Zachary stirred to the soft hum of air conditioning and a faint ache pulsing in his ankle. He blinked against the morning light filtering through partially drawn blinds.
For a moment, he expected to see the familiar outlines of his room in Woolton—his framed match jerseys on the wall, the quiet stillness of home.
But the ceiling was too white. The sheets too crisp. And the sterile quiet told him everything.
Aspetar. Doha.
The injury.
He shifted slightly and winced—the ankle was sore. Not the sharp, stabbing kind of pain from Thursday night, but a deep, bruised throb. The medication had taken the edge off, but it was still there, a constant reminder of what had brought him halfway across the world.
It was then that a soft knock broke the silence.
Kristin stepped in, tablet tucked under her arm and a paper coffee cup in hand. Her hair was tied back, and her expression was calm, composed—typical classic Kristin, except for the gentleness in her tone.
