Page 5 of The Road to You
Time goes by in a blur of tears and sobs. My salad turns dark and soggy, and my eyes burn with the sting of too many tears.When the sobs finally subside, I’m left hollow, emptied out, as if every tear carried away a bit of sadness, leaving me with nothing inside.
But beneath the ache, something else tugs at my mind like an insistent voice I can’t ignore. An unsettling truth rises to the surface, and I can no longer push it away: in four years together, Preston and I never once talked about our future.
Not about a home together, not about marriage, not even a shared pet or a silly what-if about growing old side by side. The realization settles over me like a cold shadow. I’ve been mourning the past, not the future. Because, in truth, there was never a future to mourn.
A slow, simmering anger replaces the grief. My fingers curl around the edge of the table, and my breath steadies, each inhale feeding the flame inside me. How dare he? How dare he not only break my heart but vanish without a word, leaving me to drown in speculation and scandal while he hides behind his security and silence?
The rage grounds me. I wipe my cheeks; my skin is raw, but my resolve is taking root in my chest.
No more tears for Preston.Not one more.
If he can’t acknowledge the shitstorm he created, if he can’t even muster a single text or offer an explanation, then he isn’t worth my tears. He never was.
I push the soggy salad aside, the last remnant of my breakdown, and stand up. I am not a victim. I refuse to be.
This is my fresh start, my chance to rebuild without the weight of him holding me down. And I’m going to take it.
3
MICHELE
Pain shoots up my leg and slams into my back as Dr. Marini bends my knee. He’s the best orthopedic specialist at Italy’s top private clinic, but right now, I’d trade him for anyone who could give me a massive dose of painkillers. My teeth grind together, and my knuckles turn white as I grip the exam table’s paper-thin sheet. I’ve been here for half an hour, stripped down to my boxer briefs and a T-shirt, but it feels like days.
He’s been poking and prodding me for what the clock over the door says is thirty minutes, but it feels like that damn thing is dragging the second hand through mud. Its slow tick is taunting me, reminding me I’m still stuck in this hell of a place.
“Aren’t you supposed to ask if I’m in pain?” I manage through clenched teeth, trying to inject some humor into this horrible situation.
He doesn’t miss a beat. “I don’t need to ask,” he says, still avoiding my gaze. “Your muscles are stiff, your forehead’s shining with sweat, and your grunts are…well, not exactly subtle.” He smirks, but his eyes remain fixed on my leg.
Nobody looks me in the eye these days. They’re either hyper-focused on fixing me or too scared to deal with my less-than-charming attitude. I get it. It’s easier to look at my leg than at the mess I’ve become. They all think the same thing, they just don’t say it out loud: six months and you’re still not back? Hell, I’m not even at fifty percent of my previous shape. But hey, at least I can walk, right?
“You can sit up. We’re done.” He pats my knee like I’m a kid at the dentist, then strides back to his desk.
“How long before he can play again?” Marco’s sharp and cold voice cuts through the silence. My agent has never been known for his patience, but today, he’s barely holding it together.
I stare at the wall as I pull on my pants, my fingers clumsily fiddling with the sweatpants’ string. I don’t look at Marco or at the gruesome sight of scars on my leg. There’s nothing left to focus on except the stark, white wall.
“We can’t say for sure.” The doctor’s voice is professional but with a practiced edge of sympathy. “The bone has healed, but the muscle is taking longer to recover.”
“It’s been six fucking months,” Marco snaps, and I wince.
Dr. Marini doesn’t even flinch. His attention shifts to me, ignoring Marco completely. I’m the patient, not my agent. “The accident did a number on your leg,” he says with a steady tone. “The bone snapped in two places, tore through muscle and tissues, and nearly broke through entirely. It shredded tendons, muscles, and vessels. The surgeons did their best, but the priority was saving your leg…and your life.”
I’ve heard this speech before, but every time it feels like a fresh punch to the gut. They did what they could, but finesse wasn’t on the table. It was survival.
“Are you saying they botched the surgery?” Marco’s voice is a low growl.
“No.” The doctor’s jaw tightens. “I’m saying that if they hadn’t realized you weretheMichele Moretti, they’d have amputated. They took risks to preserve your career. Regular patients don’t get that luxury.”
An icy wave washes over me. I can still hear the crash, the metal-on-metal screech, the sharp, searing pain in my leg that faded to a chilling numbness. Flashes of light, sirens, and voices that went in and out of focus. I was drifting between reality and unconsciousness.
“What can I do to fix this?” My voice comes out hard with an edge of annoyance to cover the fear.
Dr. Marini sighs, and his expression shifts into a mix of patience and pity. “Stick to physical therapy. I’ll talk to your trainer and adjust your workload, but beyond that, it’s time and effort. You have to push through and wait.”
“That’s it?” Desperation creeps in, cracking my voice. “I just sit around and wait?”
I’m thirty years old. I should have another ten years on the field, another decade of being the best. But hope is slipping between my fingers. The future I’ve envisioned for myself is coming to a screeching halt right before my eyes.
