Page 3 of Dream On, Liar

No.

It sat right there in plain-sight.

My phone buzzed in my hand, again.

VIKRAM PATEL CALLING…

Releasing a deep breath I let my phone slip onto the couch and closed my eyes. The irony wasn’t lost on me that my father hadn’t picked up his cell once to ring me the day before to wish me. It wasn’t like I’d expected it anyway, but the fact that he’d already called me three times in the last hour since the news broke was telling.

I knew he’d just leave a voicemail, instructing me to call him back. It’s what he said on the first one, and each one after that.

My phone silenced besides me, but her words didn’t go anywhere. They stayed, etched somewhere behind my eyes, replaying with a kind of clarity I couldn’t switch off.

Rihaan Patel’s recent injury profile reads less like misfortune and more like a case study in accumulated strain compounded by stubborn self-governance. Over the past two years, he has missed more time than any other member of the squad, a pattern that correlates uncomfortably well with an apparent reluctance to modify workload or technique.

What was once framed as competitive edge increasingly resembles inflexibility dressed up as resilience. England’s broader reset, leaning into emerging players willing to adapt and be managed should’ve resulted in….

The TV across the living room flashed again, taking my attention as the words BREAKING appeared on the screen, my face frozen mid-stride as the debate panel picked up on the story.

I didn’t move to unmute the screen—it’s not like it would’ve helped.

Silence had already made enough space for the parts she’d gotten right and sat in the air less like opinions, but more like a mirror I hadn’t asked for. A part of me that almost felt like a stranger screamed at me to put myself out of my misery and turn it off.

But if there were a few things that I understood about the inner workings of my brain—it was that I was a certified masochist.

So, I watched them discuss and dissect my career, the subtitles feeding my self-deprecating thoughts as the panel agreed that, even though I was among the best, alongside Oliver King, that the team had seen in years, I had no business being in the sport if I was only going to keep injuring myself before I could deliver on what I'd been hired to do.

The sound of the front door opening pulled my attention away from the television, my head snapping up in surprise because Oliver and Raina had left early this morning, so I hadn’t expected them back so soon. Feet shuffled through the townhouse with a familiar hesitation, the kind that usually followed Raina and I having taken our bickering too far—more often than not because I’d crossed a line or pushed things further than I should have. Maybe I should’ve been surprised, but ever since my little sister had moved in and decided to shack up with my best friend, Oliver King, it had become a common occurrence.

Oliver, or the Prince of English cricket, as the media liked to call him, was also a legacy player. Only his lineage stretched back four generations, threaded through names that hadn’t just played the game but had shaped it into what it was today. I’d known Ollie since I was thirteen, but over the past sixteen months, his relationship with Raina had changed our friendship.

On the days I felt myself be affected by the fact, I convinced myself that maybe I was just overprotective of the few good relationships I had left in my life. Deep down, though, I knew things had changed for the better, not the worse. I was simply too stubborn to admit it. Or maybe sabotaging my own relationships was another part of being a masochist.

Whispers drifted through the hallway, and I caught my name in them.

They’d seen it.

Of course they had.

Great.

I held back an eye roll as footsteps moved down the front hall of the townhouse, slow at first, before they stopped just short of the entry way of the open space that connected the kitchen and the living room.

It was as though they weren’t exactly sure of what they’d find once they entered the space.

I wasn’t sure I could blame them…especially considering my track record.

The thought vanished from my mind as my whole body stiffened at the low hiss of Raina's two cats entering the room.

Sensing my presence, Lilli, a grey British Shorthair, approached me first. Her eyes narrowed the way they always did whenever I was around before she turned and walked away. Thankfully.

Unfortunately, her brother, Milo, wasn't nearly as tolerant. The darker British Shorthair regarded me with the same judgement, only his was laced with something far stronger. From his spot beside the armchair, he let out a sharp hiss.

It didn't matter that they'd lived with us for over a year, or that they travelled the world with us for matches. Both cats still looked at me as though I was the intruder, trespassing in a space that had never belonged to me.

When, in reality, they had been the ones to intrude on my space.

After a pipe burst in Raina’s flat, Vedant had brought her here. Here being the London townhouse owned by the King family, the one I’d shared with Oliver and Vedant for the past five years.