Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  But so far, with Rhys playing as badly as he is, I wouldn’t exactly describe tonight as “fun”. Excruciating is probably a better word. Especially knowing that Rhys’s awful performance doesn’t bother anyone more than Rhys himself. My heart aches for him. This sport, these fans—it all means so much to him, and I know he thinks he’s letting Madrid down.

  He thinks he’s letting everyone down. And no matter his assurances to the contrary, I can’t help but feel that it’s my fault he’s struggling out there tonight. I’m the one who caused him to miss his physical therapy appointment. I’m to blame for the awful photographs the paparazzi took of Rhys and Fernando. Rhys would’ve never been at Santa Caterina—he would’ve never even met Fernando—if it wasn’t for my own fuck up that afternoon. Granted, the photos haven’t surfaced on any of the major news or gossip outlets. Cristina, Rhys’s publicist, said tonight’s match is garnering so much media coverage no one’s really paying attention to this little piece of chatter. But there’s no doubt in my mind that the situation is distracting Rhys. It’s keeping him from playing his best football.

  He was only trying to do the right thing by helping me out. And now his play is suffering for it. What’s that old saying? No good deed goes unpunished? It’s so freaking true.

  “Oh, Rhys,” I murmur, swallowing the tightness in my throat. I wish I were there with him. It’d make him feel better, knowing I was there in the crowd. It’d make me feel better, too, because right now I feel pretty damn awful.

  “You okay there, friend?” Maddie asks. She drapes an arm across the back of my bar stool.

  “Meh,” I say.

  “Right,” she says. “I’ll get you another beer.”

  The camera pans across the pitch after an opposing player tackles Rhys, leaving him sprawled out on the grass. Like any good footballer worth his salt, Rhys milks the moment for all it’s worth. He clutches his middle and rolls around, face scrunched up in Oscar-worthy agony—agony that suddenly disappears when Fred Ohr pulls him to his feet.

  Now the camera is following Rhys as he trots to the sideline. Rain pours down his face into his eyes; his wet uniform, marred by grass stains, clings uncomfortably to his body. He keeps tugging at it. He looks tired. Worn out.

  Angry. Probably with himself, but I wouldn’t blame him if he were angry with me, too.

  By the seventy minute mark, Madrid is losing badly—we’re down four goals to zero. The crowd packed into the bar is angry, almost violent in their disgust for their home team. As an American, this kind of passionate fandom was shocking to me when I first arrived in Madrid. Spaniards are really into their football. Like, really. I thought American football fans back home were rabid, but they don’t hold a candle to Madrileños. Their devotion to Rhys’s team is nothing short of fanatical.

  Around me they curse, they call Rhys names, they cast hexes on his mother. People hold their hands to their heads in bewilderment, eyes wide and wild. For the horror on their faces, you’d think half their city had just been destroyed in a terrorist bombing. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  I chug my beer instead. Madrid—these fans—they’re going to crucify Rhys tomorrow. The whole team is playing badly, but it’s clear Rhys’s black mood is infecting the guys he plays with. Sure, Olivier is the captain. But Rhys is the guy other players watch, and draw energy from. He sets the tone for the match, whether he means to or not.

  Behind me, Rachel squeezes my shoulder.

  “So Rhys has one bad game,” she says. “He plays, what, two hundred games a year?”

  “A little less than that,” I say. “Actually way less.”

  “Whatever. The point is, he plays fucking unbelievable football ninety-nine percent of the time. He’s going to have an off game or two every once in a while. All those guys have to.”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s just so painful to watch. I feel bad for him.” I feel like it’s my fault he isn’t playing his best.

  At the eighty-seven minute mark, Seville shoots an errant pass that soars over the intended midfielder’s head. Spotting an opportunity, Rhys makes a mad dash down the pitch. With my heart in my throat, I watch as he races an opposing defender toward the ball, the two of them neck and neck. The bar goes wild, erupting in whistles, cheers, fervent prayers to the Holy Mother.

  This is it. I know this is going to be it, the game changing play.

