Sebastian has struck a nerve.
In college, I had a part-time job in the library. It paid next to nothing, but I enjoyed the freedom of my own money. As soon as I left, my father commanded I shadow my mother, just like my sisters had done before they got married.
I wanted desperately to work, find a job, and move out. But the more time I spent with my mother, the more I fell into her circle. The elite women’s crowd—never working a day in their lives because the men carried the wealth.
For the last three years, I devoted my time to foundations, raising money for charity, and for the first time in my life, moving here has opened up another side of independence. It’s the first time I have lived by myself without any hired help, but unfortunately, it is on Father’s money.
The vicious thought process sends me into a mild depression. I feel powerless in my life and don’t know where to begin or how to pull myself away from the only life I know. Sure, I’ve taken this step, but this life isn’t sustainable unless I completely break free from the Carmichael hold.
I grab my cell, needing an immediate distraction, and send Oliver a text.
Me: What’s the dress code for tonight?
There’s no response for what feels like forever. I find myself constantly checking, making sure I haven’t missed anything until I give up frustrated and ready to storm over there to demand he understands the rules of an appropriate timeframe to respond to a text.
Arrogant Aussie: I said bikini. Okay, look, if you really want, you can go topless, but it’s been a while since I’ve done the whole nude in public thing.
I couldn’t help but laugh, knowing I was encouraging him. I quickly type a message back.
Me: You being nude in public is a conversation over tequila. Quit distracting from the question.
Arrogant Aussie: Wear anything, you’ll be perfect no matter what.
I don’t respond to that text, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I decide today to hit up some retail therapy, ignoring my previous thoughts or Sebastian’s presumptions. So what, it’s not like my father’s short of money?
With my purse in hand, I grab my car keys and head off to Beverly Hills. If I have to wear a bikini, assuming the date involves water, I will do so in style.
Then it dawns on me that I have used the word ‘date’ in my mind several times. Each time I think about it, guilt rears its ugly head. It becomes a vicious cycle, one I have no idea how to break. But then I think about my conversation with Sebastian and how cold and distant he felt.
And our pact to have a break.
We both agreed one month apart.
And I, so easily, had rejected his proposal and ring, refusing to commit just yet.
I’m not breaking the rules.
I will have a little fun.
Fun never hurt anyone. Unless, of course, you’re starting to fall for the one man you can’t stop thinking about.
Oliver
I had all day to kill, desperately watching the time until I could pick Gabriella up.
Each minute passed, slowly, and painfully, a gentle reminder that for the first time in my life, something else has stolen my focus besides soccer.
After a long shower trying to cure the ache down below which only got worse after our run, I see her text on the screen of my phone.
It’s typical Gabriella to be so curious and impatient, something I have learned about her over the past few days. The more time I spend with her, the more she begins to unravel.
Chance knows I am anxious, and despite our earlier run, he suggests we go train and hit the gym afterward.
We grab a ball, hitting a close-by field where we practice shots. Neither one of us is fit to play professionally anymore, but it doesn’t mean it leaves your blood. Soccer is instilled in me. You live it, you breathe it, and without it, the struggle can easily become life-threatening.
“I keep telling you, mate, we could use a trainer like you. You’re as disciplined as you can get, which would be very beneficial to some of those kids.”
Chance has been working with some kids on scholarships at UCLA. Between coaching, toying around with recycled art, plus also being a father, he seems content, a far cry from where I am in my life.
I’ve been offered other opportunities, similar to Chance, but he’s a born teacher and has patience for kids. He once told me that his stint in jail made him realign his priorities. For him, there was no changing the fact that his torn ACL hindered his professional capabilities. It took him a lot of soul searching, plus reuniting with Aubrey and starting a family, to realize all hope was not lost. He still follows his passion, just in a different lane.
I am not Chance Bateman.
The yearn to play is still fresh inside of me. It consumes me when I wake, follows me throughout the day, and when I lay in bed each night, I imagine being back on the field, the roaring crowd surrounding me, the ball at my feet.
Ma and Pa always ingrained the importance of fighting until the very end, Pa especially. When he was a teen, he was this close to playing professional rugby. But a small injury, and a father who pushed him into the farming business, saw him give up his dream.
From a very early age, he encouraged me to follow what my heart yearned for. He told me he would support me, give me all the tools I needed, and not once has he ever not stayed true to his word.
My parents often called me stubborn and arrogant, but I knew I was born to play soccer. I just needed to find a way to repair the damage to my body, so I could get the all-clear to play again.
The ball bounces near my foot, a fierce kick and its gone mid-left.
Fuck.
My game is incredibly off.
“I’m waiting for a call from my specialist. I have an appointment tomorrow, so we’ll see what he says.”
Aside from escaping the unwanted media attention back home, a reason for me coming here is to meet with the world’s top shoulder surgeons. It came at a hefty price, but I am willing to do or pay anything to be able to play again.
After the accident, I spent months in a very dark place. My parents were worried I was suicidal, refusing to talk to anyone and isolating myself in my apartment. To reassure them I would not take any drastic measures to end my life, I began to see a trauma counselor.
She helped me work through the initial trauma of the accident, then I accidentally fucked her. We both agreed it was one time, would never be spoken about again for the risk of losing her practicing license, and I would end my working relationship with her and find someone else.
Look, it was a nice fuck on her expensive leather lounge and the boost of confidence I needed at the time. Talk about stroking the ego, and that she did, nicely.
However, getting on a plane to fly across the world for what is not a guaranteed fix, may seem ludicrous to some.
But it is the only chance I have left.
One last attempt to repair the damage.
Chance rests his hand on my shoulder. “Look, I know it’s the hardest thing in the world to give up what you’ve worked your whole life for. I wanna be positive for you, but mate, your accident was life-threatening. You’re lucky to be alive, let alone play again. You gotta take that win.”