No way. Three weeks ago, the sponsors had been itching to drop me like a ton of bricks. Now they were funding a team? That’s when another thought hit me.
Orla.
No hesitation. No debate. I didn’t want anyone else, didn’t trust anyone else. The thought of some stranger’s hands on me, some faceless physio barking orders, made me wince. With her, it was different. She knew me already and my body already knew her, probably more than I’d ever let anyone know. She cut through all the bullshit. Ted didn’t know it but she was the whole damn reason I was playing like this right now.
I opened my mouth, ready to say her name, already picturing the eyeroll she’d give when she realized I’d picked her but Gwen beat me to it.
“Oh! I actually know someone perfect. My friend, Orla. She’s been managing a physio team here, loads of experience. I think she’s been treating you?”
That explained the smirk. She knew.
My face must’ve given me away, because Gwen’s grin only widened.
“She’s good,” she added. “Smart. And you already trust her. She knows your injury. Which is half the battle.”
Ted clapped his hands once. “Perfect. Can you ask her to meet with Alan and myself tomorrow? Bring her details.”
“Of course,” Gwen said smoothly.
I just nodded quickly. But inside, I was still hearing her voice from earlier.If you let me do my job, I’ll get you through this.
Fuck, I hoped she’d say yes.
Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t justneeda physio. I wanted her. On the road. In my corner. In my life. And the thought she might say no terrified me more than losing ever could.
Chapter 15
Orla
I receivedthe weirdest text from Gwen last night. Vague as hell.
Gwen:
Need a favour. Can you meet with some player managers tomorrow at 2pm? Bring a CV. Just trust me.
Me:
What?! Why?!
Gwen:
Better if you don’t ask questions until after you meet them.
Brilliant. Cryptic Gwen was the worst Gwen. I tossed the phone on the counter and swore at it under my breath, like that might make her materialise with some answers.
I wasn’t even scheduled to see Tyler today, so I couldn’t ask if he knew anything—not that I even officially had his number, that was locked in my clinical notes back at the centre. Which was probably for the best; the way things were going, one text from him and I’d end up in the HR handbook as a cautionary tale.
So here I was, walking into one of the office buildings at the NTC, heading toward a mystery meeting with God-knows-who about God-knows-what, clutching a file like a bloody job applicant. Part of me was terrified, bracing for some kind of disaster. The other part of me was secretly hoping Tyler was on the other side of the door I was about to locate.
The corridor was stark and hummed with fluorescent light, a sterile tang of polish and old coffee in the air. My trainers squeaked against the vinyl floor. I felt ridiculous, like the kid who turns up to the wrong classroom with all the wrong books. Every door looked the same. I scanned the numbers until I found it: 2C.
I took a deep, steadying breath, gripped my file, and knocked.
“Come in,” an American voice I almost recognised called.
I turned the handle. Standard meeting room. Green carpet that was probably older than me, magnolia walls and a long oak table. To my surprise, Ted sat on one side, smiling warmly. Next to him was a sharp-suited man I didn’t recognise, I didn’t think I’d ever met him before.
“Orla, hi,” Ted said. “Come take a seat.”
