At the pinnacle of her career, orthopedic surgeon Ava King conquers the lucrative medical field of London.
A wild and intimate night with competitive Formula One driver James Ellis ends with Ava being stood up. The rejection leads her straight into...
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Ava still hasn't woken up from surgery and I'm in a right panic. I've messaged my family and I've even (cringe!) asked for prayers.
I settle onto the sleeper couch in her private hospital room and think about how we got to this point.
Let's start this from beginning. Or at least from the beginning of our story.
_____________
It is Saturday morning and I've received a random message from one of Gianna's fangirling friends. They're always throwing themselves at me. It's annoying. I'm not just some random piece of ass. I mean I am. But still. There's more to me. At least I hope there is.
I have a strict rule of not hooking up with any of Gigi's friends. Why? Because Gianna will pick me over them and I don't want to be a home-wrecker.
We've come a long way since those kindergarten days in Glasgow. I was some lumpy, nerdy, buck-toothed loser and Gianna was already oddly beautiful, lanky, and not about to take anyone's crap.
A point I was quick to learn when I had my head drowning in mud, gurgling, and choking up dirt only to be pulled out by the scruff of the neck by Gianna. I resurfaced and found the bullies rolling on the floor, gripping onto their balls, or holding their stomachs and crying like the pussies they were.
"Mess with him again and I'll cut your balls off!" Brandishing me like a victory totem while slapping my back, and allowing me to cough up the remnants of dirt and mud, Gianna then swore at them in Italian. "You heard me, you fucking roaches, get the fuck outta here!"
From that day onwards, we were inseparable. I spent more time at Uncle Paulo and Aunt Val's than I did at home. Dad was busy on some or other construction gig, and Mum usually stayed at school for aftercare.
It was actually Uncle Paulo who introduced me to Formula One. He was obsessed with Ferrari. Fanatical and passionate, as most Italians are about racing and football. And when they decided to visit Italy for the holidays, I got to tag along and saw my first Formula One race at Monza, no less. When I got home, I told my dad that I was becoming a Formula One driver. And his standard response with all our hopes and dreams: "Sure lad. Let's do it."
My dad knew fuck all about motorsport, but engrossed himself in the sport and became as obsessive as Uncle Paulo. And soon Familia One weekends were born and were hosted by either my family or Gianna's, with our dad's often bumping heads since my dad became an ardent supporter of the British teams.
So it was a huge heartbreak for both families when Gianna's father, the best ophthalmologist in Scotland, got an offer he couldn't turn down. In fucking Switzerland.
By the time she left, I was seven and had leaned up a bit (I had to fit into my go-kart) and was fully devoted to my training, having just secured my first sponsor.
