One to Love. Michelle Monkou
his face dry. It didn’t really help when his skin sprouted another layer of perspiration.
“Good. You did good.” Olivier, his trainer, clapped his shoulder.
Jesse nodded. He kept his doubt to himself. Recovering from a cracked pelvis and lower back injury felt like scaling a sheer rock face with his legs tied. The last thing he wanted this morning was a chipper lecture about his future. Finally, he stood and extricated himself from the machine. A groan of bitter frustration escaped. “Thanks for coming to my side of the world.”
“Yeah, well, three days with you are more than enough. I’ll be heading back to Madrid tomorrow. Scouts are presenting their reports to management. Otherwise, I’d stick around to make your life miserable. Make sure you’re keeping up with your strength exercises.”
Jesse nodded. “Don’t worry. They work me hard here. Not quite at your kick-butt level, but they don’t mind seeing me walking, instead of crawling, out of the gym.” He hated to see his friend leave. It was good to see a familiar face, even if Olivier didn’t let up one inch on the workout.
“I’m hoping that you’d changed your mind.” The older man didn’t bother to look up from his task. He sprayed the length of the seat and handgrips with antibacterial cleanser and wiped off the surfaces.
“You and everyone else.” Jesse shook his head. “Can’t deal with any pressure right now.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“It’s not a debate.”
“You’re right.” Olivier held up his hands in surrender. His tone softened. “Take your time. Then come back better than new.”
Jesse didn’t respond. The last time he opened his mouth about his future, he’d announced his retirement from professional soccer at twenty-nine years old. Walking away from the game had sent an earthquake-size ripple through the league. The frenzied media still stirred like rabid dogs at any possibility of his comeback, although he had barely six months of physical therapy under his belt. On everyone’s breath was his place on next year’s World Cup team.
“We all care about you.”
Jesse shrugged, which was his favorite gesture to get anyone off his back.
Olivier motioned toward the exercise mat. Time for the dreaded stretches. Another fifteen minutes of agony. “Ease into it.” His trainer gently coaxed Jesse to hold the position until his stubborn muscles improved their range of motion.
If the pain and stiffness could be colors, the torture would be dark bloodred and stark winter white. That’s what he saw with his eyes squeezed shut, jaws clenched, while he was concentrating on not shouting out in pain.
Screaming or cussing, either option didn’t matter. Both had their place in his recovery. Bad luck had screwed him royally with a freak collision by a defender as he gunned it to the goal. For his trouble, the human bulldozer scooped him up, carried him for several feet and dumped him facedown with a crushing cleat imprint on his hip for good measure.
Most didn’t have to experience a body-numbing injury. Its suddenness felt like the quick snap of a light switch. Nor did most have to deal with panic that rushed through the body with the power of a flash flood. In its wake were thick layers of fear—could he walk? Could he finish the game? When his gaze had slid away from the concerned faces, and their voices had faded, he stared upward at the sky in all its brightness with one pressing thought—his career was over.
After the surgery, his fears continued to press on him, but they were his to keep, deal with and to hide from prying minds of the analysts, his agent, the team and those behind the moneymaking decisions. It was better for him to toss out retirement as an option before they tossed him aside in a trade or to a lower division, for not meeting expectations of his contract. Although his body shifted into high gear with its healing, Jesse still didn’t retract comments about his retirement. Something held him back.
“Have you been following up with the doctors?” Olivier turned attention to the other side of Jesse’s body.
“They recommend another round of surgery, depending on how well I complete the physical,” Jesse shared.
“You’re sounding doubtful, son.”
Jesse shrugged. “All the tinkering is not going to put me back together again.”
“You don’t know that. Leave it to the experts.”
“That’s just the thing. I’m tired of the experts.”
“You’ll be one hundred percent. With the physical rehab, you’ll be the powerhouse that you are.”
“Were.”
Olivier’s frown ascended his face and settled in the narrow space between his thick eyebrows. “Cut the pity party, Jesse. You were known as a raging bull on that field. Players saw you coming and hoped they’d live to see another day. You can maneuver a path to the goal with the precision of a shark. It’s what you were born to do.”
“Now you sound like my father.” Jesse pushed Olivier’s hand away from his sore hip. Not that he was in extreme pain, but the site of his shattered bones was his personal demon that haunted him. He could barely look at the long scars, much less touch them.
“Talk to someone. Get the anger out. It’s easy for your thoughts to be scrambled. That was a major shake-up.”
“So now you want me to talk to a shrink. I know what I want...”
“To quit? Walk away? I’m not accepting your retirement. No one is, actually.” Olivier stood over him, open frustration evident in his thin lips clenched together. “You have enough time to get ready for the World Cup.”
“World Cup?” Jesse snorted. If this was any other moment, he would spring to his feet and walk away. “I’m done. I’m not having second thoughts. And now with soccer out of my life, I’ve got nothing to show for it.”
“You have money, trophies. Fans adore you. Women want to...”
“Enough.” Jesse wanted no reminders about his carefree, have-it-all mentality. Only supermodels and hot, sexy A-list actresses interested him. Used to. They never lasted long enough as his girlfriend to cause drama. His blunt attitude nipped that in the bud, but did little to shake off the determined ones.
Flashbacks of his behavior sickened him. A lot of things sickened him. Anger and sadness rotated their position in his head and heart. Recuperating for weeks in a body cast had drawn back the blinds and let the brutal reality shine in because, straight up, no one—sportscasters, any talking head expert on the sport, and fantasy-soccer aficionados—gave a damn about him now.
“You’re down, but temporarily. I get how frustrating it all feels. I’ve been working with athletes for twenty years. Trust me. This will pass.” Olivier lowered his hand to help him. The thick, bushy eyebrows twitched over his eyes, which regarded his client piercingly.
Jesse wanted to slap away the hand. He didn’t want any help. Or pity. Or comfort. He wanted to be alone without his usual flashy trappings. But even that, he couldn’t do. With nowhere else to retreat, he’d stepped back in time with his return to his hometown. At the end of the day, all he had was family. His parents were willing to offer him more than a helping hand, while he rehabilitated. They offered sanctuary until the speculation about his injury died down a bit. The supportive shoulder wasn’t quite his brother’s—Diego’s—style. Well, Mr. Ivy League could get in line with those who gloated over soccer’s “show pony” hitting rock bottom—a six-month tumultuous downward slide.
“Are we good?”
“Yeah.” Jesse swallowed his pride and allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet. He couldn’t be angry with Olivier. The man had become more like a substitute father and mentor when Jesse first crossed the hallowed ground of soccer by becoming a professional player with the youth soccer academy at seventeen years old.
They