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MY ANKLE IS FUCKED. I know it, but I don’t want to admit it-not to myself, not to them.
Dad and Cora are sitting by my hospital bed, and for once, they’re being civil. Not sniping at each other, not arguing over something pointless. Just… sitting there, waiting. And I know it’s for me.
Dad keeps checking his watch, running a hand through his already-messy hair. His knee bounces, a clear sign he’s getting impatient. “Where the hell are these doctors?” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds.
“They’re taking their time, that’s for sure,” Cora adds, arms crossed.
I exhale sharply, adjusting myself against the stiff hospital pillow. “I’m fine,” I tell them, though I don’t think either of them believe me.
Dad gives me a sharp look. “You better be. Even minor injuries can ruin a man’s football career.”
That’s the thing with him, he’s never been one for sugarcoating. Hes stressed about this and he’s making it crystal clear.
Before I can reply, the door swings open, and in walks the doctor, holding a clipboard. She gives me one of those rehearsed professional smiles before getting straight to it. “Well, Aaron, I’ve got some updates for you. First, there’s no concussion, but you might experience headaches here and there over the next few days. If they get worse, let us know.”
Dad lets out a relieved breath. “Thank God.”
“But,” the doctor continues, flipping through his notes, “you do have a Grade 2 ankle sprain.”
I stare at her. “And that means…?”
“It means you’ve torn some ligament fibres in your ankle. You’ve got swelling and instability, which means weight-bearing will be painful for the next few weeks. The average recovery time is around three to six weeks, but only if you rest and allow proper healing.”
“Three to six weeks?” I repeat, my throat tightening.
Dad sits forward, eyes narrowing. “So when can he play again?”
The doctor exhales. “That depends on how well he heals. If he pushes too hard, too fast, it could set him back even more.”
Dad’s jaw clenches. “He can still train, though, yeah?”
“No.” The doctor’s voice is firm. “No training, no matches, no unnecessary strain. He needs complete rest. Let me make this clear, if you jumped into football too fast when you haven’t fully healed, this grade 2 sprain can easily turn into a fracture, which I’m sure is something you do not want.”
Dad lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t understand. This lad’s got tournaments coming up. Scouts are watching him. You’re telling me to just-just sit back and let him waste time?”
“I’m telling you,” the doctor counters, “that if you rush this, it could end his career before it even starts.”
They go back and forth, arguing about what I can and can’t do, but I barely hear them anymore. Their voices fade into background noise as the realisation starts sinking in.
Three to six weeks.
No football
No training.
No pitch.
I can’t breathe.
This isn’t just some setback. This is real. All because of a fucking tackle. If I train too hard, jump back into football too fast, it’ll get worse. So much worse.
The doctor leaves, and Dad lets out a long sigh, rubbing his forehead. “Everything will be fine,” he mutters, but even he doesn’t sound convinced. Then, without another word, he stands and walks out, probably to take a smoke.
Cora stays behind, watching me carefully. Then she gets up and walks over. “I’m sorry, Aaron.”
I shake my head. “You don’t need to be sorry. I don’t want anyone to be sorry for me. I’m fine.”
She sighs, biting the inside of her cheek. Then, out of nowhere, she changes the subject. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you have a girlfriend.”
I blink at her. “What?”
“Don’t act dumb,” she says, raising a brow. “She’s been waiting out there for like an hour.”
My heart stutters. “Who, Cora?”
She shrugs. “Don’t ask me. She’s not my girlfriend.”
I try to get up, but Cora pushes me right back down with one hand. “Relax, big guy. I’ll go get her for you.”
She disappears, and I barely have time to process what’s happening before she walks back in—with Carmen.
It’s early as hell, but she still looks… beautiful. Her hair’s up in a bun, messy but somehow perfect, with soft curls falling around her face. She’s wearing a dark grey tracksuit that hugs her frame in all the right places, the zip of her hoodie pulled just low enough to reveal the delicate curve of her collarbone.
Cora smirks. “I’m just… gonna go to the bathroom.” And then she leaves, giving us space.
Carmen steps closer, her eyes scanning my face, and I don’t know why, but my chest tightens.
“How are you doing?” she asks softly.
I swallow, my throat dry. “I’m good.”
She raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “You are?”
“I’m going to be fine,” I mutter, more to myself than her.
She nods, like she already knew that would be my answer. “I know you will.”
I watch her carefully. “You didn’t have to come.”
She tilts her head. “You think I’d just stay home while you’re here?”
“It’s almost seven in the morning on a Saturday,” I point out. “You should be in bed.”
She steps closer, standing right beside my bed now. “I want to be here,” she says simply. “I made a promise to you, remember?”
My stomach flips. I do remember.
“I keep my promises,” she adds, and something about the way she says it—so surely—makes something inside me shift.
I stare at her, taking in every inch of her face. The way her dark eyes hold mine. The way she’s here, sitting in front of me, when she could be anywhere else.
“What?” she chuckles, a little self-conscious now.
“Nothing.” That was a lie. Because the truth is, I can’t believe she’s here. I can’t believe she cares.
She squints at me. “Has the concussion gotten to you?”
“I actually don’t have one,” I correct her.
“I think they need to check again.”
“Oh, really?”
“I mean, I’m not a doctor, but I see some symptoms.”
The way she’s teasing me, trying to lighten the mood, makes my chest ache. I don’t deserve it.
Before I can reply, the door swings open again. Dad and Cora walk in together. His eyes immediately flick to Carmen. “Who’s this?”
“Carm-“
“The coach’s daughter,” she cuts in quickly. “He just wanted me to check how his star player is doing.”
I freeze. Why did she do that?
Dad nods, satisfied. “Well, you can tell him that my boy is doing great. Aren’t ya, lad?”
I clench my jaw. “I am.”
Carmen smiles. It’s forced though. I can tell. “He’ll be happy to hear that.”
Dad nods, giving her a polite but dismissive smile. “Well, that’s very kind of you, but we’ve got some family things to discuss now.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Carmen hesitates, glancing at me, then back at him. I want to tell her she doesn’t have to go. That she should stay. But she forces another smile. “Of course.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Cora offers, shooting me a look before following her. Now, that can’t be good.
They leave, and the second the door shuts, Dad exhales. “What did you tell her?” he asks, his tone stern.
“Nothing,” I grit out. He shouldn’t have done that. Kicked her out. I’d rather have her here than him, that’s for fucking sure.
“Good,” he mutters, shaking his head. “We don’t need her saying anything bad to her dad.”
“Besides,” he adds, “you don’t need any distractions. We need to figure out a recovery plan.”
I don’t reply.
Because all I can think is, I’m so fucking done for.
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