Wildcard: Volume One

“Are you done?” I snap. I glare at him. “I fucked up. I’m aware of that. You going on about it isn’t going to change anything, is it?”

“No, but it might make you think twice before doing something so stupid again. For fuck’s sake, you slipped and broke your ass bone getting out of a fucking hot tub—mid-orgy, no doubt—the night before—no, the morning of the final for the French Open. How could you be so fucking stupid?”

“I’m aware of the details,” I say, gritting my teeth. Will he just go already, and leave me to wallow in peace?

“You’re a fucking laughing stock. I mean, who the fuck breaks their ass? I hope the sex was at least worth it,” he goes on and on. I close my eyes and groan, wishing he would just leave already. He’s not telling me anything I don’t already know.

And I’m sure the sex would’ve been fantastic, if we’d gotten that far.

“I have to go and sort this shit out—not that I think there is much hope of that. Try not to get into any more trouble in here, okay?”

I roll my eyes as he stands up. He kicks the chair back, sending it flying against the wall as he storms out of the room. He’s right. I know that. This is the type of shit that stays in the gossip columns for weeks. It’s the kind of material that comedians thrive on.

I’ll be the butt of jokes for weeks . . . literally.

**

For the rest of the day I drift in

and out of sleep, only waking when the pain becomes so bad that I need to shift the weight off my back. How can one tiny bone cause so much fucking hurt?

Nurses filter in and out to take my vitals and roll me over onto my other side. I swear every single one of them is laughing at me. I am so fucking embarrassed, because I know that they all know exactly what happened. The whole fucking world knows.

It’s nearly four p.m. when I hear the door. I look up and see Josh. He sits down on the chair next to my bed.

“Hey, man.”

“Hey,” I mutter.

“How are you feeling?”

“How do you think I’m feeling?” I groan.

He raises his eyebrows, and I immediately feel bad for taking my anger out on him.

“Sorry. I’m sore, and every time I think about what happened I want to cringe. But apart from that I’m great.”

“Have the doctors told you how long you’ll be out of action for?”

I shrug. It’s too depressing to even think about anymore. “In here for a week, then off my feet for a few more. After that, who the fuck knows?” I groan. Josh snorts, and I raise my eyebrows at him. “Is there something you wanna say?”

“Sorry, but you have more sex than any guy I know. I can’t imagine you bedbound for a freaking day, let alone a month.”

Fuck! I hadn’t even thought about that. This was getting worse and worse.

“Can we please talk about something other than this?” I plead, closing my eyes.

“Yeah, sure.” He reaches down and into the bag at his feet. “I brought some shit in for you. Your laptop, some magazines, chocolate . . . Let me know if there’s anything else I can get you, okay?”

“Thanks,” I say. “What am I supposed to do, man? I can’t lie on my arse for the next month. You know me, dude. I can’t sit still through a fucking movie.”

“You don’t have a choice.” He shrugs. “Do something to take your mind off things. Learn a language. Answer some of your freaking fan mail, for once. Just take it for what this is and relax. It could’ve been worse. If you keep focusing on how bad this is, you’ll end up depressed.”

Too late.

“I gotta run. I have a meeting with a new sponsor, but I’ll come in tomorrow and see you before I fly out, okay? Is your family coming over?”

I nod. The only thing worse than being stuck on my arse for weeks, bored out of my mind, is having my family around to see it.