The first person I wanted to call was Rio. But it was the middle of the night for her. Besides, I didn’t know how she’d take it. I hardly knew howIwas taking it.
“You’ll be fine. I saw the scans, and Magnus doesn’t play favorites.” Neil downed the last sip of his espresso andpushed his chair back. I’ll be there for the last thirty minutes, we can talk then. Come on, we don’t want you to be late.”
I told him I preferred driving myself, in the car he’d kept in storage while I was in the U.S., but he insisted on chauffeuring me everywhere as if I might disappear on him.
From the coffee shop near my house in Hampstead, it was a short drive to Westbridge Stadium.
The last time I was here, I left in pain—excruciating pain. Ice. A shot. A rush to the hospital. Surgery. Then hobbling in on crutches for a meeting with management that ended with a wordy, contract-covered version of ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’.
Now, the place that had once been my home looked strange and threatening. What if I didn’t last the entire session? Why not save myself the humiliation and walk away now?
Home.The word echoed, but it was nowhere near here.
I entered through the parking lot alone, duffel bag slung over my shoulder.
Inside the wide hall, painted in green and white—the club’s colors—and lined with trophies, a voice startled me from behind. “No way! Wheaton?”
I turned around to meet Dennis, our goalkeeper, the one who’d taken the Captain’s armband after I was forced to leave.
“In the flesh,” I replied, pulling him into a quick bro-hug.
“They told me that maybe ...” he trailed off. “How are you? How’s the knee?” He tilted his head down like he could diagnose it himself.
“We’ll see today.”
“Everyone’s gonna be chuffed. Come on, mate!” He clapped a hand on my nape, steering me toward the changing room.
“Look who I brought,” he announced the moment we pushed the door open.
“Owen!” and “Wheaton!” and “Oy, mate!” rang from every direction. Hands thumped my back, arms pulled me into quick hugs. “We missed you, man!” Some grinned and joked, “Fucked off to California on false pretense, yeah? Can’t blame you, bruv.”
My nervousness was now mixed with the warmth of being welcomed back to where I once belonged.
“Seventy minutes is good!” My agent shot to his feet the moment I dropped onto the bench, breath still dragging in and out of my lungs. “And stop rubbing that knee!” He swatted my hand away. “That motherfucker over there is watching.” He angled his head toward a familiar face—a sports site columnist perched in the stands, eyes locked on me like a predator waiting for weakness.
“I don’t give a fuck what he says.” I kneaded my knee anyway, feeling the strain settle in. The muscles weren’t screaming, but they weren’t quiet either.
A shadow fell over us, dulling the gray London sunlight. “Not bad, Wheaton.” Coach Alden stood in front of me, arms crossed. “Didn’t think you’d last that long.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I reached for my water bottle.
“You don’t want me to lie, do you?”
Neil offered his hand, and Alden gave it a quick shake before focusing back on me. “You kept up in the aerobic andanaerobic drills, your tactical work is as sharp as ever, and it looks like you didn’t neglect strength and conditioning in California. Lasting over an hour looks promising.”
“Disappointed?”
“On the contrary.”
My agent sat back down, looking satisfied. “That’s a good report to bring to management, Alden.”
Alden barely spared him a glance before turning back to me. “You don’t need babysitters, Wheaton. You’re doing fine on your own. Be here tomorrow. Same time. I want to see you in another session.”
I wiped a hand over my mouth, exhaling slowly as he walked off. My whole body hummed with exertion, but under the ache was something I hadn’t felt in a long time—my legs knew the work, my instincts were still sharp. Maybe I wasn’t back yet, but I wasn’t done either.
But first, they had to decide. I needed to know, one way or another.
“What do you think?” I asked my agent.
