Page 6 of The Road to You
“There’s an option for surgery,” he offers, though he sounds doubtful. “We could address the adhesions causing pain, but it’s a gamble. No guarantees the recovery would be quicker, or complete.”
He speaks to me like I’m a wild animal ready to snap. “Look, considering the extent of your injuries, you’ve come a long way. A week after surgery, we didn’t even know if you’d walk again, let alone play. This wasn’t a clean sports injury. You’re lucky even to be talking about going back to the team. Don’t take that for granted. Some people don’t have that chance.”
The reprimand is sharp and necessary to drag me out of my self-pity. It’s a reminder that I’m not some entitled assholewho thinks the world owes him. But lately, this battle feels impossible. I’m drowning, and the surface keeps slipping further away, no matter how hard I fight to resurface.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marco shift uncomfortably, his chest deflating. He’s not wrong to be pissed—his job is to keep my career alive, and right now, I’m dragging us both down.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, rubbing my hand over my face. The exhaustion is crushing me.
The doctor nods. “I know it’s tough. Take the summer to heal, not just physically. Your mental state matters. The right mindset will help your body recover.”
Marco sighs, and I know what he’s thinking. He’s never believed in all this “mind over matter” bullshit, but I’m desperate enough to try anything. What the hell do I have to lose?
We leave the office in silence, our footsteps sounding loud in the empty corridor. Marco moves with a sharp, angry pace, and I trail behind, feeling the weight of the injury in every step.
“Marco, wait!” I grab his arm, spinning him to face me.
He jerks away. “Shut up, Michele. You’ve fucked this up, and I need to walk away before I say something I’ll regret.”
“Are you serious?” My frustration flares hot in my chest. “What, you’re never going to talk to me again? Grow up.”
His eyes flash with anger. “Your contract expired two weeks ago. They aren’t even pretending to negotiate. They’re stalling, waiting for another team to take a chance on you. They won the championship without you. You were out for half of the fucking season. Why would they pay for a player who might never be the same again?”
His words hit like a punch to the gut. For months, he’s been my lifeline, the voice of optimism when all I saw was darkness. Was it all a lie?
“I’ve been with them since I was twenty. A decade, Marco. That has to count for something.”
He shakes his head. “This is business. And right now, you’re a liability.”
I open my mouth, but the truth is a cold, hard weight in my chest. The management’s calls dried up months ago. When they did call, it wasn’t about me, it was about my timeline, my usefulness. Only my teammates still check in regularly. Real friends who saw me as more than a jersey and a paycheck.
Marco’s face hardens. He spins on his heel and walks away without another word.
This time, I let him go.
I walk outof the clinic, but instead of heading straight to my car and driving home, I take a detour. My feet carry me around the block to the little bar that’s become my refuge over the last six months. Franco and his crew have seen it all. Cup after cup of coffee, they watched me as I went from a wheelchair to crutches, and finally, to standing on my own two feet.
They never ask too many questions. Never pry for the gory details of my injury or push for a story to sell to the tabloids. When the paparazzi got too aggressive, Franco himself would push them out the door, armed with nothing but a broom and a dirty dish towel. He treated me like a guy who needed coffee, not a celebrity trying to hold his life together.
I’m not naive. I know I’m a big deal. I’m one of the top football players of my generation, and I have been with the best team in the league for a decade. I’m practically a rockstar in this country. Privacy isn’t part of the deal. I can’t expect to be left alone, but here, at least, I get a little bit of quiet.
“Hey, Michele! How are you doing?” Franco’s cheerful voice pulls me out of my thoughts as I approach the tables outside the bar.
I force a grin. “I can’t complain.” I’m still walking, right? I’m lucky. “What about you?”
“Counting the days until I can finally retire.” He chuckles, clearing a tiny espresso cup from a nearby table.
“What will I do when you’re not here to make my fabulous espresso?” I tease.
He’s been here forever. Took over this bar in the nineties and hasn’t stopped since. Six in the morning until close, seven days a week, except for the two weeks in August when he and his wife head to Rimini. Same hotel, same beach umbrella, same first two weeks of the month. It’s practically tradition.
“Not my problem.” He nods toward the younger guy behind the counter, already crafting cappuccinos with the precision of a surgeon. “You’ll be just fine.”
I chuckle and step inside and breathe in the scent of freshly ground coffee. A genuine smile spreads across my face. But as I approach the counter, a blonde whirlwind with a messy bun spins around, and before I can react, hot cappuccino cascades down my T-shirt.
“Shit!” The burn is immediate and almost painful. My first instinct is to yank my shirt off, but instead, I grab the fabric between my fingers, holding it away from my skin. The cup clatters to the floor, leaving a trail of milk and foam splattered everywhere.
I’m two seconds away from cursing this clumsy idiot when a soft, breathy voice whispers, “I’m so sorry.” The words drip with an English accent, so sweet it catches me off guard. Wait, they are actually spoken in English.
