Losing Game: A Winning Ace Novel (Book 2)

by Tracie Delaney

  “He’s had a serious injury, babes. Don’t expect too much too soon.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Tally snapped, ignoring the unwelcome attention from other diners. “I’ve been living with this for two fucking weeks.”

  Em’s eyes widened, and she grimaced. “I know, babes.”

  Tally’s shoulders sagged. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m just tired.”

  Em’s hand closed over hers. “You snap at me all you like. That’s what best friends are for.”

  “What if this is as good as it gets?” she said, voicing her deepest, darkest fear.

  “I don’t believe that,” Em said, her tone firm and resolute. “Cash is young, strong, determined. Madly in love with you. That alone will drag him back to the land of the living.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Tally leaned back as the waiter put her steak down. She had to admit it smelt great. For the first time in ages, her stomach rumbled. She tucked in, eating it faster than she’d ever eaten anything in her life. When the waiter brought the dessert menu, she couldn’t resist choosing a large slice of chocolate cake.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Em said after they’d settled the bill. “I’ve never been to Paris.”

  “Sightseeing may be off the menu,” Tally said with a wry grin.

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t visit a bar or two. Take in the Parisian atmosphere.”

  “Ogle a couple of Frenchmen, you mean,” Tally said, feeling the shroud of despair lift a little.

  “And what’s wrong with that?” Em said, linking her arm through Tally’s.

  They found a small, artistic bar not too far from the hotel and still within sprinting distance of the hospital. They picked a table by the window where they could watch the world go by, the summer evening providing excellent light for people watching.

  Tally sipped at her third glass of wine of the evening, the buzz of alcohol lessening the heavy load she’d been carrying around the last couple of weeks. Even though Rachael and Rupe had been amazingly supportive, nothing could fill the enormous hole caused by Cash’s accident. But by spending time with Em, the pain in her chest had eased, although she knew it wouldn’t last.

  “It’s good to see a little colour in your cheeks,” Em said, clinking their glasses.

  “That’s what alcohol does for you.”

  “I’ve missed you, babes. I wish you’d let me come earlier.”

  “It wouldn’t have done any good. It’s been easier without you here.” When a flash of pain crossed Em’s face, Tally rubbed the back of her friend’s hand. “I don’t mean to sound cruel, but it took all my strength to wake up each day and face the reality of what had happened. If you or Pete had been here, it would have been a whole lot harder.”

  “And yet you let me come this weekend.”

  Tally shrugged. “I needed to feel normal, if only for a short time.” She pressed her fingertips to her temple. “Does that make me sound awful?”

  “Not in the slightest.” Em let out a long, deep breath. “You’ve been through a terrible experience. I can’t imagine…” Her voice faded, and a single fat tear spilled onto her cheek. “It kills me to know there isn’t a fucking thing I can do to help.”

  Tally moved to sit next to Em and wrapped her arms around her friend, tugging her close. “You’re here. That’s enough.”

  It was a while before they broke apart, and when they did, Em’s gaze was steadfast. “For as long as you need me.”

  They staggered back to the hotel with Tally more than a little drunk. She couldn’t seem to stop giggling, and she received several weird glances from passers-by. Tally fell up the hotel steps, landing in a heap on the floor.

  “You were supposed to save me,” she said to Em, who was doubled over with laughter.

  “And go down with you? Fuck that,” Em said, making Tally laugh even more.

  Em grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet as Tally’s phone bleeped with an incoming text. The two of them froze, and then Tally scrambled to get her phone out of her bag. Her heart almost stopped when she saw the sender.

  She opened the text—and ran.

  43

  There’s pain. Everywhere. Lights flicker on and off, and hands are touching him. Strange hands. His arms flail as he tries to get them off. Don’t fucking touch me, he screams, except no sound comes out.

  They’re speaking, but he can’t understand them. A blurred face appears in front of him, and he blinks furiously, trying to clear the image. He hears a strangled groan. Then another, longer, drawn-out groan. What is that? Sounds like a wounded animal. He wishes someone would either help the damn thing or put it out of its misery, because the noise is getting on his fucking nerves.

