“It’s definitely improving,” Dieter said as he scrawled notes onto a chart. “What do you think?”

Cash flexed the fingers on his right hand. “I agree. More movement, less pain and stiffness.”

“You’re still doing the daily exercises in between our sessions?”

“Religiously,” Cash said. “You’re pretty bolshie for a physio. I wouldn’t dare skip a routine.”

“Good. That’ll be why you’re seeing so much improvement.” Dieter stood and opened the door to his office. “Come on,” he said, cocking his head.

Cash narrowed his eyes. “Where are we going?”

Dieter smiled. “You’ll see. I want to try something.”

Cash tried not to groan. Dieter had some outlandish ideas, and very few of them were fun, but Cash couldn’t deny the results he was getting. He’d only been in Germany six weeks, and already, his hand had massively improved. It hadn’t completely recovered—nowhere near that—but it was much better.

He’d set two goals: to win back Natalia, and to play competitive tennis once more. He wasn’t about to compromise on either, no matter what it cost him.

He followed Dieter towards the back of the facility, immediately guessing where they were going when Dieter turned left at the end of the corridor. Fear grabbed Cash by the throat as his confidence plummeted. “Wait,” he called out.

Dieter stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “You’re not bailing.”

“I’m not ready for this.”

“Yes, you are.” Dieter set off walking again, but Cash’s feet might as well have been nailed to the floor. When Dieter reached the door that led to the gardens, he rested his hand against it and paused. Without turning around, he said, “Move your fucking arse, Cash.”

“What if I can’t do it?”

“Only one way to find out.” Dieter pushed at the door, and weak winter sun seeped inside the artificially lit hallway. Without another glance at Cash, he walked through, letting the door swing closed behind him.

Cash expelled a resigned sigh. He’d known this day was coming. Dieter had hinted a couple of times after Cash’s grip began to gain strength, but he’d chosen to ignore his physio’s insinuations.

Cash followed him outside. Dieter was already several feet in front, purposefully striding towards the tennis court on the far side of the gardens, behind the gym. The cocky bastard didn’t even look behind him to see whether or not Cash was there.

By the time Cash reached the tennis court, Dieter had already set up. Two tennis rackets—shit makes—were propped against the fence, and he was uncorking a tube of tennis balls.

“If I’m playing, I want my own racket.”

“Fine,” Dieter said. “Go and get it. You’ve got five minutes, so run.”

Despite himself, Cash grinned. Dieter was a hard taskmaster, which was exactly what Cash needed. He reminded Cash of Brad. Christ, he missed Brad and Jamie. They’d been like family, an unbreakable team. Except that team had been broken by a fuckwit of a drunk driver. Even though Cash knew Brad and Jamie had no choice but to leave him, to go and work with other players, it didn’t stem the ache and the emptiness in his chest as he thought about how complete and perfect his life had been before the accident.

He was back within the allotted five minutes, albeit out of breath, and he lightly tossed the racket from hand to hand. It felt good to hold it again.

“Now, remember.” Dieter took up position at the far side of the court. “I’m not a bad tennis player, but I’d get killed by number two hundred in the world, let alone former number one.”

Cash tried not to wince at the word former. “I’ll go easy on you,” he said with a smile he wasn’t feeling.

Dieter stood on the baseline, bounced the ball on the ground, and then hit it over the net. The ball landed in the deuce court, and Cash tightened his grip and swung his racket. An intense joy swept through him as they hit the ball back and forth. There was no power behind the shots, but nonetheless, it felt so bloody good.

“Go on,” Dieter said after they’d been playing for a few minutes. “I know you’re dying to tell me I was right.”

“Take a pew, buddy, coz you’ll be waiting a while for me to admit that.”

Dieter threw his head back and laughed. “More?” he said, holding a yellow tennis ball in the air.

“Yep.”

After half an hour playing, Cash’s hand began to ache, and Dieter suggested they stop. Cash could barely keep the grin off his face. It was the first time he’d even held a tennis racket, let alone hit a ball, since he lost in the Wimbledon final back in July. Almost six months.

“Don’t forget to do your exercises tonight. We need to make sure your fingers don’t stiffen up.”

Cash clenched and unclenched his right hand. “I will. See you day after tomorrow.”

He jogged back to his on-campus apartment. For the first time since he’d arrived in Germany, optimism stirred within him. Perhaps his former life wasn’t completely out of reach after all. Dr Bauer seemed happy with his progress in managing his anger, although Cash wasn’t, and Dieter was confident that with the correct treatment and commitment, Cash would get back the full use of his right hand. Until that day, he hadn’t really believed it, but after the short stint on the tennis court, he was starting to come around.

Alone with nothing but his thoughts, Cash yearned to speak with Natalia. He wanted to share his news, to tell her he was working his bollocks off to find the person he’d been before. Rupe hadn’t been able to get anything out of Emmalee when he’d visited the other week, although one thing was certain—Natalia wasn’t living with her best friend. There’d been no sign of her, and Emmalee had stubbornly refused to tell Rupe anything about her whereabouts.

With a fear of rejection weighing heavily on his shoulders, he picked up his phone and dialled her number. His heart thundered in his chest as he waited for the call to be connected.

“The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

Cash frowned and redialled.

“The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

What the fuck did that mean? He opened the Google app and typed the message into the search bar. After reading about three responses on various forums, his heart headed south. She’d changed her number. He couldn’t exactly blame her. He’d been far too convincing that night in October, and she’d believed him.

If she wanted nothing more to do with him, why was he bothering with all this? His recovery only had meaning if they had a chance of a future together. Without that hope, he might as well give up. And even if he did carry on, maybe she wouldn’t want the damaged Cash. What if she had this perfect image in her mind that she’d harboured all those years, and when he deviated from that…

No. Nope. Not going there. He wasn’t giving up.

She’d loved him once. He could make her love him again. He had to treat this recovery process like training for a Grand Slam—all in, one hundred per cent, because he couldn’t risk trying to rekindle his relationship with Natalia until he had enough coping mechanisms to curb his anger. He had to be confident he wouldn’t hurt her.

Pain tore through his gut as he realised that he hadn’t recovered yet, but he clung tightly to the belief the day would come.

Because if it didn’t, there was fuck all to live for.