championship lights. His career couldn't end like this.

Without telling him, I signed the consent form to donate my own fibula.

He broke down, grabbed the form, and hurled it to the floor.

But I cupped his face in my hands and smiled.

"I'm just a regular person. I'm not the one on the field, so that bone's no use to me."

"Take it and go be a star. It'll be like you're carrying a piece of me with you."

He cried. In the end, he said nothing and went through with the surgery.

Afterward, he had his own broken bone fragment made into a bracelet and fastened it around my wrist.

"Lillian, I swear: this bone is part of me. It'll protect you for the rest of your life."

"When I make it big, I'm going to hold this hand, the one wearing this bracelet, and show the whole world that you're my girl."

I held the bracelet, still warm from his body, and smiled for a long, long time.

The transplant was a success. He was back on the field in no time, a rising star all over again.

I could still walk, still live a normal life. But every time it rained, every time I climbed stairs, the spot where the bone had been taken from sent a deep, drilling pain through my right leg.

I pulled myself back to the present and let out a slow breath.

Now that bone, along with everything I'd ever given, was useless to him.