Anna
I chuckle. I should have known that there would be strings attached. I weigh up my options. Matt will kill me if I gave an exclusive interview to her without talking to him first, especially considering there would be no questions that are off limits.
But my curiosity about Tony and what he has over Scar is something I don't think I can ignore.
Anna,
You have yourself a deal. All I know is this guy’s name. Tony Larezzi. Hell, I’m not even sure if it's his real name. If it helps, he has a son who is seven, named Jake Calera.
I'll be back in London in two weeks. We can either do the interview then, or over the phone. Let me know.
Ryder
Again, the reply is instant.
Ryder,
Okay, I'll see what I can come up with. No promises though. Not unless you can get more information on this guy, like a social security number or a license? As for the interview, when you get back is fine.
A good excuse to see you again in person ;)
Anna.
I'm sure she's flirting with me but I choose to ignore it. I hope she's not expecting repeat of last time. God, what if sex becomes one of her “conditions?” I groan and stand up, trying to ignore the pit in my stomach.
Why do I have a feeling this isn’t going to end well?
***
I'm sitting outside the surgery room, waiting for my appointment. Next to me are two sets of x-rays: one I just had done, and the other from right after the accident. I'm actually able to sit normally in a chair now, and the pain is only constant when I do too much. I can't decide whether this is a good or bad thing. The faster my injury heals, the more pressure I am under to make a decision about my future.
I look up as I hear my name called. A woman in her late thirties is smiling at me. Her hair is pulled back into a bun, but loose curls still fall in her friendly green eyes. I smile back and stand up, following her through the waiting room and into her office.
“Ryder, take a seat.”
“Thanks for seeing me,” I say, sitting in one of the oversize mahogany and leather chairs that face her desk. I set the films down and glance around the room. The décor is tired and it’s in need of a paint, but photos that I assume are of her family hang on the walls, giving it a homely feel. Which reminds me
: I need to call my mum.
“Of course.” She sits down and examines the films. “How is the pain?”
“It's much better. I get a dull ache if I exert myself. If I sit in the same position for too long it gets quite painful, but apart from that, it feels fine.”
The anonymity of the situation makes me feel like I can be completely honest. If I were seeing Matt’s doctor, I’d probably be playing up the amount of pain I was in.
“Good, good,” she mumbles, focusing heavily on the films. “The break it is completely healed. Over here you can see where the muscles were torn, but even those are showing great improvement over your older ones.”
“So what's the go?” I say nervously. I swallow as I wait for her to answer.
“I think when you get back to the UK you should make an appointment to see your regular surgeon. In my opinion, there would be no reason for you to not commence some basic training now if you feel up to it.” She looks me straight in the eye. “You could be back on the court in time for the US Open if everything goes to plan.”
Her words penetrate me and I feel sick.
If everything goes according to whose plan?
Because I have no idea what my plan is anymore.
This is not how I should be feeling hearing this news. If anything this gives me more insight into what I want for my future, it’s that, but I’m no closer to feeling like I know what I want. I stand up and stick my hand out. She takes it, clasping it firmly in hers.