The media storm hit like a freight train overnight. Every headline screamed the same thing: “Lucas Rivera’s Comeback Is a Lie.” Clips of my old assessment were circulating on every sports channel. Blurry photos. Misquoted statements. Analysts tearing apart my rehab journey like it was a Netflix drama.
I watched it unfold like it was happening to someone else.
In the office, Daniela was shouting into phones, the PR team scrambling like the building was on fire.
“We need another statement from you, Lucas,” she snapped. “We need emotion. Progress. Hell, we need tears if he’s got any left.”
“They’re talking about sponsors pulling out,” her assistant added.
Daniela slammed a fist on the desk. “Then we give them a reason to stay. Flood the feed. Post rehab footage. Spin the narrative.”
I sat on the couch in the corner, phone still in my hand, the trending hashtag—#RiveraRecoveryHoax—burning a hole through me. They weren’t just questioning my future.
They were coming for Riley too.
I caught the tail end of a conversation between two coaches walking past the office.
“Her methods are unconventional. Too personal.”
“Premier League board’s thinking about getting a second opinion.”
I clenched my jaw, hands balling into fists. They didn’t see what she did. The hours. The precision. The care. They didn’t know how much of her life she had poured into getting me back on this field. Into fixing me.
And maybe that was part of the problem.
Because I’d stayed quiet for too long. I’d let the media spin its version of my silence.
Now I could feel Riley slipping away too.
***
In our next session, I barely spoke. The fire that usually lit our banter was gone. She asked how I was feeling, and all I could say was, “Tired.”
Because I was. Not just in my body. In my bones. In the part of me that used to believe that if I worked hard enough, the world would back off.
But it never did.
Not for me.
I could feel Riley watching me—concern in her eyes, but hesitation in her hands. She didn’t touch me like before. Didn’t steady me. Didn’t look at me for too long. I figured she needed space, so I gave it to her.
And then she disappeared.
Handed me off to some junior therapist who meant well but didn’t get me. Didn’t know how to read my gait before I stumbled or feel when my shoulder stiffened during a stretch. I refused the change by day two.
And that night, I knocked on her door.
When she opened it, her expression was unreadable. Her eyes puffy like she hadn’t slept. Her hair pulled back like she was trying to pretend she wasn’t unraveling.
“I want you, Riley,” I said, my voice low and raw. “Not your intern.”
She crossed her arms. “And I want a time machine. We don’t always get what we want.”
That one stung. More than I wanted to admit.
I stepped closer. “Why do you keep pushing me away?”
“Because it’s easier than explaining that I’m scared!” she snapped, and for a second, everything froze.
“What the hell is going on, Lucas?” she asked, her voice breaking at the edges. “What do you want from me?”
I took a shaky breath. “I want you to trust me. I want you to be honest with me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think hiding from me, pretending everything’s fine when it’s not—that’s honesty?”
“I don’t know how to be anything else,” I admitted. “I wake up to see my name getting shredded on every screen. They’re already convinced I’m a fraud. I’m trying to breathe through it, and I don’t know how.”
“Did something happen?” I asked, softer now.
She hesitated, then muttered, “Just life reminding me it doesn’t care about timing.”
She didn’t say more. But something in her face gave it away—something resigned. Something final.
I turned to leave, too tired to push again. But as I passed her desk, something caught my eye.
A cream-colored envelope. Heavy stock. Gold writing.
The International Research Institute.
The logo hit me like a punch. My eyes flicked from the letter to her face.