The Art of Saudi Arabia [Part 3]
Summary:
Nawwartū al-Saʿūdiyya. You have graced Saudi Arabia with your light!
Noa arrives in the land of the Two Holy Mosques to evaluate a FIFA-aligned expansion of the Saudi Pro League’s women’s division — all while managing captain-level obligations for Vaughn and Tessa.
Declaration is law.حياكم الله (Ḥayyākum Allāh) May God give you life.
A/N: All aboard, Movers! We’re crossing continents and heading east! Arc 4 is my first time experimenting with parallel, asymmetrical storytelling for Noa and Theo — and building episodes around a mostly single-artist soundtrack. Rating: harder than it looks. Round of applause for me… and a cigarette.
Also: I am not from the MENA region, but I’m deeply interested in the development of women’s sport in the country (for personal reasons). I do not speak Arabic, and if the translations are inaccurate in any way, please do let me know. I worked really hard to be as culturally respectful as I could with research.
Master List
Full Episode Soundtrack
Friday Morning by Khruangbin
The terrace moved without her, chairs shifted, servers cut through with trays, conversation broke back into clusters. A coordinator lifted signage at the terrace exit, laminate sheets that glared against the sun:
“Panels — this way.” “Academy visit delegates — terrace exit.” “Captain Haynes — quick availability.”
Plates disappeared in synchronized sweeps as runners stacked dessert trays between mint tea and Arabic coffee arriving in finjān cups.
At their table, Omar sat angled toward Latifa, coffee still in his hand, phone face down and vibrating every few minutes. Latifa’s eyes tracked the exit, saucer untouched, as a server pour mint tea into her empty glass.
Damien’s knee bounced under the table, his eyes flicking to the terrace exit twice in under a minute.
“What,” Tessa said, standing, “Or whom are you looking for?”
“No one in particular,” he snapped. “But I appreciate your concern.”
Tessa glared at him.
Her expression rearranged itself into a polite smile the second someone drifted within range.
“A photo? Yes, of course.” Click. “Lovely.” Click. “After the delegation dinner? Sure.” Click.
“Save me,” she mouthed to Noa, smile glued on, eyes cutting sharp over the table.
Noa glanced at Tessa, tucking her mouth to suppress a laugh. “Sorry! Can’t,” she mouthed back.
“Noa,” Latifa quietly interrupted. “Before you disappear, we should speak.”
“I’m not disappearing,” Noa said, shifting in her chair.
“You have your field team in-country,” Latifa said, ignoring her.
“You should brief them tonight,” she added, eyes flickering toward the terrace exit. “We’ll align before any capture begins.” She paused to sip her tea. “But know that they are a valuable resource for you.”
She smiled, and squeezed Noa’s hand. “As am I.”
“Understood,” Noa replied, reaching for her glass of water. Thank you.”
Latifa reached toward her bag, fingertips grazing the strap. “I’ll walk you to the exit,” she said, pulling the bag on her shoulder.
“Actually,” she paused, raising her index finger. “One minute," she said, quickly stepping away.
Noa nodded, phone in her hand, thumb already sliding, to properly read Georgia-Louise’s email.
Authority + Execution. Continuity rule. Field posture discipline.
She quietly laughed to herself, hearing Georgia-Louise’s cheerful, precise, almost rude voice in every sentence.
“You good?” Damien murmured, eyes tracing her.
“Yeah,” she replied, not bothering to look up. She scrolled to Dr. Farouk-Azad’s earlier email.
Non-negotiable. Maintain observational distance.
Noa kept scrolling.
Field Team: Jamie. Dr. Chidi. Huong. Fiona.
Her thumb stilled on
Coach Sabir Muhammad, Specialist Deployment (Module-Based / On-Call).
“I need a witness protection program,” Tessa interrupted, plopping back into her chair with an exhausted exhale.
Latifa made her way back to the table, lips curved faintly, catching the tail end of Tessa’s comment.
“Excuse me,” Noa said, setting her glass down, quiet enough that only Damien heard.
“Leaving?” Damien’s eyes flicked up, furrowed. “Where you going?”
Noa didn’t answer. She slid her chair back with her calf, careful not to scrape the stone, and stepped into the narrow space behind the chairs.
Latifa glanced down at her watch as she slid back into her seat. Her smile thinned into a small frown before she shifted her focus to Noa, lightly reaching for her wrist before letting it go.
“Later,” Latifa smiled.
“Yes.” Noa nodded, moving away from the table, shoulders turned sideways to avoid handbags on the ground and knees sliding out from chairs.
A woman cut in front of her with a cup of mint tea, steam rising, mint scent blooming. “سمحوا.” (Excuse me.)
“No worries.” Noa slipped around her, already thumbing an unknown number on her phone.
RING. RING.
“Hi. Mr. Muhammad?” She paused. “It’s Noa Jameson.” She stepped just past the shade line near the terrace exit. “NatGeo connected us.”
“I’m calling about—” she hesitated, “I need open-water competence,” biting her lip, “for field sites… and—”
“Yes,” a cheerful voice laughed through the receiver. “The NatGeo team and Dr. Farouk-Azad told me to expect your call,” he added politely. “And you can call me Coach Sabir.”
“Okay,” Noa exhaled. “Thank you.” She moved closer to a shaded corner, digging in her bag for a pen and pad. “So… how does it work?”
“I go where you go, where you need me, when you need me.”
Noa nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “You’re a swimming legend, I doubt you have time for me,” she said, reaching for her sunglasses. “Like realistically, could you come to Riyadh? Is that possible? Is it too soon?”
“Nope,” Coach Sabir cut in. “I go where you go,” he said calmly.
