As soon as I said it, Pixy’s sixth sense must have kicked in. He walks into the room with a loud, “Baaa.”
We both fall into a fit of laughter, our backs hitting the mattress as our laughs echo throughout the room. Aubrey’s right. This is what family does, and for the first time in my life, I finally understand what it feels like to be surrounded by one.
Unconditional love.
The best kind of love.
Oliver
I stared through the large glass windows onto Sydney Harbour. There’s something to be said about being on home soil. This place will never leave my blood. It’ll forever be a part of who I am and where I belong.
The skies are crystal clear—blue with the sun shining strongly on this autumn day. From the view of my window is the renowned Circular Quay, home to my multimillion-dollar penthouse apartment and me.
The always bustling area and piers are filled with people, tourists, families, and the occasional jogger running along the paved walkways. Only early morning, or late at night, do the droves of people disappear leaving only the city sweepers to clean the overpopulated spot.
Ferries are coming in and going out moving people around the city. The occasional party boats are also occupying the water with groups of drunken party-goers with champagne glasses in hand dancing on the top decks of the yachts. Bachelorette parties probably. If I had a dollar for every time I’d watched a drunk woman almost fall off a boat, I’d be rich. Well, richer than I am today.
The iconic landmark of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House are in full view. Breathtaking as usual. I am fucking blessed to be here, and I know that much.
Taking a deep breath, I mentally prepare myself for tonight. Closing my eyes, I work on my mind exercises, my inner pep talks as such, creating a space of ‘zen’ in my usually pre-occupied brain.
Today marks the eleventh-month post-surgery. It’s been a grueling eleven months. A mind-fuck. The surgery itself went well, no complications or infections holding me back. I followed everything Dr. Wheeler recommended with countless hours of rehabilitation, following a strict diet, and educated myself in Chinese medicine to help with my sleep and nagging insomnia.
I hired a professional life coach, Trevor, a retired A-league player from England. We have worked heavily on my mindset. I’m determined to transition back into playing full-time, and nothing will stop me.
I am in my best possible shape ever.
Recovering was the only thing on my mind, and I committed myself one hundred and ten percent. Coach is pleased with my dedication. My parents being constantly by my side to support and help me push through the toughest of days when giving up seems easier than pushing on, is awesome. Having them live across the other side of the bridge, only twenty minutes away, is reassuring.
I’ve done everything I set out to achieve.
Two Saturdays from now, mark the day I will get back on the field and see if I’ve still got what it takes.
In front of a roaring crowd.
In front of the entire world.
All of this has been a hard lesson in learning to confine myself and creating an isolated environment with no outside influences deterring me from my goal.
I don’t think about anything else.
Especially her.
I adjust my silver tie, positioning it strategically beneath the vest, part of the suit I wear. Regatta blue is the color according to Bianca.
The boys inside the living room are cheering away to shots of Sambuca. The stuff is putrid. I don’t care for anise-flavored alcohol, but they don’t care one bit. This is the final hurrah before the big moment. The fucking ‘I do’ in front of hundreds of people.
There’s a loud thump on my bedroom door until it opens wide and the laughter spills into the room.
“C’mon, Olly, we gotta toast the groom,” Greg slurs, raising his glass with a red face.
I shake my head with a smile. “No drinks for me, but I’m open to making fun of your hair?”
The boys roar in hysterics, it’s a bittersweet moment.
Tate is marrying Bianca.
My Bianca.
Past fucking tense.
When I came back to Sydney, Bianca asked to meet up. I assumed it was to get back together, and at that point, I would have gladly banged anything in sight to forget Gabriella existed. Turns out my arrogant persona got the better of me. She showed me her ring, given by my former best mate, Tate. I was crushed, but not in the way I had expected, more being a bruised ego at best.
“Best man, eh?” Greg snickers. “Better not run off with the bride. Oh, that’s right, she chose Tate.”
Greg is a dick, a small-minded one at that.
At the bachelor party, he drank himself into oblivion, whipped out his dick in public, then proceeded to a pick a fight with some random guys outside a strip joint. The guy has no fucking boundaries.
It called for a comeback, a dirty one to shut him up.
But Tate is behind me, nervously playing with his cufflinks.
I put my bottle of water down and move toward him. Pulling his arm to me, I help him fix the cufflinks into position, relief washing over him as his shoulders relax, and he exhales the nervous breath he’d been holding in.
“Can’t run off with someone who belongs to your best mate,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “You can do this, okay? Don’t know why, but Bianca loves you.”
Tate pulls me into a man hug, holding onto me for what seems like bloody forever. “Thanks, mate. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Here’s the thing about weddings, I loathe them.
If you’re single, you are bound to be set-up or placed at a singles’ table, which is usually hit or miss. More miss. Thankfully, I’m on the main table as Tate’s best man. It doesn’t stop Bianca single handily introducing her three bridesmaids to me, all of who are single.
Out of the
