Page 5

Until your entire identity is ripped away from you in a single moment—I don’t think he or anyone could ever understand what that feels like.

I turn the shower on with more force than necessary, and for the first time since I’ve been home, I really allow myself to question why I’m here. When I left my London flat, it felt like the most logical decision at the time. I didn’t have a life outside of my team, and the longer I sat in my empty living room, the more my thoughts spiraled. But what was the point of coming back here? To be the bellboy?Knox Browning, World Rugby Men’s 15s Player of the Year and Two Time World Rugby Cup Champion at your service.

The scalding water beats over me, and I close my eyes, dropping my head. As if I’m right back in that dry blue hospital bed I see the moment my life was ripped away from me, clear as day.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”The voice of a man I’ve heard every day for the last ten years sounds alarmingly different. It’s the same heavy British accent, but I’ve neverheard it laced with so much concern. I move to sit up, but his large hand presses to my left shoulder. “Easy, KB. Relax.”

“What happened?” My throat is dryer than sandpaper.

“You took a bad hit.” No shit. “Your shoulder broke, almost tearing completely through the skin. I rode with you in the ambulance where you were in and out of consciousness for a while before you were rushed in for emergency surgery.” It sounds brutal and I’m glad I have no memory of any of it. “The doctor should be back to talk to you soon.” His eyes are heavy, pained. I briefly wonder if it’s him who’s injured and should be lying in this uncomfortable bed.

“What’s the recovery time look like?” A deep sigh escapes him, and he runs his hands over his bald head before bringing them in front of him and cracking his knuckles. The popping sound is deep and momentarily distracts me. When he’s done and still hasn’t said anything, I narrow my eyes at him.“How long?”

“You’re done, Knox.”

“For how long?” This isn’t my first injury—hell, it’s not even my first surgery, but the heaviness in his eyes is starting to concern me. “Coach.” There’s a slight nod of his head as if he’s answering the question I refuse to ask. A deep roar echoes in my ear and the beeps of the machines around me begin to accelerate. I can’t tell if the dizzying feeling around me is from the meds or what he’s saying.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No.”

“Knox, trust me, buddy?—.”

“No!” I stop him. “I’ll do the rehab and have the surgeries, you know I will. Whatever it takes.”

“I know you would. It’s not about that, Knox.”

“I’ve recovered from worse.” Nausea rises in my throat and I know it has little to do with my condition.

“When you were twenty. You’re thirty-six now.”

“I’ve still got four to six years left in me!” The machines continue to beep louder as I move again, but my body is fully drained, and I can’t even crunch myself up to sit.

“You know if there were any other way, I would find it. Unfortunately, this is how the cards fell. A career-ending injury doesn’t mean you—” I succumb to the heavy weight of my eyelids, drop my head against the flat pillow, and tune him out.

One hit. One fucking hit and I’m done. They’re just words at this point because I can’t even muster the idea of them. You’re done. The words float around until the darkness consumes me.

Taylor

A heavy boomingthumps in my head, pulling me from my coma-like sleep. I should get up and crush some ginger to get the pounding to subside.

“Taylor!”Boom. Boom. Boom.I groan, opening one eye, and the banging persists. “Taylor!”

I swallow the dry lump in my throat when I realize that voice isn’t in my head, and I curse my morning person of a best friend. With a labored groan, I slowly push myself off the couch and hobble over to the door. Camila’s fresh face greets me on the other side, holding out two homemade coffees.

“Woah, what happened to you?”

“Jo—” My throat is so dry the word scratches and doesn’t even make it out. I swallow once more and try again. “Jonas,” I manage to get out. She hands me one of the cups, and I flick the door shut behind her. I follow her to the couch, where she’s still grinning behind her cup. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Mila,” I coax her.

“Was he so sad?” she asks, unable tokeep the grin off her face. “Did he finally profess his love for you and cry and beg you to stay?”

“Yes. Actually, that’s exactly what happened, and then we went home and had filthy orgasmic sex, and we’re getting married next week, too.” I deadpan while blowing into my cup, but she doesn’t think I’m funny. Both Miles and Camila refused to believe Jonas and I could have any kind of platonic friendship. They were fully convinced something was going on between us. But all these months later, we’ve remained strictly friends.

“Okay, moving on.” She takes a sip of her drink while looking around the room. Her cup slowly falls from her lips as her breathing gets visibly shallow. I look around the once-homey space and see it through fresh eyes alongside her. The couch that we spent so many nights on, which used to be covered in patchwork quilts, is bare. The dollhouse-sized kitchen that was always littered with different-sized mason jars, holding numerous baking ingredients—and the occasional joint—is now empty. A collection of vases holding wildflowers could always be found decorating the second-hand wood dining table, but the only things sitting up there now are moving boxes. It was never a lot, but at the same time, it was everything to me.

“Taylor.” Her voice shakes. “You’re like,leavingleaving.”