“Oh.” Noa paused, closed her eyes, and took a small, steady breath.
A coordinator brushed past her shoulder with a clipboard. “The delegation is heading to the next event,” the woman said, pointing in the opposite direction.
Noa nodded, ignoring her, and kept walking.
“And I will do you one better,” Coach Sabir’s voice crackled through the receiver. “I am in the city this week for some panels and events.”
“Really?”
“Yes. That—” he started, then cleared his throat. “And Leila — I mean, Dr. Farouk-Azad — gave me a heads up to be nearby in case you called.” He paused. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. She… uh… said you are really good at knowing your baseline.”
“I am a non-swimmer,” Noa laughed. “That’s my baseline. I won’t drown, but I can’t promise I won’t die. I need competence,” she tightened the grip on her pen, “But, I am determined,” she mumbled.
“Well, determined is good Ms. Jameson,” Coach Sabir said, “How about we meet at 06:30. Ritz pool?”
“Sounds good.”
“And Noa?”
“Yes?”
“The gold medal skill is teamwork. Nothing can be achieved in a silo.”
Noa nodded again, even though he still couldn’t see her.
“Thank you, Coach Sabir,” she said, dropping the pen and pad back into her bag as she moved toward the exit. “See you soon.”
She exhaled, ended the call, turned toward the promenade, and dialed a second number.
RING.
“Lady boss!” Fahad answered immediately. “Luncheon good? Or you back to travel travel already?,” he laughed.
Noa laughed. “Fahad. Hi. How did you know it was me?”
“I know all my people. Make me good at my job.”
Noa half-laughed, rolling her eyes. “Well, can you pick me up?”
“Yes!” he scoffed. “Of course! Where you stand?”
“Bujairi Terrace. Takya exit.”
“Okay, okay,” Fahad said. “I come. Stay inside. You do not fight the sun,” he added firmly. “You lose.”
“I know,” she laughed. “I know.”
“Five minutes,” Fahad said. “Inside till I come, yeah?”
“Thank you,” she whispered to herself as she hung up.
Noa slipped back under the shade of the Takya entrance, hovered near the edge of the lobby watching the promenade through the reflection of her glasses, the temperature dropping just enough to take the sting out of her skin. The glass doors pushed cool air and carried in conversations each time someone passed.
Outside, a few minutes later, a white van rolled up along the curb, hazard lights blinking.
“Lady boss!” Fahad called, rolling down the window, grin already wide.
Noa laughed, pushing off the wall and stepping back into the sun just long enough to reach the passenger-side door, sliding into the back as the van swallowed her into a blast of cool air conditioning and cardamom.
“You were quick, Fahad,” she said, pulling the door shut.
“I am always good timing,” Fahad replied, tapping the steering wheel proudly as he eased back into traffic. “Where we go?”
“Back to the Ritz, please,” she said, flopping deeper into the leather cushions.
“Ritz. Tsk-tsk.” He nodded. “Okay. We go out Diriyah side, then onto King Khalid Road,” he added. “Better than fighting the tourists.” Fahad nudged the volume up with one knuckle as he checked his mirrors, flicked the blinker and merged into traffic.
A low, velvety voice poured through the speakers, strings humming beneath it.
"حبيبي يا نور العين…" (My love, light of my eyes…)
The heritage walls of Diriyah slipped behind them as the road opened into a long beige stretch of sun and asphalt, with palm trees lining the median strip.
A radio host slid in over the fading note, a soft chuckle in his voice.
"معكم إذاعة الرياض… تنبيه بسيط لحركة المرور…" (You’re with Riyadh Radio… quick traffic note…)
Fahad glanced at her through the mirror. “Long day, lady boss?”
“Yeah,” she muttered, adjusting the strap of her bag where it crossed her lap, thumb pressed into the hard edge of her phone without unlocking the screen.
A white SUV drifted halfway into their lane.
“See?” he muttered, nodding toward the windshield, palm hitting the horn just long enough for a sharp HONK to cut through the music. His tongue clicked once against his teeth. “Riyadh driving. Always surprise.”
He tilted the mirror a fraction lower, squinting past a delivery truck drifting between lanes. “You have the quiet face,” he said, fingers tapping the steering wheel. “Thinking face… either big work… or big problem,” then his attention snapped back to the road.
Noa smirked, but stayed quiet, eyes drifting toward the window.
They curved onto a wider road, traffic picking up, glass buildings beginning to replace mud brick in the distance.
“Left here takes you Wadi Hanifah,” Fahad said, pointing lightly. “Nice in winter. Now?” He shook his head. “Only sun enjoying.”
They passed billboards in quick succession between cranes hung behind half-built towers.
رؤية السعودية 2030 SAUDI VISION 2030 موسم الرياض يبدأ قريباً RIYADH SEASON STARTS SOON استثمر في السعودية INVEST IN SAUDI
“Soon King Khalid,” Fahad said. “Then easy.”
The car ahead hesitated at a merge. “Yalla…” Fahad leaned forward, palm lifting toward the horn. “وش قاعد تسوي…”(What are you doing…) he muttered under his breath as the gap finally opened, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, as he eased the van through.
Fahad reached up and nudged the AC dial down a notch, adjusted one of the back vents with a quick reach. Noa closed her eyes for a second, leaning her head back as her phone lit against her palm.
Fahad’s grin flashed in the mirror as he returned both hands to the wheel while the traffic compressed ahead. “Always rescue Lady boss,” he said. “It is my pleasure.”
The van picked up speed, the city sharpening into glass and steel ahead, the slow sprawl of Diriyah now fully behind them.
“This road always bad after lunch,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Everyone sleepy. Driving like this,” he wobbled his hand in the air.
