Page 36 of Dream On, Liar

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.