Chapter 51
JACK
QATAR
Georgie’s late. I’m not mad about it, it’s just unusual.
She knows how tight our weekend schedules are even better than I do.
I use the opportunity to slump on my driver room couch and check my phone.
Disappointment spears through me when the only new message is from my agent.
I’m such an idiot for hoping. Minnie won’t have messaged.
Not now, not ever. Why would she? I was an arsehole.
I couldn’t fight for her when it mattered. I didn’t know how.
I rake my fingers through my hair and rub my eyes. I haven’t been sleeping much and I can feel the effects all over. In the first practice session earlier, my concentration wandered for a second and I lost the air on my front wing, almost wobbling into the barrier.
Having trouble sleeping makes no sense because we weren’t together every single night, but I’m finding it impossible to sleep alone. When I drift off, I think of Minnie, and when I wake up, I immediately reach for her, and the whole nightmare comes back fresh.
The door swings open and I wipe away a tear before Georgie can see. Without making eye contact, she shoves a protein shake in my chest so roughly she winds me, but weirdly it makes me feel a little better. This is familiar territory. This I know how to handle.
She’s been in a hump since she found out about me and Minnie.
It’s none of her damn business. If she wants to stomp around and act all petty, that’s on her.
There are only nine days left of this season and I have every intention of gritting my teeth and bearing her until the winter break.
I’m not in the mood for an I told you so or a lecture on what she thinks I did or didn’t do.
Even getting dressed and leaving my hotel are feats at the moment so I’m sticking to the necessities.
I frown into the dense liquid. What the hell’s in this thing? ‘Why’s it… beige?’
‘New flavour.’
‘It’s curdled.’
‘Anything else, Mr Hollywood?’
Jesus.
Saying I’m not looking forward to this massage is undercooking it – I’d rather do a Paddock Club appearance starkers.
I tried to get out of it and lied that my calves aren’t tight but she’s having none of it, so now I’m lying on a bed at the whim of an angry Georgie, that one disgusting sip of protein shake stirring my insides.
It was only slightly worse than the hard-boiled eggs and stale rye she forced me to eat for breakfast.
‘Any areas of tightness.’ Her usual question, delivered with the expressiveness of Andy Murray.
‘No.’
She knows I’m lying and goes straight for my Achilles tendon. I grit my teeth to keep from twitching. Pain is in my mind. It’s a construct. I can out-think—
FUCK!
Her thumbs slide through – not around, not on top of, through – my gastrocnemius muscle.
White hot fire’s burning down the centre of my calf.
I swallow an almighty grunt and throw all my energy into not booting her in the face.
Eventually, she makes it to my knee, and I can breathe for few seconds while she resets.
Too soon, she starts again with excruciating slowness – but this time, using her forearm.
‘How’s the pressure.’
‘Fine,’ I respond, way too high. If I show weakness, she’ll press harder.
Sweat’s dripping into my eyes as she pummels me like I’m the one who told her she’s not cut out for performance coaching because she’s a woman.
She knows exactly what she’s doing; she’s more attuned to my body than I am.
In a twisted way, it feels good. This is the most present I’ve been all wee— Her thumbs reach the lateral head of the muscle, nails digging into the gap, and I let out a bleat.
‘There a problem?’ she asks.
‘N—’
‘Flex your foot.’
She rests the front of my calf on her shoulder, and runs her knotted hands down the back.
I think I’m going to puke. I’ve had many sports massages in my life and I know what it’s supposed to feel like, and blinding pain mixed with pinched skin isn’t it.
When her claws make an appearance at the base, that’s it.
‘Ahh! Enough!’ I hurtle off the bed and grab the wall to stop myself collapsing. My whole leg’s gone numb. ‘Enough.’
Her eyebrows smush together. ‘What—’
‘Stop. Punishing. Me.’
‘Your calves are tight. I can see it a mile off.’
‘Pinching them’s not going to help, is it?’
She juts her chin out. ‘I was loosening the muscle.’
Loosening tears more like. I rotate my leg and, lo and behold, angry little half-moon marks. ‘Look!’
‘All I see is your tight soleus, which I didn’t get a chance to work on yet because you chickened out – like you’ve been doing a lot lately.’
Oh so we’re really doing this. ‘What the fuck’s your problem?’
‘You’re a coward, Jack Bowden—’
‘Am not!’
‘—which is hilarious for someone who takes their life in their hands every time they go to work.’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh yeah? You keep crying when you think I’m not looking, your driving’s shit, your concentration’s all over the place.’
I clear my throat. ‘I’m fine. My leg’s not, though.’
‘Don’t change the subject. You did this to yourself. You just lost the best thing that ever happened to you, and in the most callous way, too.’
‘You have no idea what happened—’
‘I know exactly what happened, I heard it from Kurt’s performance coach. You treated Minnie like poo. It took real guts for her to admit her feelings – especially for someone with just as many commitment issues as you – and you threw it back in her face. Did she deserve that?’
Of course not. I can’t stand that I hurt her, even more than losing her. It’s eating me alive. I was supposed to be her protector, the man to sew up her dad’s wounds, the one she could count on. But I panicked.
‘I can’t be who she needs me to be, George,’ I murmur, staring at the floor.
That calms her and for the first time all week, her eyebrows draw apart. ‘Relationships aren’t just about give; you don’t sign on the dotted line to relinquish your soul. The whole thing’s mutual. What do you need from her? Is she what you need her to be?’
I recoil, offended on Minnie’s behalf. ‘She’s what I want exactly as she is. I wouldn’t change anything about her. I just can’t love her like she deserves.’
‘Why not?’
I give her a look. She knows why not. I don’t need to say it.
‘Stop hiding behind Luca.’ Georgie rolls her eyes, and I start at how casually she throws around his name. We never talk about him anymore. ‘This isn’t about him and you know it. He was my friend too, and he would’ve hated you scapegoating him like this.’
What the actual fuck? ‘I’m not—’
‘Ok, maybe scapegoating’s too strong, but he doesn’t deserve all the credit. You have issues, pal, and you’re never going to be happy if you keep running from them.’
Thanks, Dr Phil, I’ll keep that in mind.
I know I have issues, that’s not news. In my life, love has never been sunshine and rainbows.
Love is shackling, being forced into a dutiful life you’re not ready for.
Love is misery, watching the people you care about suffer day in, day out.
Love is grief, forever humming in the background.
Minnie deserves better. A man who knows how to give love and receive it; who can share what he’s thinking and feeling; who doesn’t panic when she’s honest with him; who’s proud to tell the world she’s his. I’m not enough and I never will be.
‘I can’t do it, George. I just can’t.’
I walk out before she can argue. She doesn’t need to remind me that I lost the best thing in my life. I’m doing a stellar job of that all on my own.