And I don’t know if I’ll survive it.
***
Two more weeks pass in a blur of water and weights. I've gotten better at compartmentalizing, tucking thoughts of Grant away during training hours, only to have them flood back the moment I'm alone.
Mikhailov seems satisfied with my improved focus, though he still gives me that knowing look when he catches me checking my phone now and then between sessions. But professionally, I'm thriving—my times have never been better, my technique never sharper.
It's my soul that's withering.
I miss the unexpected warmth of the Taylor family dinner table. I miss Lily's inappropriate comments and Eric's complete lack of filter. I miss the sense of belonging I felt, however briefly, in that chaotic household.
Most of all, I miss Grant—his slow smiles, his quiet understanding, the way he saw through my defenses like they were made of glass. The way he took on the river for me, facing his deepest fear just to give me what I needed.
And what did I give him in return? Another abandonment to add to his collection.
Tonight, I've promised myself a night off. A proper English pub dinner, maybe some sightseeing—anything to feel like I'm actually in London and not just passing through on my way to somewhere else.
But as I'm getting ready, my phone pings with a news alert—one of the many rodeo notifications I've been too proud to disable.
ACCIDENT AT WELLINGTON CHARITY RODEO: TWO INJURED
My heart stops. I click through so quickly I nearly crack my screen.
The article loads with agonizing slowness, finally revealing a photo that makes my blood run cold—Grant being loaded onto a stretcher, his face tight with pain. The caption explains:“Rodeo champion Grant Taylor injured while attempting to shield young rider Jakob Nema (17) from charging bull.”
My hands shake so badly I can barely scroll to read more.
Seventeen. Jake's age when he died.
The article says both riders are being treated for injuries, conditions unknown. The video clip shows the moment Grant dove between the fallen teenage rider and the bull, taking the brunt of the impact himself.
Without conscious thought, I'm dialing Mason's number, pacing the small flat while counting each unanswered ring. When he finally picks up, I can barely breathe.
“Mia?” He finally answers, his voice is tired, surprised. Background noise suggests he's at a hospital.
“Is he okay?” I blurt, not bothering with greetings. “I saw the news—the accident—”
“He's alive,” Mason says, understanding immediately. “Broken ribs, dislocated shoulder—the bad one—and a concussion. They're keeping him overnight for observation.”
Relief makes my knees buckle, and I sink onto the edge of my bed. “And the boy? The seventeen-year-old?”
Mason's pause speaks volumes. “Jakob's got a broken leg and some internal bruising, but the doctors say he'll recover. If Granthadn't—” He stops, then continues more carefully. “The bull was heading straight for the kid's chest. Grant got there first. Took the hit that might have killed Jakob.”
“Why would he—” I start, then answer my own question. “Jake.”
“Yeah.” Mason's voice softens. “The kid reminds everyone of Jake. Same build, same cocky grin. Grant's been mentoring him all summer.”
Summer. I've been gone nearly six weeks. Missed almost an entire season of Grant's life.
Silence falls between us.
“He's talks about you, you know” Mason says, breaking the stretching silence. “Not directly, but he drops these casual statements into conversation. Wondering whether you're coming back after London.”
A sob builds in my throat. “Has he... has he been okay?”
“Define 'okay.' “Mason's tone is carefully neutral. “He works too much. Spends hours at the river, cleaning up that training area he made you, though no one uses it. Fixed up that cottage like it's a shrine.”
Each word is a knife twist. “I didn't know—”
