Page 35 of Dream On, Liar

He was professional, direct, and smart enough to understand long-term rehabilitation mattered more than short-term ego.

I didn’t need to glance at the notes I’d complied over the last week to remind myself of his motorcycle accident three years ago—the one that had almost destroyed his leg entirely, along with his career.

I’d heard it all first hand from my father as he’d spent an entire dinner discussing how he’d almost lost one of the greats before he even had the chance to work with him properly.

But, after multiple surgeries and months relearning movement patterns, and the endless rehab—he’d come back stronger. I’d learned this all during my own research but, watching him move through strength testing, I’d almost felt impressed despite myself.

“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.”