“Of course. I’ve been in the boot so long I don’t remember how to walk straight.”
“Straight I’m not worried about. It’s that you can’t put down your weight.” Darren’s entire aura prepped for a hearty “I told you so.”
Stephen pressed on, walking the hundred meters to the try line, then back again.
“Steady on,” Darren said when Stephen turned round to walk it again, picking up his pace, adjusting his gait and his weight, putting more and more pressure on his healing foot.
He was feeling good. In his right state of mind.
“I might forgo the walking boot for tonight’s premier. Wear a real shoe.”
“Then I’m taping your ankle before we leave the training room.”
Stephen laughed and attempted a soft side step, popping Darren on the arm. The physio shook his head, grinning. “You’re overestimating yourself, Stephen.”
“Ha-ha. I’m merely revving up.” The wind cruised over the field as the edge of sunlight peeked over the top of the stadium. Stephen broke into a small jog.
“Stephen, please—” Darren ran round in front of him. “If you want to stretch your mobility, let’s go to the physio room.”
“One minute.” Stephen visualized each step, placing his foot squarely on the ground, breathing steady, willing away twinges and pain.
He added a bit of speed, landing solid on each foot, right, left, right . . . His left ankle gave way, dropping Stephen to the ground. He rolled with pain, moaning from his core.
“How bad is the pain?” Darren anchored his shoulder under Stephen’s and hoisted him up so he balanced on his good foot. “Let’s get to the physio room.”
“Don’t say it.”
“That I told you?”
“There, you said it anyway.” So the sum of Stephen’s fears was realized. He was not healing quickly enough, and at thirty-one, injury could sound the death toll for an athlete. If he didn’t heal soon, his career would be overrun by a younger, more agile and athletic, healthy Number 14. And he’d be left with his haunting nightmares and a secret annulment.
“Off we go to an ice bath and a tight wrap. And let this be the last of such training sessions.”
He was losing. On all sides. His career, his health, his purpose. Even his so-called marriage. If Stephen gave any consideration to the divine, such as an all-knowing, all-seeing God, he might bow a knee and ask for guidance.
But he’d seen God’s answer to pleas for mercy that evening in Torkham, when his mates lay moaning in their own pool of blood. Then each one, to the man, died.
He didn’t understand that God. Where was the God of love and goodness? And if he truly existed, how could Stephen expectthatGod give him any more than he had?
His very life and breath.
In the warm ambient lights of her room, ribbons of twilight floating past her window, Corina readied for the premier, wearing a second gown she’d purchased in the fashion district from the Melinda House shop.
The Versace from home remained in the wardrobe. She was starting over. Starting new.
The coral sheath gown flared at her knees into a small train. The beaded bodice was designed with a scalloped neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves.
A final check in the mirror and Corina was satisfied. Delighted, really. She felt internally quiet yet excited. Beautiful. Exactly how an elegant gown should make a girl feel.
The saleswoman had gasped when Corina walked into the showroom wearing the gown and stepped up on the pedestal. The recessed lighting cascaded over her, igniting the gold beads and white sequins embedded in the dress.
“It’s even more stunning than we imagined,” the woman had said, her hand at the base of her throat. “It seems as if it was made for you.”
Made for you . . .Words she’d pledged to Stephen on their wedding night. I was made for you. I know it.
A flurry of jitters batted around her ribs. He’d be here soon. Stephen texted confirmation this morning that he’d arrive to pick her up at seven o’clock.
“Corina?” Adelaide’s voice came through the door along with a gentle knock. “Be you needing some help?”
