Breaking the Grid

Reflex

It was two days before I'd be back in the car—back in the rhythm of speed, sweat, and adrenaline.
Winter testing was calling, and for the first time in a long time, I wasn't dreading it.
I was ready.

After months of recovery, physical therapy, and pushing through setbacks, my body had found itself again. My foot—the one that made everything feel like a maybe—now felt like it belonged to me again.
Every step I took this week felt firmer, lighter.

Stronger.

And my mind? Clearer than ever.

The last couple of months had blurred between London, Italy and Monaco, soft mornings on balconies, training at Elisabetta's, laughing until I cried in kitchens that felt more like home than anywhere else ever had.
Even on the hard days, something kept me grounded.

But this week—this one had been a bit different.
Busier.
Quieter.

Kyra and I hadn't seen much of each other. She was deep into Champions League prep with Arsenal, and I was pulling long days at the simulator, late nights in debriefs, and fitting in the last of my conditioning training.

We didn't speak as often as we usually did, and not in a bad way—we were just doing.
Both of us in our worlds, our lanes.
But we knew the other was there.

I still sent her morning texts.
Still got blurry mirror selfies of her in her Arsenal hoodie brushing her teeth.
Still made Milo bark into the phone just to make her laugh.

Because, obviously, Milo came with me.

My boy never left my side—he sat like a fluffy executive during simulator sessions and snored in the corner while I worked out, occasionally getting up just to headbutt my leg for attention.

I took him on my late-night walks in Monaco when the city felt like it belonged only to the sea and us. I took him into the garage just to hear the boys complain about how spoiled he was with his custom team vest.
He even got invited to a strategy meeting once.

(He fell asleep halfway through, but still. Iconic.)

And Kyra? Even with the silence, she was there in everything.
In the playlist I trained to—she snuck in a few songs without telling me.
In the ache I felt every time I reached for her in my sleep and found only sheets.

But this is what we do.
She plays under stadium lights, I race under floodlights.
We're both chasing seconds—sometimes together, sometimes apart.
But always... always circling back to each other.

I leaned back in the kitchen chair, towel draped over my neck from a sunrise run with Milo, a protein shake in one hand and my phone buzzing in the other.

One new message from Kyra.
A photo.
No caption.
Just her in her training gear, hair up, cheeks flushed, a tiny hint of a smile.

My stomach flipped.

God, I missed her.

I tapped out a reply:

That smile better be for me. I'm bringing home flowers this time. One for every goal you score in Champions. Deal?

Three seconds later:

You'll owe me a garden.

I grinned.
Heart stupidly full.

Two more days until I got back in the car.
Two more days until everything started again.

But right now... right now I had the peace of a healed body, a loyal dog licking peanut butter from his paw on the floor, and a girl waiting on a pitch somewhere who still made me believe in forever.
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