"ارجعلي… ولو يوم… خليني أعيش الحلم بيك…" (Come back to me… even for a day… let me live the dream with you…)
“See those towers?” Fahad nodded toward the skyline beginning to rise. “That means we almost there.”
Noa watched them grow taller through the windshield, sunlight flashing along their sides while the song on the radio slipped fully into its chorus again, as the Ritz appeared in the distance.
The van’s tires hissed over gravel and asphalt as cream stone rose ahead, hazard lights blinking as Fahad slowed, easing into the drop-off lane.
“Ritz,” he said proudly, shifting into park. Fahad twisted in his seat, one arm thrown over the headrest. “Nice to see you again, Lady Boss.” He tapped his temple. “Next time, yes.”
She met his eyes in the mirror. “Of course,” she said, quietly, sliding the van door open. “Thank you, Fahad.”
“Lady boss,” he scoffed. “I am already outside before you wake up.”
She laughed, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Shukran, Fahad,” she shot back, the doors sliding shut between them.
Inside, heat rushed in half a second before the hotel’s chilled air swallowed it.
“Welcome back, Ms. Jameson,” a concierge said, watching Noa cross toward the elevators, past a gurgling fountain.
She nodded, already pressing the call button.
DING.
Noa’s keycard beeped green, the suite door opening and closing behind her with a soft thud. For a moment she just stood there, bag still on her shoulder, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning.
“Okay,” she closed her eyes and exhaled, slid her shoes off by the bench, and dropped her bag on the chaise by the bed.
Noa quickly folded a swimsuit, Soul Cap, and goggles into her bag, added a towel and her monogrammed toiletries pouch, then zipped it closed, slung it over her shoulder, and padded toward the door. She stepped into the corridor as two housekeepers emerged from a service doorway with a linen cart.
“Excuse me,” one of them said, already angling the cart away from her.
“Sorry,” Noa replied, the wheels of the cart rolling softly behind her, as she passed to the elevator.
DING.
A Calf Born in Winter by Khruangbin
The doors closed as the floor descended one number at a time in a low whir. Noa scrolled through her phone, the gold-tinted mirrored walls reflecting her shoulders, the strap of her bag, and the ceiling lights set deep into the paneling.
DING.
When the doors opened, polished marble stretched ahead, reflecting recessed floor lights set low along the walls. Noa followed the signs toward the spa, her footsteps pressing softly against stone:
السبا الصحي (The Spa) غرف العلاج (Treatment Rooms) المسبح الداخلي (Indoor Pool) غرف تغيير الملابس (Changing Rooms)
She moved past columns, closed doors set far apart, the flooring shifting gradually from marble to textured tile beneath her feet. A light eucalyptus scent drifted from overhead vents, growing more noticeable as the corridor curved slightly, narrowing near the spa reception past an empty waiting bench with geometric pattern cushions neatly sprawled across it and toward a gilded archway.
At the spa entrance, a small lobby opened.
The receptionist looked up immediately and stepped out from behind the desk.
“Welcome,” she said, already turning. “This way.”
As they moved through the space, the receptionist lifted her hand toward a long shelving wall built into the stone. Thick white towels were stacked in rows, edges squared.
“Towels are prepared here.”
The woman continued guiding Noa past the shelves toward a recessed alcove. “And water,” she added, tilting her hand toward glass dispensers set into the wall, their surfaces cool with condensation under the lights.
She slowed at the next opening, stopping just short of it.
“The changing rooms are to the left.”
“Thank you.” Noa said, heading toward the locker room.
Noa passed the large indoor pool as the automated lights switched on in succession, moving across the surface of the water and reflecting off pale stone and polished tile. The lanes were empty, tile edges slick where water dripped, and chlorine sputtered steadily from filtration vents, a quiet mechanical gurgle sounding beneath the marble tiles.
Noa kept her bag under one arm and walked in, the clack-clack-clack of her flip-flops echoing through the space. Tall classical columns rose around her, their warm gold and cream tones catching the light as the space opened into a vast rotunda with a circular, symmetrical pool. Above, a high domed ceiling curved overhead, painted with a faint sky effect.
She moved to the locker room entrance and inserted her keycard. Inside, benches lined the walls opposite closed, uniform, unmarked lockers — all identical, all unoccupied.
The humidity pressed on the chlorinated air from slatted vents along the ceiling. Noa placed her bag on the bench, slid her shoes off, and folded her clothes in tight squares. She changed into a black Speedo one-piece, Soul Cap over her hair, goggles hanging at her neck, a towel draped over one shoulder. She grabbed her bag, double-checked the straps, adjusted her goggles again, then stepped toward the door leading to the pool area.
The corridor narrowed, its cream-colored walls and polished tile reflecting the lights above as it guided her toward a small sign above a nearby, lightly fogged glass door framing rippling light-blue water in the distance:
المسبح الداخلي – للنزلاء فقط Indoor Pool – Guests Only
Noa pushed the door open and the temperature shifted immediately, warmer and humid. The tile beneath her feet was damp, as she slowly padded toward the far end of the pool, towel over one shoulder, bag pulling on the other, measuring distances.
She reached lane three, standing at the edge, toes over tile, body tight. She bent her knees slightly, dipping a hand, letting the heated water move along her wrist. Tiny waves spread across her lane, lines rippling into the still lanes beside her. The metallic smell of chlorine rose from the surface.
“Coach Sabir?” Noa said, stepping cautiously across the wet tile. She dropped her bag on the nearest bench, checked her goggles, and adjusted her cap.
Coach Sabir stood near lane three, clipboard under his arm, whistle flat against his chest, stopwatch loose in hand. His gaze shifted between Noa and the lanes under his Atlanta Braves baseball cap, but he didn’t say anything.
