Settling the Score (The Summer Games #1)(80)

“Freddie!”

I turned back to see Becca running down the hall after me. She gripped my arm once she’d reached me and her gaze flitted back and forth between my eyes.

“You aren’t just toying with her, are you? Andie?”

I frowned.

“The last few days have been hell for her. She’s been so stressed about her wrist. She’s got that doctor’s appointment tomorrow; did she tell you?” I shook my head and she continued. “Yeah. They’re going to do a full MRI, and then she’s got to hope they clear her for the final game. And that’s not even half of it, Freddie. She can hardly leave our condo without people trying to take her picture or call her names. Even the girls on our team have turned on her the past few days.” I winced and she gripped my arm tighter. “I’m not blaming you, and I’m not even telling you to back off or anything. I just want to know. I want you to look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t subjecting her to slings and arrows for sport.”

She was staring up at me with such earnest desperation that three little words slipped out before I’d even fully thought them over.

“I love her.”

Her mouth dropped open. She shook her head and stuttered, “Y-you what?”

I sighed. “Becca, I love her. Tell her I stopped by, will you. Please?”

“Of course.”

I nodded and turned away.

“If it matters, Freddie,” she called out behind me. “I’m rooting for you two.”





CHAPTER FORTY-TWO


Andie




“ANDIE, THERE’S NO shame in coming home to take care of yourself. Your dad and I have been making calls, and we’ve found the best orthopedic wrist specialist in the country—Dr. Weinberg. He worked with both of the Williams sisters!”

“I’ll think about it, Mom.”

I knew it’d been a mistake to answer her call while I waited for the doctor to see me. I’d done it on purpose, assuming she’d be a good distraction from thoughts of Freddie, but now I wasn’t sure which I preferred: listening to my mom tell me to give up or losing myself in thoughts about a pregnant Caroline.

“You can fly home and Dad and I can pick you up from the airport. You can watch the final game here, with us.”

She was basically describing my worst nightmare, and she didn’t even realize it.

“Mom. I’m staying in Rio. I’m going to play in the final.”

“I don’t think that’s a smart idea, sweetie.”

I was angry at her dismissiveness, but I figured it was out of ignorance, not condescension. She’d never played soccer at an Olympic level. She thought she knew how hard I’d worked to get to where I was, but she wasn’t inside my body. Every late night practice, every extra mile, every extra rep, every single drop of sweat and blood my body had given would all be for nothing if I left Rio without playing in the final. Soccer took so much out of me. Sprains, bruises, strains—there wasn’t a part of my body soccer had left untouched.

“Mom, the doctor is coming in. I have to go.”

It was a lie, but it got her off the phone. She made me promise to call her after the appointment wrapped up, but I knew I wouldn’t.

“Ms. Foster.”

A soft knock sounded on the door behind me and I turned to look over my shoulder as the doctor strolled in. He had my chart tucked under his arm; inside it, he had my MRI scans and injury reports—everything he needed to stamp out my dreams for good.

“How are you?” he asked, glancing at me over the top of his black-framed glasses after he’d taken a seat in his leather chair.

I cradled my wrist in my lap and nodded. “It feels fine.”

“I meant how are you, overall. Your team played quite well in their last game,” he noted.

During our last appointment, he hadn’t bothered with small talk. Why was he doing it this time?

I shrugged. “I’m fine. And it wasn’t pretty, but a win is a win.”

He nodded. “Right. Well, Lisa has updated me on your physical therapy and I’ve taken a look at today’s imaging.” He motioned to my wrist. “Let’s do a quick exam and then we can continue talking.”

I’d prepared myself for this moment. I knew he’d do the same exercises he’d done during the first exam and I’d trained myself to mask every single emotion. When he pressed on my wrist and asked if it hurt, I shook my head. “No.”

“What about now?” he asked, gently rotating my wrist in a circle.

It wasn’t necessarily a lie when I told him it didn’t hurt. A week earlier, the same motion would have inspired every curse word known to man. Now, it was nothing more than a dull ache—completely manageable in my opinion.

“You understand that this appointment was set up so that I could clear you for the final in two days?”

I nodded.

“I don’t think the sprain has fully healed. You’ve told me it feels better, but the body doesn’t lie.” He pointed to my two wrists lying flat on his desk. “You can still see the swelling surrounding your wrist. It’s gone down, but it’s clear you’re still healing from the injury.”

I pulled my hands off the table tucked them beneath the desk. “So what are you saying?”