Riley
I watched the screen in complete disbelief as Lucas was carried off the field on a stretcher.
My breath caught. My heart was hammering so loudly I couldn’t even hear the commentary anymore.
“Oh no,” I whispered, hand flying to my mouth. “This is bad. This is so, so bad.”
He wasn’t moving much. Just lying there—eyes shut, arms stiff at his sides. The medics rushed around him. The stadium had gone terrifyingly silent, and the camera zoomed in like it wanted to rub salt in the wound.
I stood up, panic crawling up my spine. The bowl of popcorn tumbled to the ground. I didn’t even notice. I grabbed my phone, fingers shaking.
Zara. I called her. She didn’t pick up.
Come on, Zara. Pick up. Pick up.
She was probably in the stands—somewhere in the chaos, watching this unfold with her own eyes. I called again. Still nothing.
So I just sat there.
Frozen.
The game continued, like it was just another match. But I wasn’t watching anymore. I wasn’t breathing properly. I just stared at the screen, arms wrapped tight around myself, trying to feel something other than this dread.
His team won. I didn’t even care.
As soon as the final whistle blew, I called Zara again. She answered, but her voice was distant, swallowed by the noise around her.
“Zara!” I practically yelled. “What the hell is going on?! Is he okay?!”
“I’m going to meet Raphina near the lockers now,” she shouted back. “We’re trying to get updates. I’ll call you back in a few.”
“Zara—”
“I promise.” And then she hung up.
The waiting was the worst part. Every minute dragged. My leg bounced nonstop. I refreshed every newsfeed, searched his name in every language, scanned blurry posts from fans, hoping for anything.
Then my phone rang.
“Zara?” I answered before the first ring ended.
Her voice was low. Scared. “It’s bad.”
“No…” I breathed. “No, no, no. Please—”
“They’re taking him to Hospital Universitario Quirónsalud Madrid. The private trauma wing. Riley, he’s not okay.”
My stomach turned. My whole body went cold. I stared at the wall like it could offer answers.
Lucas. Hospital. Trauma wing.
This couldn’t be happening.
I had a lecture tomorrow. A packed auditorium. Global researchers. Everything I’d worked toward for years.
But none of it mattered. Not now.
Not when I could lose him.
My hand was still gripping the phone when another notification buzzed in—this time, a message from a blocked number.
I opened it.
“Told you he’d break. Should’ve chosen me.”
My blood ran cold.
Javier.
Of course it was him. Who else would have the nerve?
I bit back the scream rising in my throat and dropped my phone onto the couch. I wanted to throw it. Smash it. Scream until my lungs gave out. But all I did was stare again.
My chest felt like it was caving in.
I thought I was past this—past him.
But now Lucas was hurt. Really hurt. And I wasn’t there.
I stood, heart racing. I couldn’t sit in this apartment for another second.
I picked up my phone and called Zara again. My voice barely worked.
“Book me the next flight to Madrid,” I said.
There was a pause. Then: “Already on it.”