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The first few days after Sonny stood were almost worse than the months before.
Because that small but important victory had been real. But so was the constant pain.
Ruben found him after physical therapy one afternoon, slumped in his wheelchair outside the rehab gym, drenched in sweat. His hands were still shaking. "How did it go?" he asked. Sonny just snorted. "That bad?"
"I managed four steps on the parallel bars."
"You managed three when I got here."
"Exactly." Sonny rubbed a hand over his face. "One extra step in a week. At this rate I'll be eighty before I reach the parking lot."
Ruben leaned against the wall beside him. “So my seat with Lotus is safe then,” he commented blithely.
Sonny shot him a withering look. "You are such an asshole."
Ruben just grinned. "Well, hello there,” he said. “I was wondering when my best friend would come back."
*****
Recovery was ugly. There were no triumphant movie montages. Some mornings Sonny managed ten steps. The next morning he managed four. Sometimes his legs simply refused to cooperate. Sometimes the pain stole every ounce of determination he'd built the day before. Those were the days Ruben hated most. Because Sonny didn't get angry. He got quiet. And quiet Sonny was dangerous.
*****
The therapists started giving Ruben jobs. Stand on the other side of the room. Talk. Distract him. Give him somewhere to walk to. It worked better than any exercise.
"Come on, Sonny. Just three more steps."
"I hate you."
"Good."
"You're enjoying this."
"Immensely."
Sonny stumbled. Caught himself. Glared. "I hope your gearbox explodes."
"I drive a Lotus. It probably will."
Sonny chuckled at that, then remembered that we was supposed to be pissed off. "Well, I hope they replace you with someone faster."
"Now that is impossible."
Sonny barked a laugh. And took one more step.
*****
Weeks turned into months. Ruben was getting ready to leave - winter break was over and pre-season test days would begin soon.
Sonny had progressed from the wheelchair to a walker, on good days even managed to walk -- painfully slow -- with crutches. Every milestone felt impossibly small. Every milestone mattered.
And yet, Ruben sometimes found Sonny staring at his legs like they belonged to someone else.
It happened late one evening. Rehab had closed hours ago. Sonny sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders curled inward in defeat. "I've been thinkin’."
"That is never a good sign."
"No." Sonny's smile didn't reach his eyes. "It’s not." There was a long moment of silence. Then Sonny said, "I'm not going back."
Ruben frowned. "Back where?"
"You know." Sonny shrugged. "I'm never gettin’ back into an F1 car. Or any other race car, really." He sighed. "I can walk now. Mostly. But anything else?" He laughed once. It sounded broken. "My body's finished."
Ruben felt something cold settle in his chest at hearing those words. Because this wasn't about Formula One. Or racing in general. Because racing wasn't Sonny's job. It was the language he understood the world through. If you took that away, you took away Sonny.
"I don't know who I am if I can't race," Sonny admitted quietly.
Ruben started pacing, his mind going a thousand miles a minute. “You are not a quitter,” he finally announced, as if this would make it true. “You will not quit.”
Sonny barked a humorless laugh. “Ruben--”
“No.” Ruben stopped so abruptly Sonny looked up. “You will get better. You will not only walk again, you will run. And you will drive. You will race.”
“Oh yeah?” Sonny shot back, his voice dripping his sarcasm. “Race what? Wheelchairs? Scooters? Soapboxes?”
Ruben glared at him. "I will buy a team."
"What?"
"I will buy a Formula One team."
Sonny blinked. "Ruben."
"I mean it."
"You can't just buy--"
“My family is filthy rich. We can buy anything we want.” Ruben raised his chin defiantly, as if daring Sonny to argue.
"You've lost your damn mind."
"If the only thing that will get you through this is knowing that there is a seat waiting for you..." Ruben held Sonny's gaze. "Then I will make one for you."
Sonny stared at him for a long time. "You are completely insane."
Ruben's voice was steady when he asked, “Do we have a deal?”
Sonny just shook his head in disbelief, but a smile -- a real, genuine smile -- began to tug at his lips. “Sure, amigo,” he said. “We have a deal.”
THE END