“Ms. Jameson,” he said, eyes still scanning the lanes.
Noa shifted the towel from one shoulder to the other, draping it, tightening it, letting it fall. Her fingers brushed the cold tile as she glanced at the lane numbers etched into the edge.
He scribbled on the clipboard without looking at her again.
“What’s your biggest fear?”
Coach Sabir didn’t move. He tapped the stopwatch, nudged the lane ropes with his foot, and scribbled.
Noa drew a shaky breath. “Biggest fear —”
Coach Sabir gestured toward the pool.
“Biggest fear?”
She stepped to the bench, dropped the towel, fingers lingering on the tiles.
“Uhm… drowning.”
Noa slid her goggles over her eyes, tugged her Soul Cap snug. She leaned forward, fingertips grazing the slick tile, and eased in feet first. She froze the moment water lapped at her shoulders. Her toes gripped the bottom tile, arms staying stiff at her sides. Her chest rose and fell fast, knees slightly bent, shivering as she tested the water.
“In life,” he said, gaze narrowed in on her, timing small corrections without jotting them down.
A faint metallic smell of chlorine reached her nose.
“Drowning.” She repeated, teeth clenched.
Water rippled beneath her chest. She kicked once instinctively, arms stiff as she tried to balance. The surface wobbled under her.
A shiver ran up her spine. She bent her knees and pushed off slightly, then flailed when the surface shifted beneath her. Her lungs caught, fast shallow breaths dragging chlorine up through her nose.
Coach Sabir crouched, pen hovering over the clipboard. “You breathe too fast.”
He tapped the edge of the pool. “Let’s fix that first.”
She held the edge with both hands, chest just below the surface, toes gripping tiles, waiting for instructions.
Noa let go of the edge, tipped forward slightly, legs searching, arms rigid along sides, as the water shifted in waves. Her breath steadily rose and fell, caught between lungs and water. She corrected slightly, knees bent, toes gripping lightly.
“Stand up,” he said.
She found the floor, coughing lightly, chest tight, shivering slightly.
He scribbled on the clipboard, then looked at the stopwatch, pen tapping quietly.
“In through the nose.”
She inhaled, tight and fast.
“No. Slower.”
She tried again, drawing the air deep, feeling the chill of the water rise to her shoulders.
“Now out through the mouth.”
She exhaled, long and slow. Her shoulders sagged slightly; her arms floated, legs kicking without meaning to. A small drip from the ceiling landed on her hand.
“Good. Try and glide half-lane.”
Noa straightened, eyes wide. “Do what?”
“Extend your arms, push off lightly.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Yes you do.”
She hesitated. Her fingertips lingered on the tile, a thin line crossed her lip as she gazed into the distance. The water shifted under her chest, chlorine wafted into her nose.
Coach Sabir let the silence stretch, eyes on his stopwatch.
Noa leaned forward, arms stiff, pushed off. Her legs kicked once, then flailed. She tipped forward, face brushing the surface, water swishing into her nose. Ripples fanned outward from her fingers, her toes brushing the bottom, chest rising and falling fast.
“Breathe slower.”
Coach Sabir moved along the deck, adjusting lane ropes. “We don’t fight water. We cooperate with it.”
“Again.”
Noa pushed off, arms straight, legs stiff, the water pressing against her back. She kicked lightly, toes grazing tile, water rippling along her calves, tiny waves spreading beneath her arms.
Coach Sabir glanced at the stopwatch and scribbled a note.
Noa reached the midpoint, knees bent, toes pressing tile, chest tight. She paused, then pushed off again, arms straight, gliding just far enough to feel the water’s pull. Her fingers sliced the surface, small waves moving with her body as she adjusted to the water’s weight.
She climbed out, water dripping along her calves onto the marble, her shoulders shivering as small rivulets traced the tile. The reflection of the dome flickered across her goggles and she inhaled slowly, chest rising and falling as the water drained from her Soul Cap.
Coach Sabir adjusted the lane ropes, pen marking notes, eyes flicking between the stopwatch and the pool.
White Gloves by Khruangbin
Sunlight caught the edge of the desk as Theo nudged the suite door shut behind him. The curtains were still half drawn, gold light slipping in and casting shadows across the carpet. The fruit bowl by the television sat untouched, condensation gathering on the silver water carafe beside it. The air-conditioning hummed steadily, cool air pumping into the room and across Theo’s heat-slicked skin.
RING.
His phone vibrated in his palm before he reached the desk. He didn’t sit right away, loosening his collar first, pulling the chair back with one foot and lowering himself into it, resting his elbow on the polished, sunlit wood.
“If this is about those goddamn tiles—” Theresa started, her voice muffled as she spoke away from the receiver. “No, not that crate, the other one — the marked one —”
“Careful with that edge!” “Not those, love. Those are hand-glazed,” a woman shot back, followed by the scrape of a crate sliding across concrete.
“Nah,” he cut in, gaze drifting toward the skyline beyond the glass.
A soft exhale came through the phone. “Okay, talk to me,” she said, slightly breathless.
“Wokingham. Tiles are sorted in Barca. Rafa’s stalling on the wine shipment.”
“Hang on — ” she said, a latch clicking in the background before her voice returned, closer to the receiver. “Kitchen install starts in three weeks, Theo.”
“I know.”
“That one goes to Paris, not Milan!” someone barked across the space, voice echoing in Theresa’s background.
“Do you?” she asked, papers shuffling, then the sharp rip of packing tape. “Because the Paris showroom walkthrough is still in the second week next month, and you and Luka haven’t replied to any emails.”
“Luka gets paid to read them.”
