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... ulsing 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 ...

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