He sniffs. “What if I can’t ever compete again? If I can’t join Team USA for the Olympics? If it’s all over now?”
“Hey, no.” I cradle his jaw with my free hand, as the other one is held tightly in his grip. “Don’t go into that spiral of negativity. You will ride again. You will be another three-time gold medalist and Olympian. But not if you don’t listen to your body.”
He grunts. “Why do you have to be right?”
I chuckle at that. “I care about you – you know that?” His expression softens, his eyes going to my lips again. “And I want to see you on your board again. I want to see you happy. But you have to be honest with me and everyone around you and, mostly,yourself.All we want is for you to be okay.”
“Okay.” He squeezes my hand. “I’ll do my best.”
And I hear it in his tone, see it in his eyes: that he’s sincere.
I stand up and he stares at me, confused. “Are you in pain right now?”
For a small moment, he doesn’t answer, his lower lip trembling. He conceals it by swiping his hand over his mouth, then nods and, with a strained voice, says, “Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Everywhere.” His tone is thickened with emotion.
He tries to look away, but I take a step between his parted legs and wrap my arms around his shoulders as gently as I can. Winding his arms around my hips and resting his forehead below my breasts, he holds me tightly, letting a tremor rush through his body.
My fingers sift through his hair that’s grown slightly since he came back, and he sighs in contentment. I massage his scalp, inwardly smiling at the thought of him finding comfort in such an idle, simple gesture. “You’ll be okay. You’re capable. You’re strong. Just let me help you.”
Diego carries the world on his shoulders, his responsibilities weigh him down, and he constantly puts everyone else above him, but he doesn’t ever let himself be taken care of. I realizethat, as he clings to me like I’m his lifeline. As a sob racks his chest. As he lets me see every piece of him.
I lean down and kiss the crown of his head. “I’ve got you. Is that okay with you?”
He nods. “Yes, please.”
“Good.” His walls are entirely lowered, and I hope that he never lets them rise again when he’s around me. “I’m going to take you to the hospital. You need some x-rays. But no more lies and secrets, okay?”
Pulling away just enough to let me see his teary eyes, he sighs. “I promise.”
Thankfully, nothing is broken and there is no sign of concussion either.
While we waited for his x-ray results, I called my dad to let him know Diego wouldn’t be coming in until Monday, and that I’d be there for the afternoon shift. It was apparent that Diego felt unsettled at the idea of letting my dad down, but when my dad texted him to let him know that he could take the time he needed to sort things out, he’d exhaled in relief.
My dad isn’t one to ask questions either. I know he’s very fond of Diego – very protective of him for some reason unbeknownst to me. Maybe it’s because he was close to his dad before he passed away. Maybe it’s because of his connection to Wyatt Wilson. He’s promised me he would simply let Coach Wilson know that Diego is sick. No questions asked, no answers needed.
Diego’s knee is swollen. So swollen that, when he saw it, he’d muttered a quiet “fuck” before tipping his head back against the wall, slamming it a couple times, and then staying silent until the doctor came back. But, surprisingly, the tear isn’t worse than it used to be. He’s hurt himself because he didn’t warm up, and because he needs some rest.
So, that’s what the doctor told him. He needs to rest, needs to go to his physiotherapy sessions, needs to be honest and to follow the instructions without pushing himself to his limits. According to the doctor, he needs more time to recover – probably more than a few weeks, but anything’s possible if he puts his mind and body to it. This little note of encouragement has lifted his spirits.
I’m currently driving him back to his house, his hand on my thigh just because he has this need to constantly touch me, and it makes my chest tighten. His thumb brushes lazy circles on my leg while he looks out the window, silent and lost in his thoughts.
When I pull up in his driveway, I ask, “Is anyone home?”
“No.” His voice is hoarse. “Mom’s at work, so is Gabs. Val is at school.”
“Okay.”
We get out of the car, and as I open the trunk to gather his bag and board, he frowns. “What are you doing?”
He reaches for the bag I’ve slung on my shoulder, but I tap his hand away. “Let yourself be taken care of,” I say firmly.
He huffs but doesn’t fight me. He’s still slightly limping as we walk to the front door and, as he unlocks it, he turns to me. “I’m not used to having someone taking care of me.”
“I know,” I respond softly. “You’ll see – it’ll feel good.”
