The medic sprinted over, kit already open, and dropped to the ground beside us. “Helmet intact?”
Dad’s voice was clipped, controlled. “Yes. No loss of consciousness. Cuts on the face and arms, possible shoulder impact.”
The medic’s gloved hands worked fast, checking reflexes, pupils, running through questions, I answered everything fine. My head was clear. Thank God.
I glanced down and almost gagged. Honestly, it was worse to look at than it actually felt. Nothing broken, nothing career-ending. But the mirror was going to be cruel, and the promo footage? Even worse. Of course, the bloody cameras got everything.
By the time they wheeled me into the hospital, I felt like a patchwork doll. My arms were wrapped entirely, my face stung with butterfly closures and gauze, my legs taped. But nothing broken. No concussion. Just skin.
Bobby slipped into the room, dangling a flash drive between two fingers like it might bite. “I got the footage from the cameraman. Don’t worry, we’re not using the crash for the promo. I told them to cut it out.”
“Good,” Dad muttered, shaking his head.
Bobby hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “But, uh… full disclosure, some spectators probably caught it on their phones. So don’t be shocked if a clip of you eating track ends up online. People love drama, and they don’t exactly wait for permission.”
Dad let out a groan that sounded like it had lived a long, tired life. “Fantastic.”
Bobby held up both hands as if surrendering. “Hey, on the bright side, you bounced. And in slow-mo, it actuallylooks kind of badass.” His eyes flicked to me. “The internet adores a comeback arc. Just… maybe don’t read the comments.”
I blew out a breath, half a laugh caught in it. “It’s fine. Wouldn’t be my first unflattering video on the internet.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said, grinning. “But at least this time you didn’t threaten a reporter.”
Dad shot him a look that could level concrete. Bobby cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ll send the edited reel tonight.”
Dad shook his head, still hovering, but finally his shoulders relaxed. “Well… at least training’s over. This was the last day anyway. The doctor said you’re lucky it’s mostly skin, but your muscles need time. No training for a week, just rest. Let everything settle.”
I slumped back against the pillows. “Alright then,” I said, a little too cheerfully, “If I’m officially grounded, maybe I’ll use my week off for something else.”
Dad arched a brow. “Like what? Sleep? Finally watching Netflix like a normal twenty-something?”
I grinned. “Nope. I was thinking… maybe I’ll hop over to China. Catch some live tennis.”
“China?” His mouth twitched. “Who are you watching?”
Before I could answer, Bobby piped up from the foot of the bed. “Olivia,” he said with zero hesitation.
Dad turned to me, eyes narrowing with amused suspicion. “Olivia. As in, Olivia Smythe?”
I shrugged, trying not to look guilty with my bandaged arms and taped-up face. “What? She’s one of the best players in the world. Would be insane not to watch her live while I’ve got the chance.”
Dad leaned back in his chair, still giving me that look. “Mhm. Funny. I thought you and Cassandra were a thing.”
I nearly choked. “Cassandra? No, Dad. She’s my best friend.”
He tilted his head, like he was replaying years of moments in his mind. Then he nodded slowly, his expression softening. “You’ve got my full support on Olivia. I like her. She’s the most amazing player on the WTA right now, class, grit, everything. Plus, she's gorgeous, like model-gorgeous.”
“Dad, please. Don’t make it sound like you’re applying to be president of her fan club.” I groaned, hiding half my face in my bandaged arm.
He chuckled. “What can I say? The girl’s got game. And if you’re smart, you’ll bring your A-game off the course too. Don’t overthink it, just… be you.”
I peeked at him, rolling my eyes but unable to stop my grin. “Is this what it felt like when you were chasing Mom? Chasing a tennis star across the world?
He smirked knowingly. “Exactly like that. And it worked out pretty well, didn’t it?”
I shook my head, laughing despite the sting in my cheek. My dad, the romantic strategist. Who would’ve thought?
“Alright,” he said finally, giving my hair a quick ruffle like I was still twelve. “Get some rest, champ.”
