“Back up,” a voice growls, and vibrates right through my spine.
I look up and see Luca. He’s hurting, sweat beading on his forehead from the strain of moving without his crutches, but his eyes are like flint. He’s favoring his good leg so heavily he’spractically tilting, yet he stands between the reporters and me like a human shield.
“No comment, ladies and gents,” Luca says, his voice coolly dismissive as he shooes them away with a sharp flick of his free hand. “We have a schedule to keep. Give my wife some space and I’ll give you all an exclusive once I’m done here.”
He doesn't wait for them to respond. He pivots, tucking me under his arm and guiding me toward the auditorium doors. I can feel the hitch in his step, the sharp, rhythmic catch of a man in agony. Every stride he takes to get me away from the crowd is a gamble with his career, a literal tearing of the progress he's made.
The doors swing shut behind us; the silence of the hallway feels like a vacuum.
Luca finally lets go of me, reaching out to steady himself against the brick wall. His breathing is shallow, his face drained of color as he winces.
I look at him. For real. And in this moment, the wall I’ve been building develops a massive crack. He risked a permanent setback just to keep me from being scrutinized under those lights.
“I remembered how much you said you hated people in your business like that,” he pants.
“You are such a bloody idiot,” I whisper, my voice trembling as I reach out to catch his arm before his leg gives way.
He looks down at me, a ghost of that arrogant, Vegas smile touching his lips. “Maybe. But are you alright? Did anyone hurt you? Sports journalists can be aggressive.”
I wave him off, shaking my head. “I’m fine. How are you? How’s your leg?”
It’s his turn to wave me off. “I’m fine, mummy,” he jokes. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”
He begins to walk towards the doors and I almost forget.
“Luca?”
He pauses. Then turns. “Yes, Ms. Mysterious?”
I can’t help the smile. “Thank you.”
He shrugs. “What are fake husbands for?” Then he walks out the set of doors.
I check my watch, the glass catching the harsh overhead lights of the auditorium. Parents and children have already begun filing in, their chatter filling the room. Thankfully, due to the strict nature of medical exams and patient privacy, the security team steps in, firmly barring any cameras from following anyone inside. The heavy doors shut with a definitive thud, finally cutting off the vultures and their flashes.
Outside, the morning sun catches the hard lines of Luca’s back as he makes his way toward the field. He’s walking slowly. Without his crutches, every single step looks like a brutal battle against gravity.
I turn back to my medical supplies, a knot of cold anxiety tightening in my stomach. I just hope, for his sake, that Croix is equipped (and willing) to catch him when he inevitably falls.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Piggybacks, Pranks + Tiny Assholes
Luca
Isee him before he sees me.
Croix is standing near a pile of neon training cones with a whistle draped around his neck and a soccer ball tucked under one arm. He looks every bit the golden boy he was groomed to be. Healthy, active and fully integrated into the team we’ve been building together, while I’m currently watching from the sidelines.
It pains me to think about the life we have now. This is everything we dreamed of back in secondary school—the fame, the fans, the stadium lights. Yet, we’ve finally arrived, only to find we aren’t even in a place where we can enjoy it together. A huge part of me misses the bone-deep bond that brought us here in the first place, the kind of brotherhood that didn't need therapy or PR teams. I’ve driven myself mad trying to figure out how to get back tous,just as much as I’ve tried to get through to Aspen.
All I’ve wanted these past few weeks is to call him over, to have him sitting on my couch, arguing over video games or dissecting highlights on BSN while I heal. He’s the person I should be talking to about Aspen. He’s the one who should have been at my house every single day, breathing down my neck and pushing me to my absolute limits just to get me back on my feet.
He’s also the only person on the planet who would have laughed directly in my face when I told him I’m currently trapped in the world's most excruciatingly sexless marriage. Especially since it's with a woman we were both once madly in love with.
I wonder if he still is.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I shouldn’t answer it. I know better. But if I don't, she’ll simply keep calling until I cave. And if I still don’t, she will take to posting on Facebook to all the aunties about how her first-born child has forsaken her.
