There’s pain. Everywhere. Lights flicker on and off, and hands are touching him. Strange hands. His arms flail as he tries to get them off. Don’t fucking touch me, he screams, except no sound comes out.

They’re speaking, but he can’t understand them. A blurred face appears in front of him, and he blinks furiously, trying to clear the image. He hears a strangled groan. Then another, longer, drawn-out groan. What is that? Sounds like a wounded animal. He wishes someone would either help the damn thing or put it out of its misery, because the noise is getting on his fucking nerves.

A bright light shines in his eyes, and he flinches and squeezes them shut. What the fuck is going on?

“Cash, stop. Let them help you.”

A familiar voice. Worried. Anxious. He strains the far reaches of his mind, but the memory is shrouded in fog. Thick, dense fog. Frustration crashes over him. Why can’t he remember?

His eyes snap open. Another face swims in front of him. Clearer this time. A hand touches his cheek, warm, comforting.

“Cash, it’s Mum. Can you hear me?”

Mum? My mum’s in a coma. She’s been in a coma for thirteen years. Wait, hang on. That’s not right. She woke up. Didn’t she? Shit, why am I so confused?

“You were in an accident.”

What accident? Nothing is making any sense.

“Hurts,” he mutters.

Another face. A man wearing a white coat. A chuckle bubbles in his throat. He’s finally lost the fucking plot, and they’ve sent him to the loony bin. Bet I’m in a padded cell.

“Cash, I’m Dr Arnaud. You’re in hospital, in Paris. You were hit by a car over two weeks ago. If you can hear me and understand what I’m saying, squeeze my hand.”

Two weeks? Fuck. He concentrates as hard as he can, reaching into the far corners of his mind. And comes up empty. How can he have been in an accident and not remember? His heart thuds in his chest. I have to get out of here.

“Calm down, Cash. You’re okay. Nurse!”

Hands on him again, restraining him. He fights, but there are too many. He grows weak, concerned faces fading. He can’t keep his eyes open. Blackness.

* * *

Cash cranked his eyes open. Bright sunshine caused a piercing pain in his head, and he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the blazing light to fuck off.

“Close the curtains, Rupe.”

Rupe’s here?

He forced his eyes open again, blinking furiously. The room wasn’t as bright this time. He twisted his head, wincing against the agony such a tiny movement caused. For a minute, he thought he’d died. She was shrouded in light, an angel without wings, and her voice calmed his rapidly beating heart.

“Oh, babe.” Tears streamed down her face.

He licked his lips. They were dry and cracked. A straw was pressed to his mouth, and he sucked greedily, the cool water soothing his throat. It dribbled down his chin. Someone wiped it away.

“Cash?” The voice again. Tentative, scared, exquisite. He focused on her face. Still blurred. He squinted. Better. He could see her properly now. Natalia. His heart constricted.

“Hey, sweetness.” His voice sounded different. Raw. Throaty. Harsh. He didn’t like it.

A sob tore from her throat, and she lifted his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “You came back.”

“About fucking time.” Rupe’s grinning face swam into Cash’s sight line.

The longer he kept his eyes open, the clearer the faces became. He tried to smile, but another spasm, which shot through his skull, made him stop. “Fuck you, Witters,” he muttered.

“Charming as ever,” Rupe said. “Try and stay awake, you useless git. I’m going to get your mum.”

“Wait.” He grabbed Rupe’s wrist, but he was so weak his fingers couldn’t hold on, and his hand fell back to the bed. “She’s here? She’s not in the coma anymore?”

A flash of worry crossed Rupe’s face, and he glanced sideways at Natalia. “She recovered. Remember, bud? Months ago.”

Cash frowned. “I think so.” He sighed. “Foggy.”

“That’ll be the crack on the head. Maybe it’ll have knocked some sense into you. Let me go and get Rachael.”

Cash closed his eyes. “Tired,” he mumbled.

A soft hand brushed his forehead. He tried to force his eyes open but couldn’t. He slept.

When he woke, it was dark outside. How long had he been out? He slowly twisted his head. Natalia was sleeping in a chair next to the bed, her head uncomfortably bent to the side, a pillow supporting her neck. She had dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her face was terribly pale. He turned to the other side, and his heart skipped a beat. It was true. His mother was fast asleep, a flat palm against her cheek, her elbow braced against the arm of the chair. With considerable effort, he managed to touch her hand.

She jerked awake, her eyes wide as they fell on his. “Hey, my beautiful boy.” She leaned across the bed and cradled his cheek. “How are you feeling? Any pain?”

He grimaced. “Lots.” He reached for her hand as she began to stand. “No, don’t go. It’s okay. I want to feel the pain. It reminds me I’m alive.”

“Do you… do you remember anything?”

He screwed his face up. “Not the accident. And I was confused at first about you. When I woke up, I thought you were still in the coma. But I remember now.”

“And Natalia?” Unmistakeable hesitancy and concern laced her tone.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” he said, weakly squeezing her hand. “I remember her. How could I forget?” He looked over at Natalia, still blissfully unaware of their conversation. His gaze fell to her left hand. “I remember proposing, if that’s what you were worrying about. Best day of my life.”

His mum sighed, the air leaving her lungs in a whoosh of relief. “She was so worried.” Her voice caught. “You’re lucky to be alive. It was touch-and-go for a bit.”

“What about my hand?” He half-lifted his right hand from the bed before the weight of the plaster, and his significantly weakened state, meant he had no choice but to let it fall back.

“The car rolled over you and crushed your hand. And your right leg is broken in three places.”

He grimaced. “What’s the prognosis? Don’t sugarcoat it. I need to know.”

She blinked slowly, her breathing slow and measured. “Your leg should heal fine in a few weeks. The breaks were clean. The doctors don’t know whether you’ll regain full use of your hand, but you’ll need physiotherapy.”

He clenched his jaw. “When do we begin?”

Rachael smiled. “Your bones need to heal, Cash, and you’ve suffered a severe head injury. Give yourself time.”

“I have to play again,” he said firmly.

Rachael leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You will.”