Riley
Zara’s text popped up just as I was scrolling through the latest flood of news articles. “What the hell is going on over there?” it read, and honestly, I couldn’t blame her.
The media had exploded overnight. Every sports channel, every gossip site was screaming the same headline: “Lucas Rivera’s Comeback Is a Lie.” The story was everywhere—tweets, live debates, scandalous clickbait. It was like watching a wildfire I had no control over, burning everything we’d worked for.
The team’s PR squad was scrambling. I overheard frantic phone calls and urgent meetings as they tried desperately to spin the narrative, to clean the mess, to make it disappear.
“Get me another statement from Lucas,” Daniela barked into the phone, pacing the room. “We need to show his commitment. Highlight the rehab progress. Make it personal—show the man behind the injury.”
Her assistant replied breathlessly, “They’re calling for sponsors to pull out already.”
Daniela slammed her hand on the desk. “Then we double down. Arrange interviews. Flood social media with positive updates. Whatever it takes.”
I sat in my corner, watching all this unfold like I was outside my own body. The spotlight wasn’t just on Lucas—it was on me, on my methods. Questions started creeping in, whispered doubts about my approach.
“Her therapy techniques are unconventional,” one coach muttered during a meeting. “Are we sure this is the right path for a player of Lucas’s caliber?”
“I’ve heard the Premier League board is considering bringing in a second opinion,” another added.
I clenched my fists but stayed silent. The weight of their skepticism pressed down, heavier than any physical strain Lucas had endured.
And Lucas himself? He was quiet. Too quiet. Which scared me more than any yelling ever could.
During sessions, he barely spoke. His usual cocky remarks were gone, replaced by a hollow focus that felt like exhaustion on a deeper level.
“Lucas, how are you feeling today?” I asked gently during one exercise.
He shrugged, eyes fixed on the floor. “Tired. Always tired.”
“Remember, rest is part of recovery,” I said softly.
He nodded but didn’t look up.
After another long day, I sat at my desk pretending to write reports, but my hands shook so badly I could barely hold the pen steady. The world outside was spinning, and I felt like I was drowning in it.
That’s when I noticed it—an envelope perched on the edge of my desk. Cream-colored, thick paper with my name written in elegant gold ink. My heart skipped.
I picked it up with one hand, my other hand scrolling through Lucas’s trending hashtag on my phone, watching the storm rage online.
The letter was from the International Research Institute in London—a place I’d spent years dreaming about. A place that stood for clarity, order, and purpose. Inside was everything I thought I’d wanted: validation for my work, a platform for my findings, and, most of all, distance. Not just physical distance, like a new city or office, but emotional space—away from the chaos of PR crises, team politics, and complicated feelings I hadn’t meant to revive. It was a chance to reclaim something of my own. Quiet. Clean. Mine.
Before I could fully process it, Zara burst into my apartment, balancing a box of sushi and two cups of coffee.
“You okay?” she asked, setting the food down and settling next to me.
I let out a dry laugh. “Define okay without using the words ‘panic spiral.’”
She grinned. “So, not okay.”
“Nope.”
Lucas didn’t know about the letter yet. I avoided him all day, redirecting his rehab sessions to a junior therapist. But he refused the change.
Later, there was a knock at my door. I opened it to find him standing there, limping, face flushed with frustration and exhaustion.
“I want you, Riley. Not your intern,” he said bluntly.
I folded my arms, trying to keep my voice steady. “And I want a time machine. We don’t always get what we want.”
Lucas’s eyes darkened as he crossed his arms, voice low and tense. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”
I shook my head, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Because it’s easier than explaining that I’m scared. What the hell is going on Lucas? What do you want from me?!”
He stepped closer, voice cracking. “I just want you to trust me, to be honest with me.”
“Honest?” I snapped. “You think keeping things from me, hiding in your silence, that’s honest?”
He took a breath, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know how to be anything else. The media, the pressure—it’s suffocating.”
“Did something happen?” he then asked, eyes searching mine.
I hesitated. “Just life reminding me it doesn’t care about timing.”
He looked away, then back, sensing my walls but not pushing further.
As he turned to leave, his eyes caught sight of the letter sitting on my desk—the International Research Institute’s emblem clear on the envelope.