“I’m retiring,” Blake repeated, louder this time. “The match is over.”
He turned and walked back to his bench, shoving his rackets into his bag with frantic, uncoordinated movements.
The crowd began to murmur, a wave of confusion rippling through the stadium. Doug was on his feet in the player box, leaning over the railing.
“Blake! What are you doing?” Doug shouted over the noise.
Blake zipped the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and looked up at Doug. His face was pale, his blue eyes wide with a terror Doug had never seen before.
“It’s Andre,” Blake said, his voice breaking. “I have to go.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He turned and ran off the court, following the supervisor through the tunnel, ignoring the tournament officials, ignoring the cameras, ignoring the stunned silence of the crowd.
He was on a private jet to London within two hours, the flight arranged by his publicist, Gemma, while Blake paced the terminal in Madrid, his phone pressed to his ear, listening to Claire’s tearful voice explaining the details.
A hit and run. A concussion. Broken ribs. And his hand. His right hand.
The flight was the longest two hours of Blake’s life. He sat in the leather seat, staring out the window at the dark clouds, his hands gripping thearmrests so tightly his knuckles ached. He prayed to a God he hadn’t spoken to in years. He bargained. He pleaded.
Take my ranking. Take my career. Take whatever you want. Just let him be okay.
When the plane landed at Heathrow, a car was waiting on the tarmac. Blake ran through the rain, threw himself into the back seat, and told the driver to get to St. Thomas’ Hospital as fast as humanly possible.
He ran through the sliding glass doors of the emergency department, his tennis bag still slung over his shoulder, his clothes wrinkled and smelling of clay dust and sweat.
He found Pierre and Claire in the waiting area outside the surgical ward.
Claire looked up, her face pale and drawn, her eyes red from crying. When she saw Blake, she let out a small, broken sob and stood up.
Blake dropped his bag and caught her as she practically collapsed into his arms. He held her tightly, burying his face in her hair, his own tears finally breaking free. Pierre wrapped his thick arms around both of them, his massive frame shaking with silent emotion.
“Where is he?” Blake asked, his voice rough.
“He is in recovery,” Pierre said, his voice thick with tears. “The surgery on his hand took four hours. They had to use pins and plates to reconstruct the bones.”
“Can I see him?”
“Yes,” Claire whispered, pulling back and touching Blake’s cheek. “He is waking up. He has been asking for you.”
Blake didn’t wait. He followed the nurse down the long, sterile corridor, his heart hammering against his ribs, the smell of antiseptic and fear thick in the air.
The nurse pushed open the door to a private room.
Andre was lying in the hospital bed.
He looked incredibly small. His face was bruised and swollen, a white bandage wrapped around his forehead. An IV line was taped to the back of his left hand.
But it was his right arm that made Blake’s breath catch in his throat.
It was encased in a massive, heavy cast that extended from his fingertips all the way past his elbow, elevated on a stack of pillows.
Blake walked slowly to the side of the bed.
Andre’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and uneven. The monitor next to the bed beeped in a steady, rhythmic cadence.
Blake reached out, his hand trembling, and gently brushed a dark curl away from Andre’s bruised forehead.
Andre stirred. He opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh fluorescent light of the hospital room. It took a moment for his vision to focus, for the heavy, narcotic haze of the painkillers to clear enough for him to recognize the face hovering above him. “Blake,” Andre whispered, his voice raspy and weak.