  A bright light shines in his eyes, and he flinches and squeezes them shut. What the fuck is going on?

  “Cash, stop. Let them help you.”

  A familiar voice. Worried. Anxious. He strains the far reaches of his mind, but the memory is shrouded in fog. Thick, dense fog. Frustration crashes over him. Why can’t he remember?

  His eyes snap open. Another face swims in front of him. Clearer this time. A hand touches his cheek, warm, comforting.

  “Cash, it’s Mum. Can you hear me?”

  Mum? My mum’s in a coma. She’s been in a coma for thirteen years. Wait, hang on. That’s not right. She woke up. Didn’t she? Shit, why am I so confused?

  “You were in an accident.”

  What accident? Nothing is making any sense.

  “Hurts,” he mutters.

  Another face. A man wearing a white coat. A chuckle bubbles in his throat. He’s finally lost the fucking plot, and they’ve sent him to the loony bin. Bet I’m in a padded cell.

  “Cash, I’m Dr Arnaud. You’re in hospital, in Paris. You were hit by a car over two weeks ago. If you can hear me and understand what I’m saying, squeeze my hand.”

  Two weeks? Fuck. He concentrates as hard as he can, reaching into the far corners of his mind. And comes up empty. How can he have been in an accident and not remember? His heart thuds in his chest. I have to get out of here.

  “Calm down, Cash. You’re okay. Nurse!”

  Hands on him again, restraining him. He fights, but there are too many. He grows weak, concerned faces fading. He can’t keep his eyes open. Blackness.

  Cash cranked his eyes open. Bright sunshine caused a piercing pain in his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the blazing light to fuck off.

  “Close the curtains, Rupe.”

  Rupe’s here?

  He forced his eyes open again, blinking furiously. The room wasn’t as bright this time. He twisted his head, wincing against the agony such a tiny movement caused. For a minute, he thought he’d died. She was shrouded in light, an angel without wings, and her voice calmed his rapidly beating heart.

  “Oh, babe.” Tears streamed down her face.

  He licked his lips. They were dry and cracked. A straw was pressed to his mouth, and he sucked greedily, the cool water soothing his throat. It dribbled down his chin. Someone wiped it away.

  “Cash?” The voice again. Tentative, scared, exquisite. He focused on her face. Still blurred. He squinted. Better. He could see her properly now. Natalia. His heart constricted.

  “Hey, sweetness.” His voice sounded different. Raw. Throaty. Harsh. He didn’t like it.

  A sob tore from her throat, and she lifted his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “You came back.”

  “About fucking time.” Rupe’s grinning face swam into Cash’s sight line.

  The longer he kept his eyes open, the clearer the faces became. He tried to smile, but another spasm, which shot through his skull, made him stop. “Fuck you, Witters,” he muttered.

  “Charming as ever,” Rupe said. “Try and stay awake, you useless git. I’m going to get your mum.”

  “Wait.” He grabbed Rupe’s wrist, but he was so weak his fingers couldn’t hold on, and his hand fell back to the bed. “She’s here? She’s not in the coma anymore?
”

  A flash of worry crossed Rupe’s face, and he glanced sideways at Natalia. “She recovered. Remember, bud? Months ago.”

  Cash frowned. “I think so.” He sighed. “Foggy.”

  “That’ll be the crack on the head. Maybe it’ll have knocked some sense into you. Let me go and get Rachael.”

  Cash closed his eyes. “Tired,” he mumbled.

  A soft hand brushed his forehead. He tried to force his eyes open but couldn’t. He slept.

  When he woke, it was dark outside. How long had he been out? He slowly twisted his head. Natalia was sleeping in a chair next to the bed, her head uncomfortably bent to the side, a pillow supporting her neck. She had dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her face was terribly pale. He turned to the other side, and his heart skipped a beat. It was true. His mother was fast asleep, a flat palm against her cheek, her elbow braced against the arm of the chair. With considerable effort, he managed to touch her hand.

