The Long Road
Chapter twenty-four
The news of the accident had broken while Andre was still in surgery.
By the time he was discharged from St. Thomas’ Hospital four days later, the pavement outside the bakery in South Kensington had become an impromptu shrine.
Fans, well-wishers, and people who simply remembered the magic of his Wimbledon run had left hundreds of bouquets of flowers, handwritten cards, and a massive, colorful mountain of stuffed animals.
Pierre had to clear a path just so Blake could get Andre through the front door.
Jasper Winters had called three times while Andre was in surgery. Phoebe had texted Blake a single message:
We are here. Whatever you need.
The morning after Andre was discharged, a delivery arrived — not flowers, but a stack of art books and a handwritten note in Phoebe's sharp, slanted script:
For when you're bored. These are for looking, not doing. Rest and recover. Love Phoebe and Jasper
Now, the flat in South Kensington had been transformed.
The coffee table in the living room was pushed against the wall to make room for a physical therapy mat. The kitchen counters were cluttered with pill bottles, ice packs, and resistance bands. The air smelled faintly of arnica cream and the lavender shortbread Claire brought up every afternoon.
It had been six weeks since the accident.
Andre was sitting on the sofa, his right arm resting on a pillow. The heavy plaster cast had been removed a week ago, replaced by a rigid, custom-molded splint that left his fingers exposed.
His hand looked terrible. The skin was pale and waxy, the knuckles swollen, a jagged, angry red scar running down the back of his hand where the surgeons had inserted the pins.
He was staring at a small, blue rubber therapy ball resting on his palm.
“Squeeze,” Blake said gently, sitting on the coffee table opposite him.
Andre closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. He tried to close his fingers around the ball.
The movement was agonizingly slow, the tendons in his wrist straining against the scar tissue. He managed to compress the ball a fraction of an inch before the pain became too sharp, and his fingers spasmed, dropping the ball onto the floor.
Andre let out a harsh, frustrated breath, leaning his head back against the sofa.
“It is useless.”
“It’s not useless,” Blake said, picking the ball up and placing it back in Andre’s palm. “You got further today than you did yesterday. The swelling is going down.”
“I cannot even hold a fork, Blake. How am I supposed to hold a brush?”
“One day at a time,” Blake said, his voice steady in the face of Andre’s despair. “Try again.”
Andre tried again. He failed again.
With a sudden, violent surge of frustration, Andre grabbed the ball with his left hand and threw it across the room. It bounced off the wall, knocking a framed photograph askew, and rolled under the armchair.
“I am done,” Andre snapped, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I am done for today.”
Blake didn’t argue. He didn’t offer platitudes. He simply moved from the coffee table to the sofa, sitting down next to Andre. He wrapped his arm around Andre’s shoulders, pulling him close, and pressed a kiss to his temple.
Andre leaned into him, the fight draining out of him, leaving only exhaustion. He rested his head on Blake’s shoulder, his left hand coming up to grip the fabric of Blake’s shirt.
“I am sorry,” Andre whispered. “I am so angry all the time.”
“You’re allowed to be angry,” Blake said softly, his hand moving in a slow, steady rhythm along Andre’s spine. “It’s not fair. But you’re not going to give up. I won’t let you.”
The front door of the flat opened, and Doug walked in, carrying a stack of manila folders and two coffees from the cafe down the street.
“Therapy not going well?” Doug asked, noting the blue ball under the armchair.
“We’re taking a break,” Blake said, not moving his arm from around Andre.
Doug set the coffees on the kitchen counter and walked into the living room, dropping the folders onto the coffee table. He looked at Blake, his expression serious.
“We need to talk,” Doug said. “About the schedule.”
Andre tensed, pulling back slightly. He knew what this was about. Blake had forfeited the semifinal in Madrid. He had withdrawn from the French Open. He had missed Queen’s Club. Wimbledon was three weeks away.
“I’ll go into the bedroom,” Andre said, starting to stand up.
“No,” Blake said, catching his left hand and pulling him back down. “You stay. This affects both of us.”
Blake looked at Doug. “What do you have?”
Doug opened the top folder, pulling out a spreadsheet covered in highlighted numbers. “The ATP released the new rankings this morning. You’ve dropped to number four. If you don’t play Wimbledon, you’re going to lose the points from last year’s semifinal. You’ll drop out of the top ten by August.”