  “Come on,” I shout, leaping from my stool. “Come on, Rhys!”

  At the last minute, the defender takes the lead, and darts out in front of Rhys. Rhys, recognizing he’s on a crash course with an enormous defender, draws up short to try and zigzag his way around him. But because the field is so wet, he ends up slipping. His left leg—oh, oh, Jesus, his bad knee—jams to the side. Half a heartbeat later, Rhys’s leg goes out from under him.

  My glass lands on the bar with a loud clatter, beer spewing everywhere. My palm flies to my mouth. I’m going to be sick.

  He falls to the ground, the momentum of his body sending him tumbling across the pitch. Watching him succumb to the viciousness of his fall makes me feel like dying.

  The camera zooms in on him when he finally comes to a stop. He rolls slowly onto his side and clutches his knee in both hands. Then he is still, deadly still, no rolling this time, no drama.

  Two seconds later, he starts screaming. So do the people around me in the bar, but I don’t hear them. The place between my skin and bones rushes cold. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I can only feel the panic that squeezes the air and the blood and the lightness from my body.

  He’s hurt. His knee—the ACL he’s worked so hard to rehab—oh my God, it’s all my fault, it’s my fault he missed his appointment with the physical therapist—

  Medics and physios rush out onto the field, surrounding Rhys. He isn’t getting up. The camera shows a close-up of Olivier’s face. He’s crying.

  Oh my God.

  Chapter 28

  Rhys

  The Next Day

  Madrid

  I fly home that night and have an MRI first thing the next morning. The whole ordeal is so sickeningly familiar—the needle in my arm, injecting blue dye into my veins; the sci-fi roar of the machine—that I can’t even pretend to be friendly with the nice nurses who look after me.

  Laura completely ignored my instructions to get some sleep so she could make her study group later this afternoon. She came with me to the hospital, and pressed a kiss into my cheek before I went in. As lovely as gesture as it is, I’m a bit annoyed by it. I’d like a little space to figure out how the hell I’m going to deal with this shit. My life is falling apart, and I don’t want my problems making Laura fall apart, too. I care for her, obviously, but I’ve also a care for my family. And right now I really need to focus on keeping it together for their sake.

  It feels like an eternity before I’m done and back in my clothes and out of the hospital. It’s a beautiful day outside, but the ardent sun and crystal clear sky only make me that much more anxious. I don’t know whether to hope for good news or resign myself to the fact that it’s probably not going to be good at all. I don’t know which one will help me more, or hurt less. Worry consumes me to the point that it literally makes me sweat.

  What the hell am I going to do if I blew my knee out again? I’m already at risk of losing my sponsors and all the income they bring me. If I lose my football contract, too, then I will literally have nothing. I’ll have no money, no friends, no purpose. I’ll have to break the news to my family that we’re back to square one. I’ll be just like dad.

  I’m jittery, like I’ve had too much coffee. My stomach hurts, and holy hell so does my knee.

  A driver is waiting for Laura and I on the corner. It’s still early—just past 7—and the streets are deserted. We’re heading to the team training facility, where I’ll wait for the MRI results with William Wallace, a couple physios, and Olivier and Fred.

  I try not to limp too badly as Laura and I make our way to the car. Cristina made sur
e we weren’t followed to the hospital, but with such a giant story breaking, there’s a chance the hospital staff took it upon themselves to tip off the press that I was here.

  With my free I had I grab my mobile from my back pocket. I notice something strange right away. I have six missed calls from Cristina, three from coach, and three more from Olivier. All this before 8 AM? Surely they’re not checking on me—my results won’t be in for another couple of hours, and they all know that.

  My heart skips a beat. Something’s up. I have a sinking feeling it’s got to do with those photos of me and Fernando.

  “Christ,” I murmur, pressing my thumb to Olivier’s name.

  Laura looks at me. “Everything okay?”

  I’m shaking, so when I put the call through I accidentally put it on speaker. I’m too anxious to change it back.

  Olivier picks up on the first ring.

