Two hours, several X-rays, pokings, and an extra CT “to be on the safe side” later, I clambered back to the wheel of the silver car. My companion on the way back was the vague promise that physiotherapy sessions four times a week with their highly-priced, world-renowned professionals would get me “closer to a satisfactory level where we could start considering long-term recovery options.”
“Too many words. World Cup next year, will I make it?”
“We can’t promise that,” the doctor said.
So why the fuck am I paying you shit tons of money?
At least my limp was almost gone, and he said I could take the brace off.
Crashing for two hours of sleep in the late afternoon was something I rarely allowed myself. My schedule was always crammed with training, matches, team events, team preparations, physical therapy, PR photoshoots, charity and sponsor events, hospitality matches, product launchings, fans meet & greet gatherings, interviews, and more. Being anIt Boywas a lot of work.
But now I woke up refreshed, ready for coffee and for compartmentalizing the verdict I had received earlier.
I took a shower and went downstairs.
Passing by Walter’s door, I heardThe Viewblaring again. Either he had short-term memory loss, or he just really needed to hear the same arguments twice a day, because he was already watching it when I left this morning. He must have taken out his hearing aid this time. Thank God for the thick walls keeping the noise contained.
I was heading to the kitchen when I spotted Rio on the couch, her back to me, completely absorbed in her phone. Before I could say hi, I caught a glimpse of what had her so enthralled.
A ripped guy in a gym was ... not demonstrating proper foam rolling technique so much as giving an X-rated lesson in his pretty impressive bedroom mobility. The video looped on repeat and I had a full view of it as Rio’s hair was tied up, soft brown strands escaping the ponytail and resting on her exposed nape.
“Hi,” I said from behind her.
Rio practically leaped off the couch, spinning around. “Hi!” She sounded breathless. “I didn’t think you were up, or home, or ... Hi!”
The music from the video kept playing, over and over. Her face went pale. Then red, matching her shirt.
“This looks like the kind of physical therapy I’m about to start,” I said, nodding toward the phone she was now clutching behind her back like evidence at a crime scene.
With crimson cheeks, she yanked the phone in front of her and slammed the screen off. “I hope Walter’s TV and my... phone didn’t wake you.” She peeked at me, then cast a glance at the now-dark screen.
“No, you’re good. It was time for me to wake up.”
“It’s just a funny video a friend sent me.” She raised her gaze back to me with a casual smile.
“Good friend. I’d be riveted too.” Iwasriveted. By the fact that Rio had been so into this video—and the vivid mental image it sparked. One that involvedherbeneath me, once upon a time.
Maybe the same image crossed her mind, too, because while she was still smiling, she picked at the phone case’s edge, her thumbnail chipping at the rubber, like she was testing its durability.
I exhaled.No. Nope. Not going there.
“Going to grab something to eat,” I said quickly, before Rio took up space she wasn’t supposed to take and that I had sworn she wouldn’t take again in my mind, my pants, and my heart. “Wanna join me? Maybe Walter too? Sync dinner time?”
“It’s almost six so I’ll go get him, he usually has dinner by six.” She was gone while still speaking and was already knocking and calling Walter’s name.
She entered the kitchen a few minutes later.
I was taking plates down from the top cabinet.
“He’ll be here as soon as his show ends,” she said.
“Thought I’d make my killer frittata.” I swiveled toward her. “Wait. Is he allowed to eat eggs?”
“As long as he’s not overdoing it.” Rio smiled then hid behind the fridge door and pulled out ingredients. Only her jeans-covered ass peeked from the thick door she kept open—I looked, of course I looked. “I’ll make a salad,” she announced, her voice muffled.
We were both busy at the two ends of the counter—she was cutting salad, and I was peeling potatoes—when she broke the silence.
“Last time you were here you switched between accents all the time. Now you don’t.”
