7
Maeve
THE RAIN TAPPED VIOLENTLY against my window as the weak strip of sunshine I’d woken up to twenty minutes ago disappeared behind thick grey clouds, and somehow, the timing felt painfully poetic.
I stayed flat on my back for a moment longer, staring up at the pale ceiling while my alarm buzzed uselessly beside me. Somewhere down the hallway, I could already hear movement from the kitchen. Cabinet doors opening. The clink of toaster being used.
Samyra.
Meanwhile, I was lying there reconsidering every decision that had led me to accepting this job in the first place.
Which was ridiculous, really, because objectively, this should’ve been huge for me.
Becoming one of the lead physiotherapist for the England Cricket Team at twenty five wasn’t small.
People worked years for opportunities like this.
My peers back during my masters would’ve probably framed the announcement if given the chance.
And for exactly three glorious days, I’d actually allowed myself to enjoy it, to expect the glory that would come once the news went live this morning.
Only, when I’d turned my phone on, people had spotted my news for a minute—and I mean that both metaphorically and literately—before Rihaan posted on his social media.
Not just announcing that he was letting go of his father—the Vikram Patel, and yes, the ‘the’ was absolutely necessary considering he was one of the most decorated cricketers alive, as his manager—but the fact that Vikram had been beside Rihaan since the very beginning.
He’d coached him practically his entire life, managed his career from the start, and, to the media at least, had always been seen as Rihaan’s right hand.
When people spoke about the Patel men in cricket, their names were practically said in the same breath.
Even after the disaster of that live interview, which resulted in people questioning whether it had been Vikram all along, forcing him to play through his injuries, more than most people still rushed to Vikram’s defence, insisting that whatever he had to say, he’d been the steadiest force behind Rihaan’s rise.
Which meant that my career milestone got swallowed whole by headlines, interviews, social media edits set to dramatic music, and grown men online declaring Rihaan had either completely lost it and made an impulsive move, or just maybe pulled the move that might save his entire career after all.
Either way, it had been catastrophic for my mood.
When my last alarm buzzed through the room, I finally dragged myself upright with a groan and crossed toward the windows overlooking the street below.
Notting Hill looked muted under the grey morning sky, all cream terraces and rain slick pavement.
Expensive enough to make my bank account cry on a monthly basis, but still worth every painful penny.
We’d moved into the flat two years ago, and both of us had fallen in love with it almost immediately.
The tiny balcony that made the perfect reading spot and people watching.
The stupidly large windows. The bookstore across the street that somehow convinced me buying hardcovers with the most gorgeous sprayed edges counted as a self care after a bad day.
The cute coffee shop with the angel number as their name that made me smile each time I looked out the living room.
Even the commute had been worth it.
After our first year, Samyra and I knew that we’d be living together, but renting out private student accommodations meant we got kicked out every summer.
Officially, it was for “contract reasons.” Unofficially, it was so our borderline criminal landlords could turn their flats into ‘Holiday Rentals’ for triple the price.
Still, it meant we spent the better part of six years bouncing around different corners of London.
Which, frankly, I loved. At least when I wasn’t experiencing rage blackouts during moving week.
Regardless, with Samyra moving up from Bristol and me down from Manchester, somewhere between terrible oven setups, unreliable boilers, and at least two flats with deeply suspicious mould situations, the city slowly became ours too.
But after Samyra finished her post-grad while I still had another year left of mine, we started looking for somewhere more permanent—because living alone in this economy was just not feasible.
We’d picked somewhere closer to her work, considering my part-time role gave me flexibility—my work spread across the city with the Women’s ODI team, and my private clients.
So for an entire year during my post-grad, I’d spent over two hours travelling to Greenwich nearly every day and by the time graduation came around, I hated the idea of ever having to step inside the tube again, and gave in to buy my own car last year once my role became more permanent with the Women’s team, and especially Manchester's Hundred Team.
Though it did give me uninterrupted reading time, which between my uni work, and job felt rarer than affordable rent. So, at least there was that tiny advantage.
