Riley
“Dr. Morgan, what an honor to work with you,” said a woman with short auburn curls and a smooth British accent as she extended her hand.
I shook it, offering her a polite smile. “It’s an honor to work with you too, Dr. Hill.”
And it was. Her name wasn’t just respected—it was revered. I’d read her case studies in The Journal of Neuromuscular Medicine, seen her quoted in Physio Today. She was a legend. And now I was walking beside her through the bright glass halls of the International Research Institute.
Honestly? It felt surreal.
London was… different. Sharp air. Gray skies. Precision in every step. It treated me well—professionally, at least. But even in the midst of polished buildings and brilliant minds, I missed something.
I missed familiarity.
I missed chaotic, late-night pizza runs with Zara. I missed my corner coffee shop and my messy office back home. I missed the feel of the therapy bands in my hand and the sound of sneakers squeaking on polished gym floors.
And I missed something else, too. Something—or someone—I didn’t want to admit.
Later that night, I sat on my tiny flat’s couch, video-calling Zara while eating store-bought pizza that was way too fancy to taste like anything familiar.
“I miss you,” I groaned, mouth full. “I miss our Friday nights and yelling at trash reality TV together.”
Zara tilted her head smugly from the screen. “And you miss something that starts with an ‘R’ and ends in ‘ivera.’”
I rolled my eyes dramatically. “I don’t.”
She sipped from a cup, eyebrow raised. “Really? Because you didn’t even say goodbye to the guy. At least when he left, he said goodbye.”
I stared at my screen, chewing slower.
“At the end of the day,” I said bitterly, “he still left. Whether he said goodbye or not, he still left.”
There was a pause. I could almost see her expression shift.
“Girl,” Zara said with a sigh. “At this point, you don’t even hate that he left. I think you’re over that.”
“Excuse me?” I narrowed my eyes.
“No, hear me out,” she said, holding up a hand. “You forgave him, Riles. You just haven’t admitted it to yourself. You’re not angry anymore—you’re afraid. You’re pushing him away because of what you still feel for him. You’re using what happened years ago as an excuse so you don’t have to deal with what’s happening now.”
I opened my mouth—then closed it again. I hated it when Zara was right. And she was right.
But instead of telling her that, I changed the subject.
“Don’t you need to meet up with Raphina?”
She rolled her eyes. “He has training. Next match is this weekend.”
“Oh. That’s cool,” I said casually.
She waited a beat, then added, “Lucas is playing too.”
I froze. My chest tightened like a seatbelt pulling too hard. “What?”
Zara blinked. “Yeah. That’s what I heard.”
I practically dropped the plate in my lap. “Lucas isn’t ready to be on the field! Not for another three to four games. I told his PT that! What the hell is he doing playing?!”
I jumped up, sprinting to my laptop, heart hammering. The last email I got from his assigned therapist was five days ago. I opened it, fingers flying across the keyboard.
No mention of match prep. No mention of field re-entry. Nothing. My stomach twisted.
I hit reply.
Subject: URGENT – Mr. Rivera’s Status
Message:
Hi,
Quick question—Is Mr. Rivera scheduled to play this Saturday?
– Dr. Riley Morgan
I didn’t even get to walk away from my desk before my inbox dinged again.
Reply:
Yes. He’s been cleared to start. Saturday’s match.
I stared at the screen. My heart dropped.