You spot Simon in the crowd just before you chalk up your hands—front row, wearing that worn Manchester hoodie he always travels in, his eyes locked on you like you’re the only person in the world. He flashes you that crooked, proud grin. You nod back, trying to push down the nerves blooming in your gut.

This is it. The heaviest lift of your career. A national record if you pull it. You’ve trained for months, every muscle and tendon tuned like piano wire for this single moment.

The bar is loaded. The weight looms like a mountain of steel—taunting, daring.

You take your stance. Deep breath. Set your grip.

The world goes quiet.

As you begin the pull, your legs tremble. The bar rises—slow, grinding, brutal. Your back is tight, hips under, everything firing perfectly.

Then—

Crack.

A sickening, wet snap rips through the air, louder than any crowd, louder than the announcer’s mic. The pain is instant, blinding. Your right leg buckles. You don’t even feel yourself fall. One moment you’re fighting gravity, the next, you’re on the platform, flat on your back, the weight crashed beside you, the ceiling spinning wildly above.

Screams echo. The spotters are shouting. Someone yells for a medic.

But all you see is Simon.

He’s vaulting the barrier like it isn’t even there, shouldering past volunteers, his eyes wide with panic. “Move! That’s my wife—move!”

He’s kneeling beside you in seconds, grabbing your hand with trembling fingers, trying to keep his voice calm for your sake but failing miserably. “Hey, hey, I’m here. You’re okay. Just stay with me.”

You want to tell him you’re fine, but the pain makes your vision go white around the edges.

Your leg is wrong. Twisted. Unnatural.

You hear the word “femur” from somewhere behind Simon. A medic’s voice. “Compound fracture.”

Simon squeezes your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him. “You’re gonna be alright, love. You hear me? I’ve got you. Just breathe. Just keep breathing.”

He brushes the sweat-matted hair from your forehead and kisses your temple.

You don’t cry. Not yet. But when you see his eyes well up—when you see the fear there—you want to. Not because of the pain, not because of the ruined meet, but because you know how much he hates feeling helpless. How much he hates watching you hurt.

As they load you onto the stretcher, Simon refuses to let go of your hand until the last possible second.

Even as they wheel you toward the ambulance, you hear his voice above the chaos.

“I’ll be right behind you.”