Corina exhaled, giving him a weak smile. “We never saw any of this coming, did we? That night we took the ferry to Hessenberg.”
“I know I didn’t see a lot of things coming.”
“You know what I regret the most?” She walked through the foyer toward the front door. “You never gave us a chance. Never trusted our love.”
These blips of honesty surprised her, freed her. She could see the impact had a reverse effect on Stephen.
The expression on his beautiful face hardened, and the tenderness in his gaze faded.
“Come,” he said, ducking past her and hobbling down the portico steps. “I’ll ring for the chauffeur.”
SIXTEEN
Monday morning Stephen knelt on the edge of the pitch, removed his walking boot, and tied on his left trainer, the tip of his surgery scar peeking above his sock.
“Can I say again I’m not for this?” Darren, his physiotherapist, stood next to him, arms folded.
“You’re free to leave, if you wish.” Stephen stretched his legs, his ankles, going gingerly on his left one, then set his gaze down the length of the field.
“What? And be responsible for Brighton’s prince and star winger permanently injured? My career will be toast.”
“Then help me and stop protesting.” Stephen bounced lightly, testing his ankle strength.
“Let me protest one more time. Your ankle is still weak. You’ve no side-to-side strength.”
“Today’s test is not about sidestepping a defender, just a light walk up and down the field.”
“You can test it in the physio room.”
“But I want to be out here.” Because he needed to be in touch with some part of himself. Before the injury. Before the annulment papers. Before Corina arrived. Before her brutal honesty last night.
“You never gave us a chance. Never trusted our love.”
He inched ever closer to blurting out the whole truth. Forget national and royal security. If she knew, she’d say more than “You never gave us a chance.” She’d be the one walking away and never looking back.
Stephen had played out the scenario from all sides so many times it didn’t matter what anyone said. If he told Corina her brother died saving his life, she’d despise him.
She was right. He didn’t trust in their newlywed love. Not over her love for her brother.
“I just need to know my ankle is healing.” Stephen started down the field, the fragrance of the earth rising with each step.
“We’ve X-rays, MRI’s, and your physio sessions to tell us how you’re healing. It’s not as fast as we’d like. Remember, you’ve sprained this ankle four times.”
How could he forget? Stephen had a vivid memory of each one. The first during a crucial university test. The second in the blast. Shot him out the back of the mess tent with Bird Mitchell landing on him as a human shield, protecting him from shrapnel and debris. His leg and ankle were wrenched sideways, trapped under their weight.
The third was his first year with the Eagles. During the Premiership when he found himself on the bottom of a ruck.
Then he took care with his ankle, training faithfully, taping up before each test, watching his steps on the field.
Then last March he went down again. Freakish, really. He’d played the move over in his mind, watched team film, and nothing looked or felt out of the ordinary.
Stephen made his way down the field, trying not to wince. Darren walked alongside. “If you’re not careful, you’ll set yourself back.”
“But if I don’t challenge myself, I’ll miss the fall season.”
Corina spoke right about one thing last evening. Stephen was tired of being careful. With his life. With his heart.
“You’re limping,” Darren said.
