Maeve #2
“Range looks good,” I told him while checking rotational stability through his left knee. “Any pain after last tour’s workload?”
“Just stiffness,” he replied easily. “Mostly after flights.”
I nodded. “That’s normal.”
Faroq gave me a reassured nod at my assessment, before he asked him about his routine, and the rehab he’d been assigned before the break.
Unlike most athletes, Oliver actually listened instead of treating medical guidance like optional downloadable content.
We’d just finished reviewing his progression plan when he passed me a kind smile before heading out alongside Dr. Blackwood and Faroq.
Dr. Blackwood muttered something about needing the updated scan reports from diagnostics downstairs while Faroq followed after him to grab the revised assessment schedules they’d had to reshuffle half the meeting earlier to accommodate.
You guessed it.
All for Prince Rihaan.
Originally, Rihaan had been scheduled right after Oliver’s session.
Captain and vice-captain. Back-to-back assessments. An order to the way the team worked. But due to his last-minute media obligations into his calendar connected to the fallout from the article, and today’s announcement, it was imperative that the schedule moved. According to my father anyway.
NEARLY HALF THE SQUAD had cycled through before it was finally time to prepare myself of what I’d been dreading since the moment I’d locked eyes with Rihaan last week.
Thankful that both Dr. Blackwood—who’d already started warming up to me, once he realised I had more than enough skill to back up the words he’d read—and Faroq had stepped outside, I dropped the mask I’d been wearing all day.
I exhaled slowly, moving around the treatment bed under the pretence of reorganising equipment I’d already arranged twice when my phone buzzed in my pocket. Hoping it was Samyra, I pulled it out, my brows rising at the unexpected text lighting up my screen.
Roland:
Can we talk?
I stared at the message for a second longer than necessary, confusion tightening faintly in my chest. I'd hoped his surprise visit last week had been a one-off, something impulsive that would’ve been justified with ‘I was just in the area’.
But now this text made me question the timing of everything.
Before I could think too hard about whether to reply or not, the door swung open.
Rihaan walked in first, a bored expression plastered on his face. Before I could say…something—anything, the woman followed immediately behind him, her own lips pressed in a tight smile as she glanced at me nervously.
I straightened slightly from where I stood beside the table, confusion flickering through me before professionalism kicked in.
“Sorry,” I said carefully, glancing between them as a thunder of annoyance sparked at my own instinct to apologise despite not actually being at fault. “Individual assessments are private.”
Rihaan didn’t even blink. “She’ll stay.”
“Has that request been signed off by Dr. Blackwood?” I raised a brow.
When my question was met with just a raised brow, my jaw tightened slightly, the words spilling out of me before I could attempt to bite my tongue.
“I see your entitlement extends beyond the pitch too. Let me enlighten you, there’s this fascinating concept called confidentiality.
It applies even to intolerable patients and their PTs. ”
Something unreadable flickered across his face then, gone almost instantly. “She has as much permission to be here as you do,” he replied coolly, stepping further into the room like the conversation already bored him. “Can we get this over with? I have places to be.”
I scoffed, his words acting like a confirmation to the bias I already held. I wondered why my father was so bent out of shape for a man who clearly cared more about things than he did his own career.
A frown settled between his brows, almost like he could read the thoughts running in my head. But before either of us could say anything else, Dr. Blackwood and Faroq stepped back into the room mid-conversation, clearly returning from whatever discussion had dragged them outside earlier.
“Ah. Good,” Dr. Blackwood said immediately, spotting Rihaan. “You’re here.”
He looked between me and Rihaan before continuing casually, like the tension between us had been only evident to us.
“As you both know, given the current media situation, we thought it would be beneficial for everyone to work collaboratively moving forward. And everyone agrees that transparency is important here.”
Then he paused, his attention finally landing on the woman beside Rihaan as though only just registering her presence.
“I’m sorry, young lady, but this is a private assessment,” he said politely.