  She jerked awake, her eyes wide as they fell on his. “Hey, my beautiful boy.” She leaned across the bed and cradled his cheek. “How are you feeling? Any pain?”

  He grimaced. “Lots.” He reached for her hand as she began to stand. “No, don’t go. It’s okay. I want to feel the pain. It reminds me I’m alive.”

  “Do you… do you remember anything?”

  He screwed his face up. “Not the accident. And I was confused at first about you. When I woke up, I thought you were still in the coma. But I remember now.”

  “And Natalia?” Unmistakeable hesitancy and concern laced her tone.

  “Don’t worry, Mum,” he said, weakly squeezing her hand. “I remember her. How could I forget?” He looked over at Natalia, still blissfully unaware of their conversation. His gaze fell to her left hand. “I remember proposing, if that’s what you were worrying about. Best day of my life.”

  His mum sighed, the air leaving her lungs in a whoosh of relief. “She was so worried.” Her voice caught. “You’re lucky to be alive. It was touch-and-go for a bit.”

  “What about my hand?” He half-lifted his right hand from the bed before the weight of the plaster, and his significantly weakened state, meant he had no choice but to let it fall back.

  “The car rolled over you and crushed your hand. And your right leg is broken in three places.”

  He grimaced. “What’s the prognosis? Don’t sugarcoat it. I need to know.”

  She blinked slowly, her breathing slow and measured. “Your leg should heal fine in a few weeks. The breaks were clean. The doctors don’t know whether you’ll regain full use of your hand, but you’ll need physiotherapy.”

  He clenched his jaw. “When do we begin?”

  Rachael smiled. “Your bones need to heal, Cash, and you’ve suffered a severe head injury. Give yourself time.”

  “I have to play again,” he said firmly.

  Rachael leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You will.”

  44

  Tally stood off to the side as the doctor pulled apart the broken cast on Cash’s leg. He handed the two halves of the plaster cast to the nurse and gently placed Cash’s foot on the floor.

  “Any pain?” the doctor said as Cash gingerly rose from the chair.

  “No.” Cash put weight on his damaged leg. “It feels fine. Looks a mess, though.”

  The doctor smiled kindly. “All completely normal. I’d advise trying not to scratch if your skin becomes itchy. Better to gently wash with mild soap and water every few hours.”

  Cash walked up and down the doctor’s office. “What about the muscle wastage?”

  “Again, completely normal. Your muscles will be atrophied, but with gentle exercise and physio, they will completely recover without any lasting effects.”

  Cash nodded. “When can I start exercising it?”

  “You need to take it easy for a while. At the risk of sounding clichéd, you need to walk before you can run. We’ll need to see how you do over the next few days and then complete another X-ray, and then we can look at a longer-term strategy.”

  Cash met Tally’s gaze. “Fancy a stroll around Paris?”

  She grinned. “Sounds wonderful.”

  He looked over at the doctor. “Okay?”

  “Yes, but take it easy. No running, no climbing stairs.”

  Cash took Tally’s hand. “Thanks, Doc.”

  As they walked out of a private entrance to the hospital to avoid the press camped at the front, he took a deep breath. “Freedom.”

  Tally laughed. “You’ve hardly been in prison, ace.”

  “Feels like it,” he muttered.

  They’d wandered around Paris for an hour or so when Tally noticed Cash beginning to drag his leg.

  “You okay, ace?” she said, giving him a concerned look.

  He grimaced. “Bit of discomfort. Stop fussing.”

  She pointed to a bench beside the Seine. “Let’s sit for a while.”

  He sighed heavily, and a flare of irritation crossed his face. “I said stop fussing.”

  She touched his arm. “It’s going to take a while to get back to normal.”

  He wrenched his shoulder upward. “For fuck’s sake, Natalia. I’ve been lying in that goddamn hospital bed for weeks. I said I’m okay. Now, leave it.”

