Page 85 of Dream On, Liar

Maybe that’s why it had been easier to speak the truth. Maybe if I spoke it out loud once, it won’t stick inside me this much. “It’s the one thing I’ve always been good at. If you bench me…it’ll just mean that—”

I cut myself off, every part of me refusing to speak that it had been my own father who had instilled in me that this was all I had. All that I was good at. Because, if I did, and she still benched me, it wouldn’t hurt as much. That she knew the truth, and still went ahead. It wasn’t her burden to bear. Just mine.

I cleared my throat. “It’ll mean that I’m not good at it anymore, either.”

Her expression changed.

Not pity.

Something quieter.

Like she understood the weight of that sentence more than I wanted her to.

I kept my eyes fixed somewhere past her shoulder.

“Cricket,” I said again, like naming it would make it simpler. “It was the one thing I never had to question. I could be shit at everything else and still walk onto a field and know exactly who I was.”

My throat tightened slightly, and I hated that it did.

When Maeve finally spoke, it was softer. “Rihaan. You’ve just had one of the best careers in the history of the sport. In a single year, you’ve won the World Cup, the County Championship. The Hundred. And you’re very well onto your way of winning the Test Championship too. Benching you for one game won’t change that, but it might increase your chances for the better. You’ve had this pain since last year, you need to be careful with it.”

“And I will. I’ve already told my agent that I won’t be taking part in the Domestic Championships this year.”

That surprised her. “You have?”

I nodded. “After New Zealand, if we win, I’m on a break until June.”

“You’re not lying, right?”

The question landed differently this time. This time, I knew why.

I'd done it too many times already. Lied about the pain. Lied about what I remembered. Lied about who I was.

Still, knowing that didn't make the question hurt any less.

“No.” The word came quietly.

She searched my face, as though she was trying to decide whether she could afford to believe me.

“I’m not,” I repeated. “I won’t do that again.”

Her expression shifted—something in it collapsing slightly, like she hadn’t expected honesty to look like this.

And that was the moment I noticed it.

She cared. Not just professionally. Not clinically.

She cared in a way that didn’t fit neatly into anything we’d been pretending this was.

And that should have felt like relief.

Instead, it felt like exposure. Like the attempts I’d made to keep her at bay had been useless.

I gave her a faint, humourless smile. “That should make you happy, though.”

Her brows pulled together immediately. “Why?”

“Your paper is turning out to be right.” The words came out sharper than I intended. “If the coach benches me, it takes off all the pressure for you when you do quit.”