Playing for Keeps: Finding Love Beyond the Lies - Chapter 45: Chapter 45

I rose to my feet, washing the medicinal oil from my hands in the adjacent bathroom. The warm water and antiseptic soap—the same routine I'd performed thousands of times over the past two years—suddenly felt foreign, as if I were going through someone else's motions.
The ring on my finger caught the light as I rinsed my hands. My chest tightened painfully, as though the band itself were constricting around my heart instead of my finger.
I stared at it under the harsh fluorescent lights—the simple silver band that Diego had presented to me on that rare good day six months into his recovery. "A promise," he'd said then, sliding it onto my finger without meeting my eyes. I'd treasured it like a holy relic, this physical manifestation of hope.
Every night, I'd twist it on my finger before sleep, a silent prayer for his recovery and our future. When things were at their worst—when he'd spent days refusing to do his exercises, when specialists had shaken their heads in doubt—I'd press my lips to the metal and whisper, "Just a little longer."
Now it felt like a shackle.
From outside the bathroom door, Diego's voice reached me, uncharacteristically gentle but unmistakably clear.
"Emma, you're like a sister to me."
The tears came instantly, splashing into the running water. I quickly wiped them away with the back of my wrist, biting my lower lip until I tasted blood.
Don't say that. Of all things, please don't say that.
Such words were devastatingly cruel, even for him. After everything we'd been through, after my confession, after these years of the most intimate care—a sister?
I took several deep breaths, willing my face to compose itself. The sounds of celebration continued in the suite's living area—laughter, champagne corks popping, congratulatory shouts in Portuguese and English. His world was expanding again while mine was collapsing.
When I pushed open the bathroom door, Diego was waiting just outside, his eyes rimmed with something that looked almost like guilt.
"Emma, I need to explanation to you—" he started, his Portuguese accent thickening as it always did when he was emotional, his English syntax slipping.
I walked past him to retrieve my purse from the sofa, then returned to where he sat in his wheelchair. Summoning every ounce of dignity I possessed, I began working the ring off my finger.
It didn't come easily. The band was a full size too small—I'd never known if he'd been careless with the sizing or if it hadn't been meant for me at all. Perhaps it was an old ring repurposed for a hasty promise made in a moment of gratitude.
What I did know was that I'd forced it onto my finger despite the pain, gritting my teeth as I pushed it past my knuckle that first day. For two years, it had left my finger permanently indented, a physical reminder of how I'd forced myself into a place I didn't belong.
Before, I'd lied to myself—rings were supposed to be snug, weren't they? It meant our bond was tight, unbreakable.
The ring resisted, catching on my knuckle as if it, too, were reluctant to accept this ending. Each twist sent a jolt of pain through my finger, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache spreading through my chest.
When it finally slipped off, my finger felt oddly naked, vulnerable. The indentation left behind was angry and red, the skin pale where the metal had pressed against it for so long. To my surprise, beneath the grief, I felt a whisper of relief—as if some part of me had known all along that this moment would come.
Diego's eyes darted away from mine, unable to hold my gaze. I held the ring out to him, my hand steady despite everything crumbling inside me.
"This belongs to you," I said quietly, my voice impressively level.
The mark on my finger was clearly visible, red and raw after two years. I added, almost conversationally, "It was a size too small. I should have said something."
He opened his mouth, his expression tormented. "Emma, is not what you think. I just—with my legs now—I cannot expect you to—"
I shook my head and raised my hand to stop him. I didn't trust myself to hear whatever justification or pity he was about to offer. If I heard one more word, the dam would break, and I refused to let him see me shatter. For two years, I'd been his rock—unfailingly optimistic, endlessly patient. I wouldn't let that image crumble now.
"Your friends are waiting," I said, forcing a smile that felt like broken glass. "This is your night. You should enjoy it."
Then I wheeled him out to join his celebration—the celebration of a future that suddenly had no place for me.
As I pushed him through the door into the suite's living area, my vision blurred with unshed tears. I blinked them back furiously, refusing to let a single one fall where anyone might see. Not his teammates, not his doctors, not his family who had come to see his miraculous recovery.
And especially not Diego himself, who glanced back at me once more with an expression I couldn't—wouldn't—try to interpret.
I'd given him two years of my life. My last gift would be my dignity.