Page 73 of Swim To Me

But my muscle, my discipline, myspeedit was all gone. There one day and gone the next.

I could no longer compete.

While I battled with my body, my parents battled with the ski lift company. This was their fucking fault, not mine.

The Millen family fought behind closed doors, as we once had before when my mum had beaten breast cancer, while the media turned an awful, life altering incident into an untrue story.

“I’d been drinking,” they said. ‘Sources’ had seen me taking drugs too. Neither of those things could have stopped the ski lift from reversing backwards, but the mixture of drink and drugsin my system had stopped me from being able to react as fast as possible when I fell.

Bullshit.

I stayed silent out of pain, both mentally and physically. I didn’t have the strength to argue, I knew the truth, my family knew the truth, that was all that mattered. I didn’t have a clue what the flying fuck my life would look like now, but I had true people around me who loved and cared for me.

“Fuck everyone else,” Hudson uttered once at the dinner table, careful not to kick my still casted up leg. Not even Mum berated him for his foul language, instead nodding her head in agreement and pressing a motherly kiss to my forehead.

Months passed by at a snail’s pace; I was still swimming, I couldn’t live without it, but I was soon coming to terms with no longer competing. It still stung to think about it, but I was coping.

As Christmas approached, the doctor who’d treated me over in France spoke out to the British press with a statement – ‘Mr Millen was tested for alcohol and use of recreational drugs as soon as he was bought into our care. He tested negative for both. This was simply a freak accident, which I hope the ski lift company will take accountability for, so this doesn’t happen again. We wish Mr Millen nothing but our best wishes for his future.’

It seemed as if I had blinked, and suddenly, the press was now on my side. I hadn’t been drinking, I hadn’t taken drugs, it was a freak accident and I’d been a young boy with a bright sports career who had his dream taken away from him.

By January, the ski company had taken accountability and I was being given a hefty amount of compensation. It would never bring back my ability to compete, but the money didn’t go amiss.

Throughout it all, my family stood by my side, keeping my spirit up with nothing but love. I grew up, disappeared outof media, got my lifeguard job, fell in and out of romantic relationships, and continued to strengthen my ligaments on the regular so they didn’t become weak.

I was happy with my life at twenty-nine, content and wanting for nothing more, until Delilah walked into my life over a month ago.

I want her to be mine more than anything I can ever recall.

Even more than when I’d wished to become a professional athlete.

I just hope this time, life is kind enough to grant my wish.

Chapter 18

Delilah

“We’re pushing the deadline back, is everyone in agreement with that?”

I nod at my boss, wishing I was anywhere but this boardroom right now when the pulsing behind my eye only starts to become stronger. Blearily, I blink, noticing the small, shapeless silver blobs marring my vision.

Unscrewing the cap of my water bottle, I take a sip of cool water, but it’s futile. I’ve got a bloody migraine coming on.

Running my thumb along my brow bone in an attempt to soothe the deadly ache, I try to remain as professional as possible without slouching or ruining my carefully applied makeup. But all I really want to do is lie down and close my eyes.

My bosses and I wrap up our weekly Tuesday meeting within the hour, but still, I have to trudge back to my desk and finish out the rest of the working day in agony.

The blue light from my computer taunts me, as do the printed-out manuscripts sitting in front of me, their words meshing together, piercing my brain with tiny, very painful, pinpricks.

I pop a painkiller with a glug of water, but it does nothing. I roll my neck when the static burn begins to slip down the left-hand side, but it does nothing. I close my eyes, wishing for a moment of reprieve, but it does nothing, other than make me feel more like I’m going to vomit.

By the time five pm ticks around I’m a shaking, face like a white sheet, mess.

Leaving the office and catching the tube home is all of a bit of blur. I spend most of my time gripping onto the plastic edges of my seat, feeling extremely nauseous while the carriages sway and the scent of too sweet perfume and human body odour permeates my nose.

Once in the safe confines of my apartment I dump my handbag on the sofa, kick off my heels haphazardly and practically sprint to the toilet. The contents of my lunch leaves my stomach forcefully, plus that chocolate bar I nibbled on hoping the sugar would give me a boost.

Wiping my mouth with some toilet paper, I rest my cheek against the cool, porcelain seat. My legs have gone fully numb beneath me, but the continuous pulsing in my head threatens to upturn my stomach again, so I close my eyes and stay where I am.

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