  The flashes of anger had been steadily growing over the last few days, a situation the doctors had warned her about, given the severity of his head injury. She thought she’d been prepared to deal with mood swings, but the surge of pain that spread through her chest every time he snapped at her said she was kidding herself. She fiddled with her handbag and stared at the ground, waiting for Cash to make the next move.

  “Fine,” he finally bit out when the silence had stretched between them for several minutes. “I suppose a few minutes’ rest won’t hurt.”

  Tally didn’t reply because she instinctively knew he wouldn’t want her to, but she took comfort in the small victory.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered as he flopped onto the bench. “I’m so fucking frustrated.”

  “I know.” She crossed her ankle over her other knee and took off her shoe, digging her thumbs into the soles of her feet. “Wrong shoes for walking,” she said with a grin.

  He held out his hand. “Give it here. I can still give a mean foot massage with one hand.”

  The rare offer of intimacy made her pulse jump, and she placed her foot in his lap. As his thumb dug into her instep, she groaned.

  “You are the foot-massage master.”

  He smiled then, and hope swelled within her, but then his thumb stilled, and his razor-sharp gaze settled on something behind her.

  “What?” she said, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Wait here.” Her foot fell from his lap as he clambered to his feet and sprinted across the street.

  “You’re not supposed to run,” she yelled as she rammed her foot back into her shoe.

  She set off after him, catching up in a narrow alley where he’d cornered a guy who was clutching a camera with a long lens. Brilliant. A pap.

  “Give me the fucking camera,” she heard Cash say as she approached. The guy responded in French but spoke too quickly for her to understand. Cash clearly did, though, because his face reddened. Before she could track his movements, Cash had hold of the camera. He must have caught a glimpse of her hovering at the end of the alleyway because his head spun around, his eyes flashing with utter fury.

  “I fucking told you to stay put!” He spun away as the photographer made a lunge for his camera. Unfortunately for the pap, Cash was taller and faster, and the pap retreated empty-handed. Cash removed the memory card, snapped it in two, and dropped the pieces to the ground. He shoved the camera into the photographer’s chest and leaned in close.

  “If I catch you taking pictures of my girlfriend again, I’ll break this camera over your fucking head.” He marched to the end of the alleyway and clutched Tally’s elbow. “When will you learn to do as you’re told?”

  “Don’t take your bad mood ou
t on me,” she replied, yanking her arm out of his grasp. “It’s not the first time we’ve been photographed, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”

  “I don’t want pictures of intimate moments between us in the paper.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have been massaging my foot in the middle of Paris.”

  He planted his hands on his hips, his chest heaving. He closed his eyes as he took several slow breaths. When he opened them, they were glistening with tears, and Tally’s heart cracked.

  “Oh, ace,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist. “What can I do? What do you need?”

  He buried his face in her neck. “I want to go home.”

  45

  Tally bit down on her lip to stop herself crying out when Cash winced in pain. He screwed his face up as Liam, his physiotherapist, made him push beyond his comfort zone. This was his eighth physio session since they’d returned to Northern Ireland from Paris four weeks before, and though he was making progress with his hand, it came at a cost.

  “Again,” Liam said.

  The physiotherapy was brutal, and it didn’t take a genius to work out that Cash was having real difficulty managing his frustration. The reddened face, clenched jaw, and sweat on his brow and upper lip as he tried to grip the tennis ball in his right hand gave it away.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can,” Liam said.

  No matter how awful Cash was to him, Liam refused to give up. He didn’t take anything personally, even when Cash’s temper made him say terrible things. The problem was that Cash had recovered quickly from his broken leg, and he’d assumed his hand would do just as well.

  It hadn’t.

  They’d been at the exercises for an hour or so, and Tally could tell Cash’s patience was wearing thin. His moods since he’d regained full consciousness were unpredictable at best. Sometimes, he’d be so loving, and by a mere look, he’d send her heart racing, and she could fool herself into thinking everything was the same as before the accident. At other times, his anger and frustration would boil over, and Tally would have to admit that he scared her.