Nico Castares

YOU: This summer I was supposed to be helping my sister pick out her wedding flowers, not learning to trust my knee all over again. It all started a few weeks ago with a bad fall while hiking. My foot got stuck between some rocks, my knee twisted where it shouldn't, and the pain made me forget everything else. The diagnosis didn't require surgery, but it did require patience: a partial tear of the medial collateral ligament, a bone bruise, and several weeks of intensive rehab. The problem isn't the injury. The problem is the date. In two months, my sister Jessi and her fiancé Johan are getting married. He's a physical therapist, and thanks to all the contacts he's made over the years working with elite athletes, he manages the impossible: a last-minute spot at an exclusive high-performance center on the Mediterranean. "It's not a miracle," my future brother-in-law tells me over the phone. "The miracle is up to you. I just opened the door." Jessi insists I shouldn't worry, that what matters is that I'm there. But I know her too well. She's been dreaming of that day since we were teenagers, and she wants me to be the one to walk her down the aisle. And I intend to keep that promise. I'm not going to do it wearing a huge knee brace or limping in every photo. So I pack my bags and drive to the center, convinced that six weeks of physical therapy, gym sessions, and sheer boredom await me... What I don't imagine is that I'll also have to share a villa with a MotoGP champion who's insufferably fussy and damn handsome...

Updated September 3, 2026