The Girl I Never Got Over
Description
"Don't carry me." He said it through gritted teeth as the medics lifted him off the pitch. But it was too late. The damage had already been done-not just to his leg, but to everything. Lucas Rivera had it all: talent, fame, speed, and a shot at Champions League glory. Until one sprint shattered his world. A torn muscle, a stadium full of cameras, and a career hanging by a thread. Now, as headlines scream "career-ending injury," the League sends in their secret weapon: Riley Morgan, elite rehab specialist-and the girl Lucas never got over. They haven't spoken in years. He left her behind for Madrid. She walked away with a broken heart-and steel in her spine. But now she's back. In his recovery room. In his space. In his head. "You're just another case file." "Yeah? This file calls you Riles in the dark too?"
Chapter 1
Aug 13, 2025
“Don’t carry me.”
My voice came out low, rough, and full of fury, but the medics didn’t listen. Two of them lifted me off the pitch anyway. My body screamed in protest, but my mind was somewhere else—already racing through the implications. I’d felt the tear the second it happened.
No pop, no warning—just raw fire ripping through the back of my thigh like a blade. One wrong angle. One sprint too many.
And now I was being carted off in front of a stadium full of people who didn’t care if I was broken as long as they got their full ninety minutes.
Cameras zoomed in on my face. The lights burned above me, cold and merciless. Fans watched with bated breath, already tweeting assumptions, speculating injuries, calculating headlines.
I kept my jaw locked tight, swallowing the groan stuck in my throat. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not when I was finally back in peak form. Not when the team needed me for the Champions League. Not when everything was finally moving forward again.
The locker room was quiet when they brought me in, the usual buzz replaced with nervous glances and fake smiles. No one met my eye.
Upstairs, they’d already started damage control. My strategist Paolo was on his phone near the treatment table, murmuring to someone important, probably a sponsor or a club rep. I didn’t care who. My leg was throbbing and I could barely breathe.
The team doctor, a sharp-eyed man with too many years of bad news behind him, began pressing along the muscle. I hissed through my teeth, sweat sliding down my temples.
“Grade three, minimum,” the doctor said under his breath. “Maybe worse.”
I turned away, staring at the grey wall instead. “How long?”
“We’ll need scans,” he replied. “But you won’t play next week. Or next month.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to. The air had already been sucked out of the room.
“Could be career-threatening if not handled precisely,” the doctor added, softer now.
Paolo finally hung up and stepped in, all business. “Okay. Here’s what we’re doing. The League is sending someone. Private contract. Total discretion. She’s handled top-tier recoveries before—Olympians, footballers, all of it. You’ll be in the best hands.”
I didn’t move. “Who?”
There was a pause. Paolo sighed.
“Riley Morgan.”
I blinked. “You’re joking.”
“No.”
Paolo pulled out a file. “Look, I know the history. The League doesn’t know and neither does the board. They care about getting you back on the field, and she’s the best at doing that. Full stop.”
I didn’t take the folder. I just stared at it. Riley Morgan. I hadn’t heard her name in years—not from anyone. It had lived in my head, though. In the quiet spaces. In the middle of sleepless nights and hotel rooms in foreign cities. I hadn’t dared look her up. Hadn’t let myself think about the way she used to tuck her chin against my chest when she laughed, or how she used to sketch out rehab plans on napkins while stealing fries off my plate.
“I don’t want her dragged into this,” I said finally. My voice came out strained, low.
“She already agreed,” Paolo answered. “Took a lot of convincing.”
I sat back slowly, resting both hands on the edge of the treatment table. The pain in my leg was nothing compared to the twist in my chest.
“Why would she come back?” I muttered.
“She’s a professional,” Paolo said, shrugging. “Like you. Doesn’t matter what happened back then. This is a job.”
I wanted to laugh, but nothing about this was funny. When Paolo left the room, I stayed behind in silence. Minutes passed, or maybe longer—I wasn’t sure. I finally pulled out my phone and typed her name into the search bar.
Riley Morgan – Specialist in High-Performance Rehabilitation. Her photo popped up first. Hair tied back. No smile. Her eyes—the same ones I used to memorize in the dark—looked sharper now. Focused. Closed off. She looked exactly how I imagined she’d be after all this time: stronger, colder, untouchable.
I stared at her face until my screen dimmed. Then I closed the tab and leaned back, pressing a hand over my eyes. I wasn’t ready for this. Not physically. Not emotionally. I’d faced champions, injuries, interviews, pressure—but nothing like this.
My phone buzzed. A notification followed immediately.
BREAKING NEWS: Lucas Rivera injury worse than reported. Career at risk without surgery or aggressive rehab.
I just stared at the words. I didn’t need to ask who was walking into that room tomorrow. I already knew.
Riley Morgan. The girl I left behind. The girl I never got over.
The Girl I Never Got Over
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