“Theo.”
He leaned back, chair creaking faintly, one hand rubbing along his beard. Outside, sunlight flashed along a passing car far below.
“I can’t be everywhere, T,” he shot back. “That’s why I have competent people.” He quieted. “Like you. Like Luka.”
The line went quiet for a second, Theo’s fingers drumming on the desk filling it.
“Berlin can wait,” Theo said, finally. “No pressure on that build.”
“Okay,” Theresa breathed. “I’ll slow down that timeline.”
“Milan stays on schedule.”
“Of course it does,” she half-laughed. Someone in the background called her name. She answered, “Two minutes!” away from the phone.
The air vent ticked as a new gust of cool air burst through the air-conditioner at the far end of the room.
“Speaking of Milan,” he said, leaning forward, forearms on the desk, eyes unfocused. “I get a few days off soon. Actually be home. Properly.”
“That’ll be good for you,” Theresa said, softly, a click of a door closing.
“Yeah. Got some things to sort.”
“Mm,” she hummed.
He stared at the thin line of sunlight inching across the carpet.
“… I start therapy tonight.”
“That’s a big step.”
He huffed a laugh through his nose. “That’s not very supportive, T.”
“Well, you actually have to go,” she laughed.
He smiled to himself, gaze dropping to the desk grain beneath his fingers.
“Text me after?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
A soft knock sounded a few doors down.
A man said, quietly, “Room service.”
“Just a moment please.”
“You good otherwise?” Theresa’s voice cut through.
The elevator doors softly chimed open at the end of the corridor, a concierge’s voice carrying faintly: “هذا الطريق، تفضل” (This way, please) to voices speaking Arabic as they stepped off, their footsteps muffled almost instantly by carpet.
Theo looked at his reflection in the window for a moment, holding his own gaze for a second longer than he meant to.
“Yeah.”
“Alright,” she paused, paper crinkling, “I’ll call Rafa,” she sighed. “And I’ll resend the Paris deck you’re not going to read.”
“This is why you get the big bucks.”
“Oh ‘low it,” she laughed.
“Chat soon, yeah?”
“Always,” she said, ending the call.
RING.
“You’ve got thirty seconds,” Tara said, her voice slightly echoing. A monitor beeped steadily as a trolley wheel rattled over a floor seam behind her. Someone nearby said, “She’s ready for transfer.”
“Between cases?”
“Obviously,” she muttered. A reinforced steel door swung open and shut, background noise dulling as footsteps echoed off concrete stairs when she stepped into a side corridor. “Talk.”
“I’m in London next week.”
“Mum told me,” she said. The crinkle of a protein bar wrapper came through the line.
“Of course she did,” he muttered. “I’ll come by. Take you to lunch.”
“Hospital lunch or actual food?”
“Your call.”
“I would like Carbone,” she said dryly, “but we both know I can’t leave the building.”
He smiled despite himself. “Cafeteria it is,” he said, drumming his fingers lightly against the desk.
“Always,” she groaned.
A distant voice called, “Dr. Aldridge-Wells?”
He hesitated, letting silence drift through the receiver. “I’m calling Isabella.” He swallowed and pushed out, throat tightening, “To end it properly.”
Tara stayed quiet for a second longer than necessary.
“Okay,” she finally said. “About time.”
Theo groaned. “T-Rex, ‘low it,” he huffed. “I am doing it, innit.”
“Okay, rude.” Stainless steel double doors burst open, a gurney rattling in, carrying several low voices and a faint beep of a monitor.
“Long time … but yeah, doing it… finally.” Latex snapped against her wrist as she adjusted a glove “Give that poor woman some dignity,” she said. “Hopefully,” she muttered, to herself.
“Tara.”
“What?”
“Dr. Aldridge-Wells, we’re ready,” someone called, a cart rattling past.
“Coming,” she answered, hand muffling the receiver for a second.
“Go,” he said. “And eat something better than a protein bar.”
“How did you—”
“I’m your brother.”
“No shit.” She laughed. “Alright, laters,” she said, before the line clicked.
Theo kept the phone in his hand a moment longer, the sounds of hospital noise replaced by the soft triple chime of an elevator arriving down the hall.
He stood slowly, thumb already swiping to voice notes as he crossed toward the bed. The duvet was perfectly turned down; he dragged his fingers absently along the stitched edge, and hit record.
“Hey Mum,” he said quietly. “Quick one, yeah.”
He sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, phone balanced in his palm.
“For Marrakech—” His thumb traced the edge of the duvet, back and forth. “I’ve been thinking about the foundation event,” he said, eyes flickering unfocused around the room. “Luka and I sketched something out. I’ll send it over.”
“And at Saffron & Cedar… I think we should host the first cultural night for Eid.” His free hand rubbed the back of his neck. “Sponsor an apprentice chef to lead a course, and two artisan apprentices for the showcase.”
He nodded to himself. “Call me when you can,” he said, standing, “I love you.”
He sent it without listening back.
BUZZ.
17:58 glowed at the top of his phone screen.
Dr. Shelley. 18:00. Zoom LINK.
Theo exhaled once through his nose and reached for his laptop on the nightstand, flipping it open as he crossed toward the living room. He paused by the fruit bowl by the television, thumb hooking around the neck of the carafe, and poured a glass over the hotel ice already melting in the tumbler, the quiet glug of water echoing around the room.
He took a slow sip, set the glass down on the coaster, then plopped onto the couch, socks stretching to face the window, laptop balanced on his knees, screen glow lighting his face.
He clicked the link before he could reconsider.
A face filled the screen a second later; glasses perched on a brown-skinned nose, graying Sisterlocs pulled back, a mug in slightly wrinkled hands covered with an assortment of rings, steam curling faintly between them.