Under normal circumstances, I probably would’ve cringed at the young lady part, but for the first time since they’d walked into the room, all I could focus on was the dangerous little flicker of smugness unfurling in my chest. “Is there a reason you’re here? ”
Before she could respond, Rihaan answered for her. “This is Doreen. She’s my PT, Dr. Blackwood. I’ve cleared it with Coach, and he doesn’t mind.”
A blanket of silence covered the room as we processed his words.
Dr. Blackwood blinked. “Your personal trainer? That’s odd, we normally don’t—”
“Physiotherapist,” Rihaan corrected calmly as his eyes shifted to me, and it took every ounce of self-control not to let the humiliation washing over me show on my face.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I'd already started to expect once the word Physiotherapist registered. “I’m not really interested in trusting the opinion of someone who’s already made it clear to both me and the rest of the sport that she thinks I’m one bad over away from early retirement. ”
Every muscle in my body went still.
“So,” he continued evenly, “she’ll be overlooking her work to make sure Maeve doesn’t bench me for the sake of her own reputation and prove a point.”
For a second, nobody said anything. Dr. Blackwood pinched the bridge of his nose before muttering something about getting my father.
Whether it was because he anticipated the argument about to unfold or because he simply didn't want to referee it alone, I wasn't sure.
He slipped back out into the corridor, leaving Faroq and Doreen standing awkwardly between us.
The door had barely clicked shut before my temper got there first. After all, I was my father’s daughter.
“I’m surprised there’s still space for oxygen in this room with the amount of it your ego takes up,” I snapped. “But thank you for proving my point.”
He raised a brow. “The fact that it bothers you proves my point.”
“No,” I shot back. “Your point is that you think you're important enough for me to jeopardise my professional credibility over.”
“You would know.” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re the one who wrote a six-thousand-word paper on me.”
“Six thousand words?” I repeated. “Rihaan, out of those six thousand words, you occupied maybe seven hundred and fifty. Eight hundred if we're being generous. But trust you to make the entire thing about yourself.”
“I’m the only player mentioned in the paper. It was about me.”
“Because you were the only player reckless enough to provide the example.” His expression hardened as I continued dryly. “But, please, go ahead and tell me what my research paper was really about.”
The room fell silent.
“Maeve,” Faroq warned quietly.
I ignored him as Rihaan’s expression turned thunderous.
“If anyone's judgement needs questioning here,” I continued, holding Rihaan's gaze, “it's the person who risked his long-term career for short-term glory.”
Faroq made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a cough as the door opened again.
But neither of us looked away from each other.
BY THE TIME I entered my father’s office, my whole body felt like it had been on a verge of volcanic eruption. Only the lava was not molten rock but the blood surging through my veins.
The corridor was filled with the sounds of players moving between sessions and staff conversations faded into the background, replaced by a familiar stillness that always seemed to exist around him.
Even growing up, there had been something strange about the spaces my father occupied.
They always felt slightly separate from everything else.
The office looked almost exactly as I remembered. Granted, it had only been a couple of years since I'd last been in it, back when he'd first been appointed head coach and, much to my surprise, invited me to watch their first home match at Lord's.
The difference now was that the empty spaces hadn't stayed empty.
Photographs lined the walls where there had once been bare stretches of paint.
Team photographs. Championship photographs.
Photographs of players holding trophies, shaking hands, celebrating victories beneath showers of confetti.
Shelves displayed awards accumulated over years of coaching, while stacks of reports and player files covered most of the desk.
I fought to keep the surprise from showing as my eyes landed on a small frame tucked between two larger photographs.
It was a picture of us. I couldn't have been more than three or four years old, judging by how small I looked and the fact that he was still wearing his players kit from his active career.
His arm held me up, both of us smiling at each other.
I stared at it for a moment.
I had absolutely no recollection of when it had been taken.
Still, the space felt less like an office and more like a timeline.
My father's timeline.
A carefully curated history of the people, teams, and moments that had mattered enough to earn a place on the wall.
“Sit down.” My father finally spoke, settling back into his chair as he looked at me from across the desk.
“Can we just...not do this?” I sighed, dragging a hand down my ponytail. “We can just sit in silence for a minute. I'll calm down, and then I'll go back.”