Page 204 of Twisted Trails
My leg is still a little stiff, especially in the mornings, and I’ve got at least two more months before I’m cleared for anything high-impact, but I’m walking. Training, even. I take the stairs without bracing myself. I carry my own shit. I don’t wince every time I sit down.
It’s been four months since the World Cup, since that moment Mason crossed the line and the world spun on its axis, and in the strangest, sweetest plot twist of my life, all three of them just moved in after the season was over.
They didn’t even ask, just filled the guest rooms with their shit, started leaving energy drink cans in weird places, and fell into arguments over whose turn it was to do laundry.
Somehow, in the wreckage of a career, a season, and a secret, I found something I never thought I could have.
A life after.
Tilting my head back, I stare up at the ceiling.
It’s been good.
So fucking good.
But not easy.
I had my second hip surgery three months ago, and apparently, Dane was right. Sometimes, more than one surgery is needed to fix something. The pain wasn’t the same after this one, not even close, and with the stronger pain medication, the road to recovery was fucking child’s play compared to the first time.
There was one night a couple of weeks ago when there was a flash of the old pain, the kind that used to own me, and I needed the crutch again for a few hours until the medication kicked in. The guys saw it, and ever since, I’ve had three overprotective idiots shadowing my every move, prepared to stop me from crumbling if I stand too fast.
I hated it at first.
Now, I kind of love it.
The way Finn slips protein into my smoothies, thinking I won’t notice, how Mason double-checks the tread on my shoes before we go for a walk, and Luc curses at the heating pad like it personally wronged me if it’s not hot enough.
They were there for all of it. The pre-surgery panic, the meltdown two days before, the night I cried because I wasn’t ready to go under again, butthey didn’t flinch.
Luc climbed into bed with me and made me laugh. Mason talked me through the stats, the recovery rates, thelogic of it all. Finn didn’t say much, just held my hand and rubbed circles on my wrist like he could tether me to him.
This time, when I woke up, blurry and high as hell as I once again slurred, “Kiss, please,” Luc and Mason didn’t hesitate. They grinned at each other and kissed like it was the best idea I’d ever had, while Finn made sure to give memykiss.
Dane was there, too, rolling his eyes, and Dad came in later. He was the one to secure me the best surgeon in the country.
And Élise.
God, Élise flew in a day after the surgery and never left my side. She cooked. She cleaned. She cussed at the guys in French when they got in her way and tucked me in like I was five and had a fever. She took care of me andthemlike she’d been doing it her whole life.
She is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a mom. I didn’t know how much I needed that until she looked at me with those gentle, bossy eyes and told me I was healing beautifully.
The medication worked.
The pain was manageable.
But the difference from the last time wasn’t just in the pills or the surgery, it was in the weight. I wasn’t carrying it all alone or leaning too heavily on Dane.
Having them,needingthem, didn’t make me weak, just like being loved this loudly wasn’t a burden I had to earn.
And thanks to all of that, I actually let myself heal. No pretending I was fine while swallowing painkillers like candy, no convincing myself that if I just pushed hard enough, I could skip over the ugly part.
I took my time.
I let the bruises fade, the scar tissue settle, and my body rebuild without demanding it hurry the fuck up.Somewhere between the walks down the driveway and the slow return to strength, I realized I’d never given myself that grace before.
I remember sitting on the porch one evening, wind biting at my socks, thinking about how different everything might’ve been if I’d just paused the first time. If I hadn’t been so hell-bent on proving I was unbreakable. But when I mentioned this to my therapist, she reminded me in her gentle, you’re-full-of-shit way that I didn’t have this support system back then.
I didn’t havethem.