Theo adjusted the camera a fraction, then rested his forearms on his thighs, leaning toward the screen.
“Hi, Dr. Shelley,” he said, shifting the computer back on his knees.
“So,” she began, pulling a pen and notebook into frame, “how was your day?”
Theo nodded. “Good. Productive.”
She waited, pen resting lightly against the page, eyes steady on him. He bit his lip, eyes flickering around the room, avoiding Dr. Shelley’s gaze and the silence enveloping the room.
The silence stretched a few seconds, long enough for him to notice it.
“Handled restaurant logistics,” he said, finally. “Physio.” His fingers tapped once against the computer casing. “Luncheon with a potential partner.” He adjusted the laptop on his knees. ”Saw a bit of Riyadh and a potential restaurant location.” He brushed nonexistent lint from his joggers. “Talked to my family.”
Dr. Shelley’s pen stopped moving, watching his hands while he talked.
“You’ve been shifting around on that couch since you said ‘partner.’” She smiled. “Theo,” she paused, peering through the screen. Tell me what you did today.”
He repeated it, almost word for word, voice flattening further the second time.
Dr. Shelley tilted her head slightly.
“Now tell me how you felt about each of those things.”
Theo’s jaw tightened, thumb rubbing back and forth along the seam of the laptop, as silence rose between them.
“I’m hearing a lot about what you did,” she said, gently.” Not much yet about what it was like for you.”
Theo looked towards the space between his feet.
“Let’s do this one by one,” she continued. “Name the emotion. Don’t name the event.”
“Restaurant logistics,” she called out, pen mid-scribble on the page.
She just looked at him.
He huffed lightly through his nose.
“I invested in a restaurant called Sahra. High-rise, gold-trimmed, ultra-modern. Skyline views, mocktails named after constellations… but it’s Saudi—”
Dr. Shelley paused. “And?”
He shifted, heel dragging against the edge of the couch. “It’s… profitable. But Saudi It’s… complicated…. Here… with the people. And as a footballer…” He scratched his jaw. “It’s not good. For my brand.”
“And how do you feel about it?”
“I mean…” He blinked, eyes flickering between the ceiling and the screen. “It could be great.”
Dr. Shelley stayed quiet, pen lightly scratching the page.
“I’m not sure I’m ready to take that risk,” Theo added, quietly, knee slightly bouncing and shifting the screen.
She stopped writing and sat the pen on the book.
“Training?”
“Standard.”
“Standard?”
Theo shut his eyes briefly and exhaled through his teeth. “My body isn’t healing as quickly as I want.” His shoulders slid lower into the couch, “I’m—” His gaze flicked to the window, “Frustrated,” then back to Dr. Shelley, laptop tilting until he caught it. “I feel slow,” he sighed. And I’m in more pain than I should be for a minor procedure,” he finished, rubbing his palm over his face.
“What was the procedure?”
“Appendix rupture.”
She nodded. “What’s the standard recovery timeline for that?” She asked, lifting her pen.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Six to eight weeks before full training load.”
“Has it been eight weeks?”
“No.”
She let that sit for three seconds before her gaze landed back to him.
“Luncheon?”
Theo’s mouth opened. “I was there to meet with a mutual acquaintance,” he started, then stopped. “And his wife. His fingers tightened around the edge of the laptop.”His wife knows —” He swallowed. “His wife knows — someone I know. Someone I —”
“Not yet,” she said gently, cutting him off mid-sentence when voice snagged on the last word, and he cleared his throat like it was nothing.
“We create safety. We start small.” She nodded. “Take a breath. Now tell me about the landmarks and sightseeing you did. How did you feel?”
He blinked, shifted upright, gave a small shrug. “Riyadh is nice. It’s way too hot though.” He laughed.
Dr. Shelley smiled and nodded, pen scratching the paper again.
“And the family and work phone calls. Did you share about sightseeing?”
“No,” he said. “But I did speak to them and it felt good.”
“How so?”
His mouth twitched at one corner, a smile crossing his face. “I just missed them, innit.”
The room went quiet except for the low whir of the air-conditioning and the faint clink of ice settling in his water glass.
Dr. Shelley looked up from her notes.
“Thank you,” she said softly, “for sharing.”
Theo didn’t smile but he didn’t look away either.
“Let’s stop there for today,” Dr. Shelley said, “Take one breath with me before we log off.”
He nodded and took a deep breath.
She glanced at the clock. “Same time next week?”
“Yeah.”
The screen went dark, leaving only his reflection staring back at him. He reached for the water and drank the rest in one gulp.
So We Won’t Forget by Khruangbin
Tessa’s Women’s Super Cup, Anfield Red Women vs Rossoneri Milano Women, King Fahd International Stadium
The stadium rose around them all at once, cream arches, geometric cutouts, wide open ramps funneling people upward in slow spirals. The late-afternoon sun still clung to the concrete, warmth radiating through the soles of shoes as Noa, Latifa, Omar, and Damien moved with the flow toward the gates.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
“تفضلوا، حياكم الله” (Please, welcome), a security guard said, waving them through as the scanner flashed green.
A volunteer waved them toward the VIP entrance with a bright, “Welcome, welcome.”
Inside, footsteps and murmurs from the crowd layered over one another as shade billowed in cooler air.
They emerged into the bowl.
Rows of seats curved endlessly around the pitch, blue and white bands wrapping the stadium in color. The field below looked green against pale track lanes and cream architecture.
“I love this stadium,” Latifa said under her breath.
Omar nodded, already scanning screens, sponsor boards, camera platforms.