My phone buzzed against the bedside table again.
Another notification.
Another headline about Rihaan’s bold move.
I resisted the overwhelming urge to throw the device directly into the Thames, and forced myself into my bathroom to get ready for my first day. Somehow, by the time I’d finished, my mood had curdled even further, sinking past irritation into something heavier and more hopeless.
By the time I walked back out, though, I wasn’t met with just my best friend sipping on her coffee, like she usually did every morning—but her old friend, Ishaan Patel.
While spread across the counter sat an assortment of my favourite things from my Tales & Lattes.
Pastries still warm in their paper bags, and three steaming coffees sending curls of heat into the freezing January air of the flat.
The smell alone felt like someone trying to stitch my unravelling mood back together with caffeine and sugar.
My best friend must have seen the news earlier that morning and decided I was one emotional inconvenience away from a full systems failure before my first day.
“Did you teleport yourself to Mayfair and back?” I grumbled, walking towards them, still not ready to let go of the irritation that settled deep inside me.
Told you, I liked holding grudges.
“No,” Samyra replied, amusement flickering beneath the edge of care in her tone. “Ishaan was on his way, and I politely asked him to make a pit stop. For your sake.”
Ishaan and Samyra had been friends since grammar school, despite him being a year younger than her. Somehow, the friendship had survived awkward teenage years, university applications, terrible haircuts, and Ishaan’s painfully obvious crush on her.
Well, obvious to me, anyway. From the first time I’d met him, I’d been fairly certain Ishaan had a crush on her.
Samyra, however, had never let on whether she noticed, and I wasn’t about to bring it up just to make their friendship awkward.
Because unfortunately for him, one thing I was absolutely certain about was that she viewed him with the same fondness she would reserve for her younger brothers, if she had any.
Love and Samyra existed on completely different train tracks, always running parallel, never quite crossing.
“How come you’re here this early?” I asked quickly, deflecting before my best friend could poke at me the way her expression suggested she wanted to. “I thought Mondays were basically reserved for spending the day with your parents.”
“Just my Dad,” He corrected, his voice strained before he forced himself to clear his throat. Before I could pause and wonder what that was about, he promptly added. “I’m on my way, I just was stopping to drop by my proposal for Samyra,” He pointed to the folder that sat in front of her.
I nodded, giving him a smile as he pushed himself up. “Thanks for these. I owe you.”
He smiled back, some of the tension easing from his expression. “I’m happy to collect now if you can convince this one,” he said, pointing accusingly at Samyra, “to actually look at my proposal and get on board.”
Curiosity sparked instantly inside me. “You got it,” I said with an eager nod.
Ishaan looked at Samyra then, and something unspoken passed between them in the quiet beat that followed.
One of those entire-conversation-inside-a-glance moments that always made me feel like I’d walked into the middle of a scene without a script.
I turned around, giving them whatever privacy I could in the small space as I grabbed the yogurt and cream cheese out the fridge.
From the corner of my eyes, I noticed Samyra’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly before she waved him off with a sigh. “Just go. You’re gonna miss your train.”
He sighed, shaking his head, and walked to the front door. He gave me a small smile. “Good luck for your first day.”
“Thank you!” I replied back, turning around to face my best friend.
The second the door shut, Samyra reached for one of the fresh bagels, splitting it open with mechanical efficiency before slathering the cream cheese I’d placed on the counter. “You want one too?”
Naturally, I ignored her attempt to distract me and reached for the folder.
“What exactly am I convincing you to approve?” I asked, flipping it open before she could stop me.
My brows pulled together almost immediately.
There were mock-ups, branding decks, event concepts, guest lists. Sleek black-and-white slides stamped with the logo of a Formula One team.
Montclair.
I blinked. “Wait. I thought Ishaan worked for a corporation.”
“He does.” Samyra said around a bite of bagel, the lack of interest in her voice evident.
I looked back down at the proposal, a frown settling between my brows. “Then what exactly is this? And…are those rhinestones covering the logo mock up?”