Playing for Keeps: Finding Love Beyond the Lies - Chapter 42: Chapter 42
You are reading Playing for Keeps: Finding Love Beyond the Lies, Chapter 42: Chapter 42. Read more chapters of Playing for Keeps: Finding Love Beyond the Lies.
"Do you still want to marry me?"
Diego's expression froze at my question, his dark eyes shifting to stare at his legs. The same legs that once carried him across the pitch at blistering speed, now lying motionless beneath the hospital blanket.
Outside his private room, the celebration continued, voices drifting through the partially open door.
"The surgeon says Diego's procedure was a complete success. He'll be back on his feet within two weeks."
"I never thought he'd recover. Two years ago after that bone-crushing tackle from the Sevilla defender, he'd given up completely."
"Thank God for Emma. She never left his side. They'll definitely get married now that he's recovering. We should start thinking about wedding gifts."
The Portuguese midfielder who once commanded €40 million transfer fees heard these well-meaning congratulations but remained silent, his jaw clenched tight.
The silence between us stretched unbearably.
Finally, I moved to his bedside and began my routine, massaging his knees and calves with practiced motions—the same routine I'd performed countless times during our two years together.
"Is this pressure okay?" I asked, offering him an escape from answering my question.
His tense shoulders slowly relaxed as I worked.
"Any discomfort?" I asked softly, the familiar question hanging between us.
He shook his head. "None. You've gotten better at this than the Porto physios ever were."
My hands continued their work while my mind drifted back to the beginning. Before his injury, I'd never given a massage in my life. The team had sent professional caregivers, but Diego couldn't stand them touching him—the former star who once had managers and scouts from Europe's elite clubs begging for his signature, reduced to depending on others for basic care.
"Não preciso da pena deles! I don't need their fucking pity! Merda!" he'd roar, his accent thickening with emotion, Portuguese and English blending together in his rage.
The caregivers never stood a chance against his fury—the raw, unfiltered anger of a man who'd had everything taken from him in a single moment. One reckless tackle that shattered not just his tibia and fibula, but his entire identity.
But the massages were essential for preventing muscle atrophy, so I spent three months learning from the team's head physiotherapist.
I practiced techniques on myself with medicinal oils before finally daring to work on Diego's legs.
The first time, I only attempted it while he slept.
Being a light sleeper—a habit from years of pre-dawn training sessions—he caught me immediately. "Que estás a fazer?" he'd growled, eyes flashing. "Get the hell out!"
I didn't leave. Instead, I continued working the pressure points I'd been taught, keeping my face neutral despite his fury.
Unable to move his legs, he grabbed his pillow and hurled it at my head. When I didn't react, he threw everything within reach—his phone, water bottle, medications.
"Do you know what it's like?" he'd shouted, voice breaking. "To feel nothing? To watch your legs and know they're yours but not feel them? Estas pernas malditas—these cursed legs!"
The last object he threw was a framed photo from his glory days—Diego hoisting the Champions League Young Player of the Year trophy, his other fist raised triumphantly toward the sky, his future limitless.
As blood trickled down from where the corner of the frame had struck my temple, something in his expression changed. He tried to reach me, but his useless legs kept him prisoner in his own bed.
"This isn't me," he finally broke down, covering his face as harsh sobs racked his body. "I was supposed to captain Portugal at the World Cup. Now look at me. I'm nothing. Just a memory. A cautionary tale they'll tell young players."
"Just go, Emma. Leave me alone.
"It's all pointless. I can't feel anything. I'll never feel anything again."
Diego's expression froze at my question, his dark eyes shifting to stare at his legs. The same legs that once carried him across the pitch at blistering speed, now lying motionless beneath the hospital blanket.
Outside his private room, the celebration continued, voices drifting through the partially open door.
"The surgeon says Diego's procedure was a complete success. He'll be back on his feet within two weeks."
"I never thought he'd recover. Two years ago after that bone-crushing tackle from the Sevilla defender, he'd given up completely."
"Thank God for Emma. She never left his side. They'll definitely get married now that he's recovering. We should start thinking about wedding gifts."
The Portuguese midfielder who once commanded €40 million transfer fees heard these well-meaning congratulations but remained silent, his jaw clenched tight.
The silence between us stretched unbearably.
Finally, I moved to his bedside and began my routine, massaging his knees and calves with practiced motions—the same routine I'd performed countless times during our two years together.
"Is this pressure okay?" I asked, offering him an escape from answering my question.
His tense shoulders slowly relaxed as I worked.
"Any discomfort?" I asked softly, the familiar question hanging between us.
He shook his head. "None. You've gotten better at this than the Porto physios ever were."
My hands continued their work while my mind drifted back to the beginning. Before his injury, I'd never given a massage in my life. The team had sent professional caregivers, but Diego couldn't stand them touching him—the former star who once had managers and scouts from Europe's elite clubs begging for his signature, reduced to depending on others for basic care.
"Não preciso da pena deles! I don't need their fucking pity! Merda!" he'd roar, his accent thickening with emotion, Portuguese and English blending together in his rage.
The caregivers never stood a chance against his fury—the raw, unfiltered anger of a man who'd had everything taken from him in a single moment. One reckless tackle that shattered not just his tibia and fibula, but his entire identity.
But the massages were essential for preventing muscle atrophy, so I spent three months learning from the team's head physiotherapist.
I practiced techniques on myself with medicinal oils before finally daring to work on Diego's legs.
The first time, I only attempted it while he slept.
Being a light sleeper—a habit from years of pre-dawn training sessions—he caught me immediately. "Que estás a fazer?" he'd growled, eyes flashing. "Get the hell out!"
I didn't leave. Instead, I continued working the pressure points I'd been taught, keeping my face neutral despite his fury.
Unable to move his legs, he grabbed his pillow and hurled it at my head. When I didn't react, he threw everything within reach—his phone, water bottle, medications.
"Do you know what it's like?" he'd shouted, voice breaking. "To feel nothing? To watch your legs and know they're yours but not feel them? Estas pernas malditas—these cursed legs!"
The last object he threw was a framed photo from his glory days—Diego hoisting the Champions League Young Player of the Year trophy, his other fist raised triumphantly toward the sky, his future limitless.
As blood trickled down from where the corner of the frame had struck my temple, something in his expression changed. He tried to reach me, but his useless legs kept him prisoner in his own bed.
"This isn't me," he finally broke down, covering his face as harsh sobs racked his body. "I was supposed to captain Portugal at the World Cup. Now look at me. I'm nothing. Just a memory. A cautionary tale they'll tell young players."
"Just go, Emma. Leave me alone.
"It's all pointless. I can't feel anything. I'll never feel anything again."
End of Playing for Keeps: Finding Love Beyond the Lies Chapter 42. Continue reading Chapter 43 or return to Playing for Keeps: Finding Love Beyond the Lies book page.