THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME-Chapter 739: Goodbye, Doha

The final stretch at Aspetar passed without complications. Zachary’s ankle healed steadily, and by mid-May, he had passed the two final clearance tests: a strength assessment and a functional movement screening.

The results were strong—his reconstructed ATFL held firm under strain, and his overall mobility had returned to near pre-injury levels. A week later, he sat across from Dr. Khaldoun one final time.

"Once again, I have to say you’re progressing beautifully," the doctor said, closing Zachary’s file with a satisfied nod. "You’re now cleared for reintegration training—low-intensity ball work, movement under pressure, controlled changes of direction."

Zachary’s eyes brightened. "So I can start pushing harder?"

Khaldoun’s smile turned cautionary. "Push, yes. But don’t sprint toward the finish line. You’ve come too far. Let your body complete the full six months. Another four weeks, and you’ll be fully cleared. But for now... you’re ready to return to Liverpool."

The words echoed like the most beautiful music in his head.

Later that morning, Zachary walked slowly—no limp, just caution—down the pristine hallway of Aspetar’s athlete recovery wing. His room was one of the long-stay private suites, overlooking a manicured interior garden, designed for elite athletes undergoing extended rehab. It had everything: a queen-sized bed, soft ivory linen, blackout curtains, a workspace with dual screens, and a private kitchenette stocked with nutritious snacks and smoothies. On one wall hung a digital screen that doubled as both a smart mirror and a rehab tool—another small luxury in a place built for champions.

When he entered the room, the silence welcomed him like an old friend. On instinct, he crossed to the wall-mounted calendar. Today was Tuesday, 28th May 2019.

It was only four days until the Champions League Final, when Liverpool would face off against Tottenham in Madrid.

A wave of excitement curled through his chest. The club had done it. Despite losing him, they had battled through the Premier League to claim the title with 97 points and completed a miraculous comeback in the Champions League semifinals. They had fought like warriors. And now, they were ninety minutes from European glory.

He’d already packed his things the night before—just a carry-on and a personal bag. No clutter. He was waiting on one thing now: the private jet Liverpool had promised would take him home.

He settled on the edge of the bed, switching on the TV. One of the sports channels was already cycling through Champions League pre-match coverage. Highlights of past finals. Tactical predictions. Pundit chatter. But Zachary wasn’t really watching. His thoughts drifted between pride and nostalgia.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

It opened gently, and Kristin stepped in.

Her hair, a golden cascade brushed back in a loose braid, shimmered under the sunlight pouring through the window. Her amber-brown eyes sparkled in the soft light, lively and familiar. She wore fitted beige slacks, a cream blouse, and a cropped navy jacket—a blend of elegance and casual ease, effortlessly her.

"Hey," she said, her voice soft, her smile even softer. "You ready?"

Zachary leaned back slightly, mirroring her smile. "I’m as ready as I’ll ever be."

Kristin crossed the room and sank beside him on the edge of the bed. Her presence, as always, grounded him. It was steady and constant. Over the past five months, she had been his schedule, his support, his firebreak when the days got too long or his doubts too loud.

Her hand found his without hesitation, fingers threading between his.

"Club just sent word," she said. "Jet’s already confirmed. We fly out in three hours."

Zachary nodded slowly, processing the words. After all these months, it was finally happening. He was going home—not to play, not yet—but to be there. To stand on the touchline, feel the roar of the crowd, breathe the electric air of a European final. It was enough.

Kristin looked down at their joined hands, then back at him.

"You did it," she murmured. "You didn’t quit. You fought every damn day, and now you’re walking out of here whole."

Zachary looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I didn’t fight alone," he said, voice low but steady. "I had the best help in the world."

Kristin’s lips curved into a soft smile. "Don’t be dramatic," she teased, though her amber-brown eyes shimmered with emotion. "You’re the one who put in the work. I was just here to nag you into physio every morning."

Zachary chuckled. "Best nagging I’ve ever had."

They sat in silence for a moment, soaking in the final hours at Aspetar. The air in the room was still and warm, sunlight filtering through sheer curtains that rippled gently in the breeze from the open window.

"Only four days remain," Kristin murmured, her voice low but touched with excitement.

Zachary’s eyes flicked to hers immediately, already knowing what she meant. "Madrid," he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "The final."

Kristin nodded. "I saw the latest press update. Klopp’s taking the full squad the day after tomorrow—final session in Liverpool before they fly out."

"I’ll be back before they set off for Madrid," Zachary said, the thought alone sparking something bright in his chest. "I’ll be at the final... even if it’s just from the sidelines."

"Better than watching from a hospital bed," she said gently.

