Page 11 of The Rules We Broke
Why couldn’t I get Brady Jackson out of my head? More importantly—why couldn’t I get him out of my heart? I was twenty-seven years old for crying out loud. A successful author. I’d toured the country, traveled the world. I’d dated men who were polished, wealthy, and charming. But none of them—not a single one—made me feel the way Brady had.
And that? That stung.
It seemed wrong—unfair even—that the only time I’d ever truly fallen in love was at sixteen. What do sixteen-year-olds know about love? Clearly, not enough. Or maybe just not better.
The highway was mocking me. How many stupid billboards did the University of Alabama need? Seriously. I needed to stay focused on my aunt, but my mind kept drifting back to the past, to my senior year in college.
That was the worst year. Brady’s name was everywhere. Alabama was having an incredible year. They were undefeated. Brady had broken all kinds of records, and unfortunately Auburn was having a very off season. Everyone thought Brady would, hands-down, be the next Heisman Trophy Winner, and the number one draft pick for the NFL the following year.
His girlfriend, Miss Alabama, was making headlines too. And—if I’m being honest—I took a little, okay a lot, of joy in why.
I’d always known Amber wasn’t the brightest bulb, but I figured Brady’s momma had coached her enough to fake it through the Miss America pageant. Apparently not.
She wasn’t even asked a hard question:“Why are you proud to be an American?”
Her answer?
“I don’t know if I’m proud to be an American, because, you know, it’s kind of a sin to be proud. But I’m super happy that I’m American, because if not, I wouldn’t get to be in this pageant, which is like, the greatest thing that has ever happened to me. Oh, and I just love the colors red, white, and blue.”
I nearly drove off the road from secondhand embarrassment. It wasn’t gracious of me, but it was honest. Somewhere, Brady’s momma was still losing sleep over that answer—and I didn’t feel the slightest bit sorry.
The media practically crucified Amber for days. Needless to say, she didn’t win Miss America. She didn’t even make it to the finals.
But Brady came to her rescue.
Every interview, every press conference—he’d politely say things like, “She was under pressure, and “Of course she loves America.” He asked for grace on her behalf. Asked people to be kind.
It didn’t surprise me that he would stand by her. He was still the nicest guy I’d ever known. But it hurt. Because he’d chosen her over me.
Not long after, the engagement rumors started. Then came confirmation. She had a ring.
Every football game, the cameras would swing toward the Jackson box—and there she sat, glowing beside his family, flashing that diamond like it had its own fan section. She gushed to every reporter about how much she loved him, how excited she was for his NFL career, how wonderful their life together was going to be.
It was nauseating. I tried not to pay attention. But they seemed to be everywhere.
Then the Iron Bowl came. In Alabama, it was practically a sacred holiday—stores closed early, streets emptied, and every television in the state was tuned to Alabama vs. Auburn.
We all knew Auburn had little chance that year. Brady had turned Alabama’s offense into a well-oiled machine—practically untouchable.
I didn’t want to watch. But Aunt Lu expected me to watch every Auburn game. She didn’t care that Brady Jackson was playing. Sometimes, I think she never understood how in love with him I’d been. Or maybe she did, and this was her way of reminding me of the pain the Jacksons had caused, so I would never break the rules again.
During the third quarter, Alabama was on the fifty-yard line. It was second down. The quarterback threw a perfect spiral, and Brady caught it in stride at the forty. He turned to run. And then it happened.
A cornerback slammed into him from behind at the exact moment a linebacker collided with his front. Brady’s leg twisted in a way legs aren’t meant to twist. And then—
It snapped.
The entire stadium went silent. The bone broke straight through the skin.
Compound fracture. Gruesome. Undeniable.
The worst part? They kept replaying it. Again and again and again.
I gasped aloud, alone in my apartment. I cried as I watched his face contort in pain—hating myself for still caring.
In a matter of seconds, his NFL dreams were gone. That kind of injury doesn’t heal clean. Not enough to play professionally.
Alabama still won. But Brady lost.
