Chapter One
Logan
“Without proper rehabilitation, your soccer career is over.”
Dr. Malik’s words slice through the pristine office air. I wait for the ‘but’ or ‘however’ that usually follows devastating news. Surely there must be a qualifier coming—you don’t just end the league’s leading scorer’s career in five words. But the silence stretches on.
My fingers dig into the leather armrests, knuckles whitening against the deep brown material. The walls of his office press closer, medical degrees and team photos are watching my downfall. Twenty-nine years old, at my peak, leading the golden boot race, and now... The numbers blur together: two years left on my contract, three months until World Cup qualifiers, six weeks of guaranteed starting position—gone. All those statistics that defined my life—goals per game, shooting accuracy, degrees of flexion, pain scales, and recovery timelines replaced scoring records within reach.
Afternoon sunlight streams through the windows, stretching shadows across the polished floor. The air conditioning hums, filling the void between us. On his desk, a silver-framed photo from our championship celebration mocks me—frozen in triumph, lifted on my teammates’ shoulders after the winning goal, Jason leading the celebrations. A moment I might never experience again.
The memory of last week’s match crashes over me: that sickening pop, my knee giving way as I lined up the shot, the damp turf rushing to meet me. The roar of the crowd faded to nothing, replaced by the thunder of my heartbeat.
“Logan?” Dr. Malik’s voice competes with the wall clock’s steady tick. “Are you with me?”
I force myself to meet his gaze, fighting the numbness in my chest. “How can you be asking me that? You just told me I might never score another goal.”
“Because this isn’t the end.” Dr. Malik leans forward, his chair creaking softly. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his expression softens—the same look he gave me after my first major injury. “The club has brought in a specialist physiotherapist. With the right rehabilitation program—“
“What happened to Jeremy?” The words scrape my throat. Three years of trust, early morning sessions, shared victories, and knowing nods from the sidelines are gone. Someone new who won’t understand my routines, my preparation, my need to watch training even when I can’t take part.
“He’s taken a sabbatical.” Dr. Malik adjusts his glasses. “His assistant, Dr. Reeves, will work with you until the new therapist arrives next week.”
My jaw tightens. A new therapist who doesn’t know my history, style, or the way I read the game. Someone who hasn’t seen me fight back before, who doesn’t understand what it means to be the one the team depends on. Someone who hasn’t earned my trust like Jeremy did.
***
Morning light filters through floor-length curtains, casting strips of gold across my California king bed—a bed I should have left hours ago for training. The soccer stadium looms through my panoramic windows, a temple I’ve been exiled from. My phone buzzes with the team’s practice schedule. The automatic reach sends pain shooting through my knee, and suddenly I’m on the floor, catching myself against the nightstand. Last season’s Golden Boot trophy clatters down beside me. I don’t bother picking it up.
Each step to the bathroom is a battle, lightning crackling through the knee that last week could generate enough power to curl a ball into the top corner from forty yards. The Italian marble counter chills my palms as I brace myself, taking in the stranger in the mirror—shadows under my eyes, stubble I haven’t bothered to shave. Framed jerseys line the walls, reminding me of what I’m losing.
The home gym feels like a mausoleum. Last week’s taunt echoes: “Getting slow, old man.” I’d pushed harder, determined to prove him wrong. Then came that pop—the sound of a career imploding. The roar of the crowd died instantly, replaced by a single thought: Not like this. Not when I’m finally where I’m meant to be.
The treadmill belt stays motionless. Trophies and match balls from hat-tricks line the shelves, gathering dust like my dreams. I step forward, determined to at least try, but my knee buckles. The rubber floor rushes up to meet me, and suddenly I’m there, curse words mixing with choked sobs.
A text from Anthony breaks through: Heard about the new PT assignment. Small world, huh?
I ignore it, just like I’ve ignored his Sunday dinner invites and family gatherings. The last thing I need is pity from my best friend, or awkward reunions with... No. Focus on recovery. Focus on returning to what I do best—finding the back of the net.
***
The clinic’s antiseptic smell hits me as the automatic doors slide open. Once it meant progress. Now it just reminds me of everything I’m losing. On the waiting room TV, highlights from yesterday’s match play on loop—my replacement missing three clear chances. The team needs their striker back.
Dr. Reeves guides me through exercises that feel like torture. The rubber mat squeaks beneath me with each movement, Jeremy’s voice echoing in my memory: “One more rep. Trust the process.”
That first knee injury, the dislocation that nearly broke me—Jeremy understood what it meant to be a striker, how every movement needed precision and explosiveness. He’d position the treatment table so I could watch training and stay connected to the team even when I couldn’t join them. The rhythm of his movements became as familiar as reading a goalkeeper’s position before taking a shot.
Dr. Reeves adjusts the resistance on the leg press, his movements careful but foreign. “The new physical therapist comes highly recommended, Logan. Give her a chance.”
I nod, but my throat constricts. Everything I’ve worked for hangs by a thread—my legacy, my records, my chance at another scoring title. Each day feels like sand slipping through my fingers.
Outside the clinic, the sun paints the sky in deep oranges and purples. A group of kids play soccer in the park across the street, their shouts carrying on the evening breeze. One boy lines up a shot, his form a mirror of my younger self before the records, and golden boots when scoring was pure joy.
“I need to get back,” I whisper. “Whatever it takes.”
The days blur together as I wait for the new physical therapist to arrive. Each morning, I wake up hoping this will be the day I turn the corner, the day things make sense again. I have to believe there’s still a way back to being the striker I was.
Because the alternative isn’t an option. Not when I can still feel that perfect connection of boot to ball, hear the roar after a crucial goal, sense that split-second before the net bulges when you know you’ve hit it just right. Everything I am living in those moments, from my first wobbly steps chasing a ball in our backyard to last season’s Golden Boot—ten years of professional play, two hundred and twenty goals, seventy-seven assists. Numbers that defined me are now replaced by a different statistic: six to eight months’ recovery time, if I’m lucky.
I’m not just losing my career. I’m losing who I am—the one my team looks to when they need a goal, the striker fans believe in when the game’s on the line. And now my future rests in the hands of someone who doesn’t even know me and doesn’t understand what’s at stake.