Blake looked at the spreadsheet, his face impassive. “Okay.”
“It’s not just ‘okay,’ Blake,” Doug said, his voice rising slightly. “You’re in the prime of your career. You were two matches away from the number one ranking in the world. You can’t just stop playing.”
“I’m not stopping,” Blake said calmly. “I’m taking a leave of absence.”
Andre turned to look at him, his eyes wide.
“Blake, no. You cannot do that. Wimbledon is your favorite tournament. You have to play.”
“I’m not playing Wimbledon, Andre,” Blake said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m not leaving you here while you’re going through this.”
“I have my parents,” Andre argued, panic rising in his chest. He had already taken so much from Blake. He couldn’t take his career, too. “I have the physical therapist. I will be fine.”
“I’m not leaving,” Blake repeated, turning to look at Andre, his blue eyes fierce and absolute. “When I walked out of this flat in February, I almost lost you. I’m not making that mistake again. My place is here.”
He turned back to Doug. “What are the rules for a protected ranking?”
Doug sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
He had known this was coming. He had seen the way Blake looked at Andre in the hospital, the unyielding devotion that had replaced the rage from the spring.
“I If you take a minimum of six months off for a documented medical condition, you can apply for a protected ranking," Doug explained, pulling out another sheet of paper.
"It freezes your ranking at the time you stopped playing.
You can use it to enter tournaments when you return, but you won't be seeded.”
Blake frowned. "But I'm not injured."
"Blake." Doug looked at him steadily. "You haven't slept more than three hours a night in six weeks.
You had a panic attack at Barajas Airport.
You're not eating. That's not nothing — that's a documented psychological condition.
Anxiety, insomnia, acute stress. I'll get Dr. Emmons to write the evaluation. The ATP will accept it."
“Six months,” Blake mused, doing the math in his head. “That takes us to November. After the US Open.”
“Yes,” Doug said. “You’d miss the rest of the grass season, the entire North American hard-court swing, and the US Open.”
Andre let out a small, distressed sound. “Blake, please. The US Open. You love New York.”
Blake reached out, taking Andre’s uninjured left hand in both of his.
He looked at the man he loved, at the bruised, exhausted face, the angry scar on his right hand.
He thought about the empty hotel rooms. He thought about the silence.
He thought about the painting that had brought him back.
Tennis was his profession. It was what he did. But Andre was who he was.
“I have enough trophies,” Blake said softly, caressing the top of Andre’s left hand. “I don’t have enough of you.”
He looked up at Doug. “File the paperwork. I’m taking the six months.”
Doug looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then, slowly, a small, proud smile touched the corners of his mouth.
“Alright,” Doug said, closing the folder.
“I’ll call Gemma. We’ll draft a statement for the press.
‘Personal reasons.’ They’ll speculate, but they won’t know anything for sure. ”
“Thank you, Doug,” Blake said.
When Doug left, the flat was quiet again.
Andre looked at Blake, his eyes shining with tears. “You are giving up so much for me.”
“I’m not giving up anything,” Blake said, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Andre’s mouth. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
The physical therapy clinic was located in a nondescript brick building in Marylebone, its interior a sterile landscape of white walls, fluorescent lights, and the faint chemical tang of medical-grade cleaner.
For Andre, it was a torture chamber.
It was early July, eight weeks since the accident and the reality of the damage was now starkly visible.
His right hand was a landscape of trauma — the skin tight and shiny over the swollen joints, the angry red scar running down the back of his hand a constant, visceral reminder of the metal pins holding his bones together.
He was sitting at a small, adjustable table, facing his therapist, a no-nonsense woman named Priya who possessed a surprising amount of upper body strength and absolutely no sympathy for his complaints.
Blake was sitting in a plastic chair in the corner of the room, a magazine open on his lap, though he hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes.
“Alright, Andre,” Priya said, her voice brisk and professional. “Let’s see the extension.”
Andre placed his hand flat on the table. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to lift his fingers off the surface.
The movement was agonizing. The tendons in his wrist screamed in protest, the scar tissue pulling tight across his knuckles. He managed to lift his index and middle fingers a fraction of an inch before the pain became a sharp, blinding spike that shot up his arm.
He gasped, his hand dropping back to the table, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
“Two millimeters,” Priya noted, writing something on her clipboard. “Better than yesterday.”