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PROLOGUE
Matthew
Present Day
One hundred kilos of pure muscle lands on top of me, sending a searing pain through my upper body.
Did something just pop?
“Matt? Are you OK?”
My friend and team captain, Robbie, stands above me, his large frame blocking the sun behind him, giving him an ethereal glow.
“No,” I groan, gingerly sitting up, clutching my left arm against my chest. That hurt.
“The team physio is coming over,” he tells me, concern written all over his face. I must look as bad as I feel. “Make some room, people,” he adds to the rest of the team who are gathered around me, also looking worried.
Tom—AKA the mountain of muscle who’d just landed on me, causing the thumping pain in my shoulder and the spots that are currently dancing in front of my eyes—gives me a rueful look as he leaps to his feet, no worse for wear.
“Sorry, mate,” he mumbles, running a hand through his sweaty curls.
I wave away his apology; his tackle from behind had been fair, and he hadn’t meant to make me cry out in pain.
“Are you crying?” Robbie sounds appalled.
I wipe at my cheeks, surprised to see moisture on my fingertips, wincing as I graze the newly formed bruise blooming on my cheekbone.
“Shut up,” I growl, holding my arm closer to my chest to make the pain stop. It doesn’t. It gets worse.
“Let’s get a look at what you’ve done.”
I close my eyes as the team physio and all-around good guy, John, manhandles me.
“Ouch,” I yip, my manly stoicism taking another hit. “Doc, can you give me something for the pain?”
He bites his lip and regretfully shakes his head. “No can do. We have to get you to a hospital; I think you may need scans on your shoulder.”
The collective groan from my teammates makes me wince again. They’re both worried for me and also anxious about any injury that could keep me out of next week’s game. It’s the most important match for our soccer team, the national soccer team, where I’m currently one of the leading goal-kickers. If I’m out, it will be a blow for the nation.
Not that I have an ego about these things. It’s just facts.
“Let’s get this over with.”
My manager, the ever-efficient and slightly overbearing Jordan Stokes, shepherds me to the waiting car, instructing my driver, Jerry, to take us to the nearest hospital.
“Not the normal rehab hospital?” I question, eyebrows raised at this decision.
Jordan shakes his head, looking more annoyed than concerned. “We need to get this looked at ASAP.”
I lean back and rest my thumping head. It makes sense to get it sorted as quickly as we can, I just hate the thought of not seeing my usual team doctor. The one who will know just how impactful this injury may be.
“Matt, we’re here.”
Here is Central Melbourne Hospital, one of the busiest trauma centres in the city, and I sigh internally when I see the press pack already gathered in the ambulance waiting bay.
“Seriously? They’re here? Can I not even get injured in peace?”
“You’re a big deal, Matthew. Whether you like it or not. What you do, say, wear is of interest to the entire nation. You think that getting injured just before this match isn’t going to make the evening news?”
