Page 8 of Dream On, Liar

This is weird.

It was then that I realised that my father has never asked me to “come see him” before. Even when I’d done something worth reprimanding me for, or something worth questioning, he’d always kept his distance, choosing calls over conversations, short clipped texts over anything that required him to actually look at me. And when he used to finally see me, he used to joke about it. Called me trouble with that half-smile of his, like it was something to be managed from afar rather than understood up close.

So this wasn’t routine. It wasn’t obligation, either.

It felt deliberate.

And standing there, his gaze focused on me, made me realise a part of me was equally happy as it was terrified.

Clearly, the so called daddy issues were breathed life into that I’d finally gotten enough attention to have this. Well, until he spoke and broke the bubble, anyway. “You’re late.”

By two minutes. I had to bite my tongue hard to make sure the words didn’t escape me. When I was sure I had complete control of the next words, I nodded. “I got caught up in traffic.”

He shook his head, like silently chiding me for not leaving early, but I didn’t bother to fill in the silence to tell him that I had.

A beat of silence turned into two, before it extended long enough to rattle frustration in him.

“Is that all you have nothing to say, Maeve?” I frowned, my attention focusing immediately on the absence of my usual nicknames. All my life, I’d either been trouble or Eve to my father—the only person in the family to ever call me that. Never Maeve. Hearing my actual name now only made me more aware of just how angry he was; far angrier than I’d predicted.

“What exactly do you want me to say?” I forced out, keeping my voice steadier than I felt. “It’s not like I wrote the paper on you—”

“You wrote it on my player,” he cut in. “They’re questioning my judgement for letting him play as much as they are him for not stepping back himself.”

“I think everyone’s overreacting,” I replied, sharper now even though my voice held a bored tone to it. “The paper’s been out for a month. I’m not even sure why the media’s suddenly decided to care.” I exhaled through my nose. “And if they are questioning your judgement, I’m sure you can show them the same confidence you showed Mr. Egotistical himself by not benching him the entirety of last year. He was one of the players with the highest number of injuries all year.”

“It’s been picked up now because it was Rihaan’s birthday the day before yesterday,” he snapped. “Which meant that the media profiles player normally get must’ve brought your paper into the spotlight.” His gaze settled on me properly then, silently assessing before continuing. “You knew what you were doing. Don’t tell me that all this time you’ve worked on your paper, you didn’t look him once to know this. So, don’t tell me you had no clue that releasing this before his birthday wouldn’t bring spotlight on you, and this paper you’ve published.”

I let out a quiet, humourless breath. “I knew I was doing what was best for my career when I wrote the paper, yes. When it gets published? That’s nothing I have control over.”

A beat.

“And just because he was one of the players mentioned—”

“Highlighted.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine, highlighted, in my paper, does not mean I remember when his birthday is.”

“This,” he gestured vaguely, to the screens, the noise, the headlines, “isn’t just a step in your career, Maeve. It’s trouble.”

I suddenly felt like my chest constricting at the disdain in his voice. “No, Coach, this is my work. It wasn’t something I’d dreamt of and published over night. It’s something I’ve been working for nearly two years. Do you know the amount of time it takes to go through your adviser to get your topic approved? How many drafts I’d worked on before it got peer reviewed and published? So trust me when I say this, it had nothing to do with you.”

“You don’t get to separate yourself from it when it suits you,” he said, his voice tightening. “Not when your name is tied to mine, whether you like it or not.”

“Do you have any idea what this looks like?” he pressed when I didn’t respond. “From the outside? You’re the head coach’s daughter.”

“I’m not responsible for how it looks,” I shot back, my defences rising. “I wrote what I thought was right, and my peers agreed with me.”

“And now,” he said, cutting clean through that, “you can stand by it. Properly.”

Something in my stomach dropped, slow and certain. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, his attention turning to the screens once again, like the decision had been made long before I walked in, “you’re getting a promotion. Congratulations. You’re joining the team. You’ll wrap things up with your current role with the Women’s team, have your exit interview, and by the end of this week you’ll move over to the England Lions. The contract will be in your inbox by end of the day today.”

“No.” The word slipped out before I could stop it. “I—”

He cut me off before I could finish. “You’ll meet the players first thing next week for physical assessments,” he continued, his tone turning cold, procedural. “After that, you’ll oversee any rehab work as needed. We fly to Abu Dhabi on the first of February for a training week, then it’s onto New Zealand for the Test tour. The team will take care of the logistics, and when we’re back in March, we’ll reassess your position and contribution.”

“It goes without saying,” he added as I simply stared at his back, “but I’ll spell it out anyway to make sure I’m crystal clear. You’ll be working closely with Rihaan.” A beat. “You wanted to criticise him? His decisions?”