Playing for Keeps: Finding Love Beyond the Lies - Chapter 51: Chapter 51

During my time caring for Diego, I sometimes couldn't help but wonder about Will and Louisa from that film everyone was talking about—Me Before You. If Will hadn't had his accident, would he have ever fallen in love with Louisa Clark?
At first, I thought yes. Later, I believed no.
I went back and forth between these possibilities, ultimately finding no definitive answer. Two people brought together by tragedy—would they have found each other otherwise?
I may not know the answer for that fictional romance, but I now had absolute clarity about Diego and me.
Diego was in a new relationship—and making quite the public spectacle of it.
His Instagram, dormant for nearly two years during his recovery, had suddenly erupted with couple photos: Diego and Beatriz at sunset on the beach, Diego and Beatriz at an exclusive restaurant, Diego and Beatriz courtside at a basketball game. The Portuguese media had picked up the story immediately: "FERREIRA FINDS LOVE AFTER RECOVERY."
His caption on the first post had been particularly pointed: "Finally found the one." As if our two years together had been nothing but a false start.
According to Charlotte, who still followed Diego's teammates on social media, Beatriz was the daughter of one of Porto FC's board members. She was studying fashion design, spoke four languages, and had once dated a minor Portuguese royal. Of course she had.
It would have been impossible for me not to know about their relationship, even if I'd wanted to. Diego's return to public life was being treated like a second coming in the Portuguese press. His rehabilitation was called "miraculous," his new girlfriend "stunning." No mention was made of the English teacher who had spent two years of her life making that miracle possible.
I encountered them in person at Sophia's engagement party. With so many mutual friends from Diego's circle, a collision was inevitable. When Diego entered with Beatriz on his arm—walking with only the slightest limp—Charlotte squeezed my hand so tightly I nearly winced. After all, my friends had witnessed how completely I had devoted myself to his recovery.
I gave Charlotte a reassuring smile and allowed myself to look directly at the woman Diego had brought.
Nothing special, despite the magazine profiles. Two eyes, one mouth. Pretty in that polished, expensive way that spoke of regular facial treatments and personal stylists.
Diego saw me too. Our eyes met across the room for one charged moment before he deliberately chose a spot in the corner near the entrance, as far from me as the space allowed.
When ordering from the server, he requested a fruit platter without looking at the menu.
When it arrived, he placed it in front of Beatriz without comment. She smiled brightly, her perfect white teeth flashing as she leaned over to whisper something in his ear, her hand possessively on his arm.
She was clearly delighted to share whatever thoughts she had, but Diego didn't even bother to lower his head properly to listen. His gaze remained fixed on the fruit platter, absorbing her words with such obvious disinterest that even strangers could have noticed.
If this was how he behaved in a relationship he had chosen, it seemed rather bleak.
I wasn't bothered by the display, but Charlotte was incensed on my behalf.
"Look at him, acting like he's God's gift," she muttered, refilling her wine glass for the third time. "He can barely look at her."
"Char, you're drinking too much," I cautioned gently.
She'd had too much wine and kept insisting she would introduce me to "men who actually know how to appreciate a woman." I patiently explained that she was intoxicated and shouldn't be playing matchmaker.
As I was helping her toward the exit, Beatriz suddenly appeared in our path.
"I know who you are," she said, her English carrying a lilting Portuguese accent.
I paused, and she continued: "Thank you for taking care of Diego during his difficult time."
The "difficult time"—as if his rehabilitation had been a brief inconvenience rather than two years of physical and emotional hell.
I nodded politely and attempted to continue walking with my increasingly unsteady friend.
Beatriz, seemingly eager to assert some kind of dominance, failed to notice the suddenly tense atmosphere around us. She hurriedly stepped forward, blocking our path again.
"But if I had been there for Diego then," she added with a smile that didn't reach her eyes, "I could have done exactly the same, you know. I come from a medical family."
All those violent mood swings, the cups and phones and award trophies thrown in blind rage. The nights spent listening for sounds of distress, never achieving deep sleep for twenty-four months straight. The daily emotional beatings, the verbal lashings, the moments of utter despair when even the doctors had given up hope.
She claimed she could have handled it all? With her manicured nails and designer dresses?
I laughed softly, unable to help myself.
Anyone can make such claims when the battle is already won. But there was no "what if" in reality.
Then again, who knows? If Diego's legs were to deteriorate again—always a possibility with nerve damage—she could certainly try her hand at caregiving. Let her see how her "medical family" background prepared her for the reality of handling a depressed, rage-filled athlete who had lost his identity overnight.
Diego had been watching our exchange from across the room, and his expression had darkened considerably. Sophia stepped in to ease the tension, placing a gentle hand on Beatriz's shoulder.
"Beatriz, come meet my fiancé's sister. She's just started at university in Lisbon," Sophia said smoothly.
I also tried to lighten the mood with a joke: "If it ever comes to that, you might be better off hiring a professional caregiver. I hear they make excellent custard buns these days."
With just that comment, Diego's entire demeanor changed. His face flushed dark with anger—the same explosive rage I'd seen so many times during his recovery, but had forgotten could be triggered so easily.
His glass hit the marble tabletop with such force that several people jumped. The room fell silent as all eyes turned toward him.
"Enough!" he snapped, his accent thickening with emotion. "Why do you keep bringing up the past? It's done! Acabou! It's boring and pathetic to keep talking about it!"
The venom in his voice was shocking, even to those who knew him well. Beatriz stared at him with wide eyes, clearly unprepared for this side of her new boyfriend.
But if it was truly in the past—if it was genuinely resolved—why couldn't it be mentioned? It was he who couldn't bear to be reminded of what he considered his humiliation, his weakness. For all his physical recovery, Diego Ferreira hadn't healed at all.
I met his furious gaze calmly, neither intimidated nor surprised by his outburst. This was the real Diego—the one his glamorous new girlfriend would eventually discover beneath the charming exterior.
"You're right," I said quietly, addressing him directly for the first time that evening. "The past is the past. I wish you both every happiness."
I gave Charlotte's arm a gentle tug and continued toward the door. Behind me, I could hear whispered apologies and awkward attempts to restart conversations.
As we stepped outside into the cool evening air, Charlotte leaned heavily against me.
"Did you see his face?" she slurred. "He's still a complete disaster. That poor girl has no idea what she's in for."
I helped her into a taxi, then decided to walk home despite the late hour. The streets of Porto were quiet, the cobblestones still warm from the day's sunshine.
"He never deserved you," Charlotte had added before the taxi pulled away. "Not for a single day."
I smiled, my breath visible in the chilly night air. "Maybe not. But that doesn't matter anymore."
And for the first time since I'd left Diego's apartment with nothing but a credit card and my dignity, I realized I actually meant it.
The ring mark on my finger had finally faded completely, leaving no trace of those two years. Like they had never happened at all.