"Much better," he agreed with a sigh. "Crazy, isn’t it? I left in January, and now we’re going back... as champions of England."

Kristin nodded. "Ninety-seven points. Unbelievable. You still ended up with 23 league goals. Not bad for half a season."

Zachary gave a soft, amused breath. "Yeah, but I think Salah might’ve edged me by the end."

"He did," Kristin admitted with a smile. "Twenty-five. Barely. But still—second-highest scorer after missing half the campaign? That’s insane, Zach."

He shrugged modestly. "Could’ve been more."

"Well," she said, arching a brow, "imagine what next season could look like when you’re fully fit and fully focused."

He smiled, but the weight of that possibility lingered in the quiet between them.

After a pause, Kristin added, "Summer’s coming up after the final. Two months off. Have you thought about what you’ll do with it?"

Zachary shrugged. "Honestly? I’ll spend most of it training. I need my sharpness back before preseason starts. Rehab’s been incredible, but I need to be at my best again. If I want to push for another Ballon d’Or... I can’t afford to relax."

Kristin nodded thoughtfully, watching him.

Then she leaned in slightly, her voice softer. "And what about... time for yourself? For people who care about you? You’ve earned a little peace too, you know."

Zachary looked at her, gaze lingering. "You mean like us?"

Kristin didn’t answer—at least not with words. She only looked at him, her eyes honest and unguarded.

Zachary reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "Thank you, Kristin. For staying. For everything."

Kristin’s smile turned tender. "Always."

Their hands met again, this time with a deliberate stillness, as if neither wanted to let go. And then, slowly, Zachary leaned in. Their lips met, unhurried, with the familiarity of something that had long become a routine. frёeωebɳovel.com

When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead gently against his.

"We should probably eat," she said after a moment, a playful note returning to her voice. "It’ll be your last meal in Doha before you become Liverpool’s golden boy again."

As if on cue, Zachary’s phone buzzed on the bedside table. He glanced at the screen. It was Emily calling.

He picked up. "Hey, Emilly."

"Just wanted to check in before you fly out," her voice rang clear and sharp. "Kristin updated me already, but I wanted to hear it from you. You ready?"

"Ready as I’ll ever be," Zachary replied, smiling. "Cleared and packed."

"Good. I’ll see you in Liverpool. We’ll catch up once you’ve settled. Lots to talk about—endorsements, PR plans, summer schedules. But no pressure yet. First thing’s first—just go be with your team."

"Thanks, Emilly. See you soon."

He ended the call and turned to Kristin. "Let’s go indulge. One last luxury meal before the cool British breeze replaces this desert heat."

Kristin laughed softly, standing up. "You read my mind."

They then left the room together and made their way to the hospital’s private dining area reserved for long-stay elite athletes. The chefs there—accustomed to world-class clientele—had prepared something special for Zachary’s final lunch: a lavish spread featuring the best of Qatari cuisine.

There was machboos—spiced rice with tender lamb, roasted vegetables drizzled with saffron oil, golden samboosa, and fresh khubz straight from the oven. For dessert, chilled mahalabiya dusted with pistachios and drizzled with rose syrup.

They dined slowly, savoring each bite. Laughter punctuated their meal, memories floated freely, and conversation danced between football, travel, and the future.

By mid-afternoon, they were ready.

Outside, the sleek black Aspetar transfer van waited beneath the palm-lined entrance, its engine gently humming. The staff who had supported Zachary through the hardest months of his life gathered briefly to see him off—physios, nurses, administrators. There were smiles, firm handshakes, warm embraces, and quiet congratulations exchanged in both Arabic and English.

Zachary took a moment to thank each one personally. These weren’t just hospital staff anymore—they were part of the story. Part of his comeback.

After saying his goodbyes, Kristin helped him into the van and slid in beside him. The doors shut with a soft click, and the vehicle eased away from the hospital’s clean marble steps and out toward the city.

By the time they reached Hamad International Airport’s private terminal, the sun was beginning to sink toward the horizon, casting golden hues over the tarmac. The private jet—a familiar white and red Gulfstream with the Liverpool crest beside the entry—stood waiting, engines purring softly.

A discreet team of staff handled the rest. No customs queues. No paparazzi. Just quiet efficiency as Zachary and Kristin were guided aboard.

Inside, the cabin was cool and elegant. Kristin settled into the seat across from him. Zachary, looking out the window, saw the gleaming skyline of Doha in the distance—faint against the desert.

He took one last glance as the jet taxied toward the runway.

Five months ago, he’d arrived broken and uncertain. Now, he was leaving with strength in his limbs and something even steadier in his heart.

Liverpool was already calling out to him.

Updat𝓮d fr𝙤m fre𝒆webnov(e)l.com