Riley
“Oh my god, Riley, do you think they’re gonna fire you?” Zara whispered, her voice tense as we walked through the gleaming marble halls of the Premier League headquarters. The sound of our heels echoed like a countdown to doom.
After the call yesterday, I had called her immediately, my voice barely holding together. I didn’t know who else to confide in. I needed someone to talk to—someone who knew the version of me before all this.
“Zara, I don’t know,” I said, wrapping my arms around myself. “I’m lowkey scared. Like… actually scared.”
She linked her arm through mine. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You slowed therapy down to protect a patient. That’s not a crime—it’s called having a conscience.”
But as we reached the double glass doors of the review room, my heart thundered. Conscience didn’t carry much weight in a room full of people holding clipboards and career-ending pens.
The doors opened with a quiet swoosh.
A panel of six executives sat behind a long mahogany table. Men in pressed suits. Women in sharp blazers. No smiles. Just polite nods and steel eyes.
“Dr. Riley Morgan,” a man at the center said. “Please take a seat.”
“Thank you,” I replied, keeping my voice even. I sat on the chair in the center of the room, spine straight, palms flat on my thighs.
The woman to the left adjusted her glasses. “Dr. Morgan, thank you for coming. We’d like to begin by addressing a few concerns raised over the past week.”
I nodded once. “Of course.”
“First,” the man continued, “it’s come to our attention that you have a prior personal relationship with Mr. Rivera.”
My stomach turned.
“You were high school sweethearts, correct?”
I paused. “Yes, but that has no bearing on the clinical—”
“Yet you didn’t disclose this relationship during the assignment process,” another woman interrupted. “That creates a potential conflict of interest.”
I swallowed hard. “Our past hasn’t affected the treatment. I’ve maintained professional boundaries.”
“Have you?” the man asked. “Media coverage suggests otherwise. You’ve been featured together in articles questioning your credibility.”
“And,” someone else chimed in, flipping through a document, “we’ve also reviewed reports that you deviated from the original rehabilitation plan submitted to the board. Without approval.”
My hands tightened on my lap.
“I made minor changes to adjust for his recovery speed,” I said calmly. “He was responding slower than projected. I prioritized sustainable healing.”
“Unapproved adjustments,” the woman with glasses said. “That undermines our protocols.”
I gritted my teeth.
“And finally,” the man added, “there are concerns regarding the injury itself. Some believe Mr. Rivera exaggerated his condition to remain close to you—”
That’s when I snapped. I stood, voice rising. “Excuse me?!”
The panel froze.
“This isn’t a case study,” I said, heat rising in my cheeks. “He is not a robot. This is a human being. An athlete who trusted me with his body, his career. I slowed down because his body wasn’t ready. And if that scares you, maybe it’s because I’m doing something new. Maybe it’s because I want him to recover fully—not just for the next game, but for the rest of his life.”
A pause filled the room like thunder before a storm.
The man at the center cleared his throat. “Dr. Morgan, thank you for your honesty.” He exchanged looks with the others, then said, “We will not pursue termination. However, this is an official warning. If you make further changes to any treatment plan, you must seek board approval first. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, sinking back into my seat.
The meeting adjourned. I walked out slowly, still shaken.
And then I saw him.
Lucas.
Pacing just outside the doors, hands on his hips, head down. He looked up the second I walked out.
“You didn’t have to come,” I said, surprised.
“Yes, I did,” he said without hesitation. “My manager told me what was happening. I wasn’t about to sit at home while you fought for my name.”
Before I could reply, a voice cut through.
“Well, well, well,” Javier said, stepping into view with that smug smile I hated. “So your job’s at stake now, Riley?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Not anymore.”
He tilted his head. “Come on, let’s talk career options. You’ll need backup when this whole league turns on you.”
I smiled coldly. “No, thank you.”
Javier’s smile slipped. “What do you mean ‘no’? Didn’t they call you in to fire you?”
Before I could respond, Lucas stepped between us. “She said no. Try listening for once.”
Javier stepped forward. “What, are you her bodyguard now? Or is this just your latest injury rehab fantasy?”
Lucas’s fists clenched. “You want to run your mouth? Do it somewhere else.”
They were nose to nose now, voices rising.
I shoved between them hard, arms spread. “Enough!”
Both men froze.
“You’re both acting like this is high school,” I snapped. “I’m not a prize. I’m a professional. So either grow up or get out of my way.”
And then, without looking back, I walked away.