  “Cabbage,” he breathes. “You all right?”

  “Uh. Yeah, I guess so? Aside from the whole I-might’ve-blown-out-my-knee-again-and-ruined-my-career-forever bit. Why? What’s up?”

  A pause. “You ’aven’t seen it.”

  “Seen what?” I say.

  I meet Laura’s eyes. She looks scared.

  “Oh, Cabbage.”

  “What?” I draw to a stop on the sidewalk, swallowing a wince at the bolt of pain that shoots up my leg. “Seriously, Olivier, you’re starting to freak me out. What the hell is going on?”

  “Ze pictures. Of you stumbling around with zat bum man. Zey ’ave been found. Zey are everywheres. Ze papers, ze internets. I am very sorry, my friend. Tell me what I can do to ’elp you. What zees animals say about you, it iz not true, not true at all. I know it iz not. But ze press, zey are your enemies now.”

  All the blood seems to drain from my body in a single instant, leaving me cold and light-headed. Holy. Fuck.

  “I’ll call you right back,” I blurt. I hang up so I can search for the pictures on my phone, but Laura is already typing furiously on hers.

  “What did you find?” I say, sidling up beside her. I duck my head to get a closer look at her screen.

  Another eternity passes while her phone loads the home page of one of Madrid’s most popular, and most gossipy, newspapers.

  If the pictures are here, that means they are all over the place.

  The page finally appears. My eyes dart over the top story’s headline and the picture beneath it, my pulse marking an ominous beat inside my head. No. Please God no. My sponsors—all that money—my family—

  Laura covers her mouth with her fingers. “Oh, God,” she whispers. “Rhys—”

  I grab the mobile from her hand. I read the headline again. It’s in Spanish. Roughly translated, it says: MADRID LOSES KEY MATCH, RHYS MADDOX’S DEMONS TO BLAME? And then, the subtitle: Star Player Caught Drinking Night Before Game, Insiders Say He’s Following in Troubled Father’s Footsteps. What this means for Madrid’s league title prospects.

  The picture shows me holding up a bottle wrapped in brown paper, a shit-eating grin on my face. Fernando is beside me. He’s grinning too. I tap the picture—just my bloody luck, there’s a whole gallery of them—and scroll through four photos, each worse than the last. Me taking the bottle from Fernando; Fernando taking the bottle from me; Laura, holding me up while I stumble; another one of me stumbling, this time with my eyes half-open. I look wasted out of my mind, when really I was just blinded by the camera flashes.

  I knew my terrible performance last night would piss a lot of people off, maybe make some headlines. But now I see that I’ve tripped a wire. People always whispered behind my back that I’d end up like my dad. I just didn’t realize how eager they were to see me prove them right.

  It’s a great story to print—it’s juicy and it’s gossipy and it’s tragic, the deadbeat drunk who let his team and his adopted country down finally getting his due, the way his father got his twenty years before. It’s going to sell a ton of papers and garner millions of clicks.

  Madrid fans are looking for an explanation, a way to understand our worst loss of the season. They’re looking for someone to blame.

  How convenient, then, that this story should surface, and provide the perfect excuse to blame me. No doubt a thousand reporters and editors Googled my name last night after my horrid showing at the match, searching for dirt. For something that would explain why I played so badly. The pictures weren’t hard to find if you knew where to look.

  I tug my fingers through my hair. I am such a fucking idiot. I should’ve known this would happen. I should’ve seen it coming from a mile away. I’ve always been careful, I’ve always thought about how something might look because I constantly thought about my family and everything they need and everything I want to give them.

  Lately, though, I’ve let my guard down. And now it’s come back to bite me in the ass.

  I clutch the phone in my hand. Anger seeps from the center of my chest and fills my lungs, my belly, my mouth. I’m angry at myself, for letting this happen. I’m angry at the world for believing what the papers say is true.

