CHAPTER1
Jude
“Six months. That’s an estimate.”
The words weren’t sinking in. I kept looking over at one of my surgeon’s computers where something on the screen was flashing.
“I’m sorry, I’m finding it hard to focus with the screen. Would you mind turning it off?” I made eye contact with him, the request easier to make than it would’ve been even six months ago.
“Of course.” He stood up with ease that made me jealous and went to the computer, flicking off the screen. “The surgery went well, Jude. It probably couldn’t have gone better. You’ve kept your boot on and I guess in a couple of weeks it may be able to come off. I’m estimating your rehab taking six months from now – this is if you follow the programmes that are given to you and don’t try to rush things.”
I nodded, gulping on nothing. I knew this was good news. I knew the injury I’d sustained after a bad tackle at the end of the season could’ve ended my career. I knew I was lucky that it hadn’t.
The best season of my career so far had been brought to a painful end in the eighty-nineth minute of the Champions League Cup Final, a game which we lost on penalties. I’d been given a worldy of a pass from Rowan Reeves, blindsiding the opposition’s defence and allowing me to sprint towards their goalkeeper. He’d come out of his box and tackled me.
Badly.
His feet never contacted the ball, only my legs. I heard the pop as I went down and knew before the team’s physio had run onto the pitch that it was my Achilles.
The keeper was sent off. Rowan took the penalty given for the foul on me and converted it, saving us from a loss and taking us into extra time.
No one else scored, our opponents putting everything into their defence, so we went to penalties.
Losing on penalties was the hardest, most heart-breaking way to go. Not being able to be there was even worse.
“Six months. So I could be playing by January?” That was still too long away, but a lot better than then worst-case scenario.
Mr Devonshire nodded. “January. But you have to rehab it properly. Not like when you had the hamstring injury.”
I didn’t bother arguing. That was two years ago and I’d believed my own hype, thinking I was God. Luckily, it was an end of season injury, only not sustained when playing football. I’d slipped by a pool on holiday when I’d been acting like a complete dick. I’d thought I knew better how to rehab it. That I’d recover quicker than what any of the specialists said, because I was Jude Whittingham, current god of England’s top league, and son of a footballing legend.
Spoiler: I didn’t recover quicker. I added on an extra two weeks which didn’t help anyone and pissed off more people than I cared to remember, including Guy, the team’s manager.
“This won’t be a repeat of that. What does that include then?” I knew that before this appointment there would’ve been a meeting with the team’s physio, doctor, trainers, coaches, and Neva, the women who was the bane of most of our food-loving lives. She was the food police, the spoiler of all things that tasted good.
And my secret ex.
“Physio. Training. Mobility exercises. Work to support your fitness. Rest when you’re told to. Follow your diet plan. Keep off the booze and the nights out.” He tapped his desk with his pen.
The noise was distracting.
“A holiday? I was planning on going to Florida.”
Maybe, but not this summer. The work you do from now on is going to be crucial. Walking round theme parks is definitely not on your programme. A week by a pool in France or Italy – that I’d sign off on.”
“Good to know.” No Mickey Mouse this year.
I loved theme parks and Disney was my favourite. The size, colours, sounds and busyness fed my brain, the familiarity safe. We’d gone to Disney every year when I was a kid; me, my parents, sometimes one of my dad’s teammates and their kids. It was where we were just a normal family and not the family of a footballing legend.
Mr Devonshire gave me a single nod. “We’ll scan again in two weeks. Then hopefully, if it carries on healing well, the boot will be off and you can get started.”
It was the best news I could’ve been given, given the circumstances. I just needed to acquire some patience for the next couple of weeks.
“Jude, I know you struggle to stay still and you find it hard to deal with boredom. Look at what you can do; find a new skill to perfect or book somewhere relaxing where you can stay off your feet - ”
I remembered that Nate Morris and his wife Amber were headed to France with their kids for a holiday, staying in a chateau that had its own vineyard. Amber was also one of the team’s physios, and probably the person who’d oversee my rehab. “That France trip? If I was to go with Nate and Amber would you sign it off?”
The nod was enthusiastic this time. “No driving. No swimming. Minimal walking because I don’t want you to fall. Watch your diet. You need to do everything you can to heal quickly. I can give Amber a program to oversee so everything else keeps moving.”