“What row are we?” He asked, leaning down toward Latifa, brows furrowed under sunglasses.
Damien squinted toward the opposite stand. “Where are the roaming cams?”
Noa followed his line of sight toward one fixed platform near midfield where a photographer knelt by the corner flag. There was a broadcast camera on a long lens just behind the bench, as two staff members wrestled with the leg of a shade tent that didn’t quite sit flat.
One nudged it with his foot until it stopped wobbling.
“Push it toward me. No, the other way.” “It’s sinking in the turf, wait. Okay, okay, leave it before it falls.”
“Stand still habibti. Let me fix the number.”
A young mother in a red abaya called out, smoothing the jersey backs of two tiny girls in replica Haynes kits too big at the collar, sleeves folded back, numbers wrinkled from fresh packaging.
“Baba, take it again! I blinked!”
One of the girls called to a man crouched nearby snapping photos with a phone clutched between both hands.
“It’s fine, yalla, we’re going to miss kickoff.”
A little boy two rows down kicked his heels against the seat in front of him while his sister practiced chanting under her breath, getting the rhythm right.
“Not like that. Listen, An-field! An-field!” “AN-FEEL!” the boy shouted back, too loud, grinning.
Further along, a delegation block filled in orderly rows, everyone in black blazers, lanyards dangling from sweating necks, translation earpieces quickly passed down the row.
“Channel two is English, I think.” “No, no, three. Three has the commentary.” “Can you hear me? Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three.?”
“Is this your section?” a woman asked in French. “Yes, yes,” someone answered, “Here,” scooting sideways to make room.
Near the touchline, a young staffer jogged out with two water bottles tucked awkwardly under one arm.
“Other side! Other side!” someone called.
He slowed, looked back toward the bench, then changed direction mid-stride when a second player waved him over.
Across the pitch, a physio cut diagonally over the grass at a light jog, medical bag bouncing against her hip, no clear lane between her and the technical area. She adjusted around a TV cable taped too loosely to the turf.
Noa’s gaze flicked once toward the cable, then back to the field as they reached their seats. Latifa sat first, smoothing her abaya as she leaned forward, elbows on knees, gaze locked on the field. Omar stayed standing a moment longer, eyes flickering between the pitch and phone.
Damien was already on his phone. “Signal’s decent,” he murmured.
On the opposite side of the stadium, Fahad climbed the steps with one hand firmly wrapped around his daughter’s wrist so she wouldn’t get swallowed by the crowd.
"بالهداوة يا يارا، بالهداوة." (Easy, Yara, easy.)
"مو بطيئة!"(I’m not slow!)” she whined, hopping the last step and spinning to face the pitch.
A too-big Anfield Red shirt dangling over her tiny frame, number 12 crooked across her back. Her braids knocked against her shoulders as she leaned over the railing, both hands gripping tight.
“Baba,” she whispered, eyes wide as she scanned the field.
"كبير مرة!" (It’s so big!)
Fahad smiled, resting his forearms on the rail behind her.
"تذكّري، راقبي كيف يتحركون، مو بس الكورة." (Remember, watch how they move, not just the ball.)
Below, substitutes began to drift out toward the touchline. A coach pointed toward the tent, then toward the sun, then back toward the tent again. In the VIP section, Noa rose halfway from her seat, eyes scanning the field, looking for Tessa.
“Good luck,” she mouthed, smiling, as their gazes locked on the pitch.
WHEEEP.
A boot struck the ball, the sound sliced clean through the bowl and the chants across the stadium erupted in waves. The first tackle came fast, studs skidding.
“Yalla! Yalla!” someone shouted three rows down.
On the near touchline, Tessa was already pointing, sharply across the grass, as she took the first throw-in.
“Shift! Shift left. Left!”
She called, taking two steps forward, one back, scanning, hand up behind her looking for a teammate, lunging the ball ahead.
High above the railing, Yara bounced on her toes.
“Yalla Tessa! Go! Go! GO!”
She shrieked, voice cracking between Arabic and English, both hands flapping so hard her jersey slid sideways.
Fahad grabbed the back of her shirt again before she tipped forward, his box of popcorn rattled against the barrier.
“كوني حذرة يا حبيبتي الصغيرة. (Careful, habibti),” he muttered, not taking his eyes off the pitch.
Tessa tracked back hard, shoulder-to-shoulder with a Rossoneri winger, boots scraping across the grass. She won the ball clean, turned, and was already talking before she released it.
“Inside! Inside now!”
A younger midfielder hesitated, misread the angle. Tessa quickly doubled back, caught the girl by the elbow mid-run, and steered her two steps over.
“There. Stay there. Good.”
Latifa clapped softly when Anfield strung three passes together, “Get them! Hold the line.”
The pass came again and stuck on grass. Down the line, a Rossoneri player clipped her ankle. Tessa stumbled, palms skimming turf, and pushed herself up before the whistle even came.
“I’m fine,” she called automatically, and kept moving down the pitch.
Noa saw the way Tessa rolled her ankle before planting weight again, glancing toward the nearest broadcast camera on its long lens then to the bench.
Noa followed Tessa’s gaze.
Half the substitutes sat in sun, half in shade, one water crate already half empty. A runner jogged out with bottles tucked under both arms, hesitated, looked back, then changed direction when someone on the far end waved.
Omar leaned forward, elbows on knees, tracking the LED ribbon ads cycling around the stadium rim, then the sponsor board behind the goal.
“They’ve met minimum broadcast lighting,” Damien murmured, without taking his eyes off the field.
“But the bench coverage ratios are still off.” Omar replied, eyes flickering to Damien and back to the pitch.
“Yeah,” Noa said quietly.