  I’m angry that I’ve destroyed my relationship with my sponsors. There’s no doubt in my mind they’ll all drop me after seeing this. They’d be stupid not to. In the blink of an eye, I’ve just lost tens of thousands of dollars in current endorsements, and ten times that in potential future ones. It doesn’t matter what I say next, if I apologize, deny the story. These images are emblazoned in the public’s collective mind. This is how I’ll be perceived from now on. This is who everyone thinks I am.

  And who knows what my club is going to do with me. This is bad press for them, too. If I did do some real damage to my knee again, and the team is on the fence about seeing me through another year of rehab, then this disaster will be just the push they need to cut me and wash their hands of the Maddox men for good.

  I’m losing everything. The thought of having to tell Maggie I can’t afford to send her to university—the loans she’ll have to take out will crush her and mum—God, none of this was supposed to happen. This wasn’t how my life was supposed to turn out. I’ve worked too hard. I’ve sacrificed too much.

  This isn’t fucking fair.

  “It’s not true,” Laura says. Her voice trembles. “None of it is.”

  “I know that,” I snap. I use every ounce of self-control to keep my voice low, and even. “But what does it matter? Appearance is everything, Laura. As far as the rest of the world is concerned—everyone but you and me—as far as they’re concerned, it happened. So it’s bloody true.”

  “It’s not,” she says, more forcefully. She meets my eyes, squinting against the bright morning sun. “You have to tell them, Rhys. It’s not true. For God’s sake, you were playing soccer with a bunch of kids, not getting drunk with some strange dude on the street. You were doing a good thing. You have to explain yourself.”

  I step toward her. Again, a bolt of pain slices through my knee. Jesus Christ.

  “I told you, it doesn’t fucking matter. Haven’t you listened to a word I said? The photos are everywhere. The story is out there. I’m completely screwed.”

  “What did Cristina say?”

  “Cristina said not to speak to the press at all. If the time comes to release a statement—and I don’t think it will anytime soon—then we can talk about it. Until then, we say nothing. Understand?”

  Laura draws back. “Yes. Yeah, of course.”

  “Trust me, it’ll just make things worse right now. Although I don’t see how that’s possible, considering things are pretty fucking bad.”

  “Rhys, I told you I was sorry—”

  “Stop it, all right? Just stop it.” I tug a hand through my hair. My panic is getting the better of me, but now that I’ve let my self-control slip from my grasp, I can’t get a hold of it again. I’m angry for getting angry; I’m angry that Laura is hurting, too, that she thinks she’s somehow responsible for this mess. I’m angry that I’m powerless to make everything okay again so she can fe
el better.

  I’m just bloody angry.

  “You can’t give up,” she says.

  “I’m not giving up,” I say with a scoff. “Don’t you see it’s already over for me? My sponsors are gone. My knee is probably gone. There’s nothing I can do for my family anymore. I’m done. Washed up. Just like—”

  “Don’t.” She meets my gaze. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re not like him.”

  “What would you know about my dad?” I burst. I’m in her face now, my heart popping around in my chest. “Nothing. You don’t know anything.”

  The look of hurt on her face makes me even angrier.

  “You don’t mean that,” she says. “I also know you don’t mean to talk to me like this. I get you’re under a lot of stress—”

  I scoff again. “A lot of stress? Laura, I’m going to lose everything I have. My life is destroyed. Have you any idea how that feels?”

  She looks away. After a beat, she shakes her head. “No. I don’t.”

  I turn away, too, and shove my hands in my pockets. “Look, I’m sorry. You should probably just go. Take the car to wherever your study group is and…just do what you need to do.”

  “Rhys.” The pain in her voice makes my gut contract.

  “I mean it. Just go. I’ll call you when I have news.”

  I look up. She’s blinking, hard, trying not to cry.

  You’re being an arsehole, a voice inside my head warns. Apologize again. Stop while you’re ahead.

  But then Laura turns and climbs into the car and slams the door behind her. I close my eyes, the groan of the engine loud in my ears as the car starts moving up the street.

  Maybe I really am just like my father.

  Maybe I set things on fire just to watch them burn.

  Chapter 29