Page 91 of Off the Pitch

I wanted to be happy about that, but my heart wasn’t quite in it.

I doubted I’d be back to full fitness before October at the earliest, depending on how well my form returned and how I got on with physiotherapy. And deep inside me there was a fear that it wouldn’t come back at all.

After all I was pushing thirty and coming to the end of my shelf life as a professional footballer. My body would only be able to take so much more punishment, and it was only a matter of time before I was asked to move on to a smaller club to make room for the latest pool of talent. Either that or retire gracefully.

I was full of nagging doubts that Lucas wouldn’t want me to play again, and that this injury had ruined any chance I had of finishing my career on a high note.

Sighing to myself, I tried to push the thoughts away and focus on getting out of bed.

Not that I had anything to do today, but it probably wouldn’t do me any good to stay here all day. No matter how badly I wanted to.

By the time it got to lunchtime, I hadn’t done anything except move to the large sofa in my living room and spent three hours pottering around onSkyrim, building myself an unnecessarily large house and occasionally fighting bears.

My stomach rumbled at me loudly, and I couldn’t really ignore it much longer. In the past few weeks my healthy eating habits had gone to shit, and sometimes I hadn’t even bothered to eat anything except snacks until I could call for a takeaway.

I knew it wasn’t good for me, but somehow, I couldn’t find it in myself to care. I knew the fitness trainers at the club would go ballistic if they found out, and I’d be running metaphorical laps for the rest of my life.

A lot of my fellow teammates hired personal chefs to take care of their home cooking, and in Christian’s case, for example, that was probably a good thing. But I’d always loved being in the kitchen, and cooking was one of my favourite things to do outside of training. I’d had the whole kitchen in my flat re-fitted several years ago, and it was a beautiful mix of stainless steel and dark marble, with endless storage and an oven that had cost more than was necessary but that I’d just had to have.

My kitchen had been one of my true personal extravagances—the rest of the time I’d spent my money on trying to keep Hélène happy.

I sighed as my stomach rumbled loudly again and threw the Xbox controller onto the cushion next to me.

“Fine, fine, I’ll eat something,” I muttered to myself, hopping over to the kitchen to see what was in the wide, American-style fridge.

Nothing.

Fuck, that meant I had to go outside.

I looked at myself in the mirror next to the front door as I hunted for my keys with one hand. I’d pulled on a ratty pair of jogging bottoms and the nearest clean t-shirt this morning, and I knew I looked a mess. I hadn’t shaved properly in days, and my dark hair stuck up at odd angles because I hadn’t washed it in about a week. It needed cutting too.

When had I stopped caring so much about my appearance? It used to be that I wouldn’t leave the house without making sure I looked like I’d stepped out of a Ralph Lauren advert, but now I’d wear anything, the only caveat being that the t-shirt wasn’t covered in stains.

Something needed to change.

There was a very nice Turkish barber shop not too far from here, near one of my favourite little delis. I could pick up a sandwich and maybe see if the barbers could squeeze me in. It would be a start at least, and maybe it would make me feel a little better about myself.

And it did. Two hours in the sunshine complete with a perfect chicken, pesto, and mozzarella sandwich and the careful attention of Mem, who spent the whole time making me laugh as he argued with his uncle about boxing while he cut my hair and tidied up my straggly beard, shaving it down to neat stubble that emphasized my jaw. It made me feel more human than I had felt in weeks.

I’d even picked up a few ingredients to make myself dinner for once, instead of just ordering something. It wouldn’t be anything complicated, but it would be better than eating another carton of crispy chilli beef from the China Palace. Even if that was delicious.

I climbed out of the lift on the twelfth floor of my building, carefully manoeuvring myself on my crutches so I didn’t drop my shopping as I dug in my pockets for my keys.

Except I didn’t need them.

The front door was already unlocked and there was an expensive dark green Mulberry handbag on the hall table. I knew exactly whose it was because I was the one who’d bought the damn thing in the first place: Hélène.

What part ofex-wifedidn’t she understand? After all, she’d been the one who’d decided she wanted to get divorced.

“Hugo? Is that you?” Her tousled blonde hair appeared around the corner, holding a glass of white wine which I knew she’d brought because there hadn’t been any in my fridge. I could see her giving my ratty appearance the once-over, and part of me cringed because she’d always been one for keeping up appearances.

She looked flawless as usual, and I assumed she’d come straight from the little art gallery she owned in Chelsea. It had started as a pet project several years ago when the first cracks had started appearing in our relationship, but Hélène had rapidly transformed it into one of the most celebrated and exclusive galleries in London.

We may not have thought much of each other anymore, but I couldn’t fault her dedication and work ethic.

“Yes,” I said. I tried to hold in an exasperated sigh because my plans had completely changed. “Why are you here?”

“I came to see you,” Hélène said, tucking her hair behind her ear. It was a gesture I’d once found adorably endearing. “Been anywhere exciting?”

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