Across the pitch, a physio broke into a jog too early, cutting diagonally over open turf before the fourth official waved her back. She slowed, adjusted course, nearly tangling with a cable before stepping over it.
Tessa was already reorganizing against a Rossoneri counterattack.
“Drop! Drop with me. Don’t chase!”
For a second, play moved to the far side and she drifted near the touchline closest to Fahad and Yara.
Yara froze.
“Baba… Baba!” she whispered, grabbing his arm. “She’s right there!”
Fahad lifted her under the arms so her chin cleared the railing.
Tessa moved closer over during a stoppage, adjusting her captain’s armband, talking to the fourth official.
“Baba… can I…?”
Yara waved both hands, towards Tessa as she drifted within shouting distance of the railing.
“Lady footballer!” Fahad called, laughing.
“Fahad!” Tessa grinned, jogging closer, pointing at the girl and Fahad.
“You see?” he pointed, laughing, setting Yara back on her feet. “My daughter. Yara!”
WHEEP.
“Yara!” Tessa waved, before jogging back into position, eyes narrowed, jaw set, shoulders squared, already calling the next play.
“See?” Fahad whispered in English to Yara. “You are watching history.”
One To Remember by Khruangbin
Theo vs Vaughn, Rossoneri Milano FC vs Anfield Red FC King Fahd International Stadium
By the time the men came out to warm up, the stadium had changed tempo.
Chants rose from one end and arrived at the other in full voice, rippling back as quickly as it came. LED ribbons pulsed in synchronized loops around the upper tiers, sponsor colors sliding into federation crests, then into club insignias. Camera drones hummed overhead, never dipping low enough to disrupt sightlines.
On the track, medical staff stood evenly spaced, bags laid open at their feet. Ball kids rotated off in pairs, grabbing water, pulling fresh bibs on before they jogged back into position.
“Big difference between the men and women,” Latifa murmured, toward the group, gaze narrowed on the pitch.
“Always is,” Noa replied, eyes shifting around the stadium as she sipped her water.
“Well, this is where the dollars are,” Omar said, eyes on his phone screen.
“Correct,” Damien added, hand skimming the concrete next to him for his bottle of water.
Latifa didn’t respond. Her eyes were on the walkout tunnel as music swelled through the stadium, a low percussion threaded under orchestral strings.
Fire columns burst in timed succession along the sideline. Players emerged through light and smoke in paired lines — Rossoneri in white Emirates away kits, Anfield Red in red.
Noa gaze landed on Theo, last out for Rossoneri, captain’s armband snug against his sleeve. He adjusted the band once with his thumb, then scanned the pitch, rocking on his heel. Across from him, Vaughn, jaw clenched, shoulders loose, a quick nod to his center back as they took their positions.
WHEEP.
The ball moved fast, and clean, Theo dropping five yards deeper almost immediately, palm low, motioning toward his midfield “Settle,” he called, voice calm but carrying. “Slow the tempo.”
A winger started to force a run down the line. Theo spun on his heel and moved inward forcing the player to cut back instead.
A Rossoneri defender threw his arms out after a shoulder challenge, turning toward the referee.
“Ref! That’s a foul!”
Theo was there before the volume rose, one palm pressing lightly against the defender’s chest, steering him a step back.
“Hey. Leave it,” Theo said, voice low, even.
“But they do this shit all the time.”
“Not now,” Theo said, not raising his voice. “We’re set. Next phase.”
“But he —”
“Next phase,” Theo repeated, already turning his head to track the restart, hand dropping back to his side.
The defender exhaled hard through his nose, jaw tight, but he turned and jogged back into position.
Theo didn’t look at the referee; just lifted two fingers toward the back line and pointed them five yards higher.
Across the pitch, Vaughn tracked a runner nobody else saw, cutting off a passing lane before it formed, resetting the line with a small circular motion of his hand. Play broke into a counter as Theo collided shoulder-to-shoulder with Vaughn chasing the same ball.
They both went down hard, boots tangling. Theo rolled once, pushed up, then reached back and grabbed Vaughn’s wrist, hauling him upright.
“You good?”
Vaughn nodded. “Yeah.”
WHEEP.
They separated without another look.
Noa didn’t realize she’d leaned forward until Latifa touched her arm lightly.
“Breathe,” Latifa whispered. “You’re always so tense at these matches…” she smiled, eyes flicking toward Theo on the pitch and back to Noa.
“Yeah,” Noa replied, “Hard not to be.” She said, almost to herself.
Twenty passes and a reset to the back line before Theo drifted wide, drawing a defender with him just long enough to open a channel no one saw until the ball was already there.
The net snapped.
WHOOSH.
The stadium detonated, cheers and chants rolling through the concrete, rattling the seats. Rossoneri players surged toward the corner flag but Theo didn’t follow, he turned, palms out, pointing.
“Back in. Back in.”
He tapped the goal-scorer on the chest, then motioned the back line upfield. Only when shape was set again did he allow himself a single exhale, head tipped back toward the floodlights for half a second.
WHEEP.
The final whistle came under a wall a cacophony of sound — chants, drums, fireworks bursting in timed arcs above the roofline.
Rossoneri players collapsed into each other, grinning and screaming erupting in waves. Theo moved from the cluster toward Vaughn.
“Good match,” Theo said, extending his hand.
“Good win, Theo.” Vaughn grinned, shaking his hand for a second too long. “Next time.”
Theo just smiled, shook his hand once more and turned back toward his own team.
When the trophy was brought forward, he lifted it only long enough for the cameras, then passed it down to the youngest player beside him.
“Go on,” he said, pushing it into the boy’s hands.
The roar doubled in the stadium.
Up in the stands, Omar was back on his phone.
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