That evening, Zaf watched thirty-odd breathless lads drop like flies at the end of their training session. Mondays were for conditioning, and conditioning meant sweat.

Fighting a grin, he grabbed one boy’s inhaler from his pocket and held it up. “Usman. You good?”

Uzzy nodded and waved the inhaler away, his breaths deep and deliberate. “Yeah. Fine.”

Once upon a time, Zaf might not have believed that. But he’d spent the last six months guiding these lads through practical, sports-based workshops designed to show them that vulnerability wasn’t a crime, no matter what society tried to teach them. So today . . . yeah. If Uzzy said he was fine, Zaf trusted that.

“Lucas.” Zaf turned to a wing who’d just recovered from minor muscle strain. “How are you feeling?”

“Fucked,” the fifteen-year-old breathed, and flopped back onto the grass. The other boys snorted and laughed.

“Language,” Jamal interjected mildly. But then, he did everything mildly. Had ever since the day they’d met as teenagers at an Eid al-Fitr prayer. Zaf’s best friend was unshakable, unshockable, quietly immovable, and the king of patience—which made him damned good at running the Meadows Foundation, a charity that supported local kids through music, sports, and tech lessons.

So when Jamal had asked Zaf, a few years back, to coach the foundation’s youth league team, Zaf couldn’t refuse. It was supposed to be temporary—but, somehow, Zaf was still here. In fact, he enjoyed this shit so much that he’d started Tackle It, his own nonprofit. The Meadows Foundation boys still played rugby, but under Zaf’s program they also stayed in touch with their emotions and learned that dealing with mental health didn’t make them “weak.” Judging by the change in them, Tackle It worked.

Trouble was, the schools and other institutions Zaf had offered his services to weren’t biting. And he was low on funding, too. Right now, Jamal’s boys were all Zaf had.

His brother’s voice floated through his head, as clear as if Zain Bhai were standing beside him. Hey, Eeyore. Why don’t you take a second to be proud of yourself? You can poke holes in it later.

Okay, yeah. Imaginary Zain was right.

“Another great session,” Jamal said quietly. “You know, a few of the lads talked to me before you got here. Apparently they’ve been stalking your social media—”

“And it’s sad as f—as hell,” Usman called from the grass.

Jamal rolled his whiskey eyes. “Tactful as ever.”

“All right,” Zaf barked at the kids. “Off your arses. Cool down.”

There were groans and moans, but everyone got up and started stretching.

Jamal caught Zaf by the shoulder and pulled him farther down the field. “They’ve been stalking your social media, your website, whatever, and they think you could be doing more.”

Zaf sighed and bent an arm over his head, stretching out his triceps. “What, are you feeding them lines?”

“No.” Jamal grinned. “I just happen to be right, and the kids are, too. They wanted you to know that if you need pictures of them, videos or whatever, they’d be happy to do it.”

Zaf switched arms, and looked over at the boys, who’d gone from stretching to shoving each other onto the grass. Warmth flooded his chest. “That would be great, actually.”

“They suggested something else, too,” Jamal continued carefully.

In the hollow of Zaf’s chest, just below his nervous heart, a bead of anxiety bounced around like a pinball. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“They think it’s weird that your website doesn’t mention who you are.”

Zaf bent his head to the left, which stretched out his traps and helped him avoid Jamal’s eyes. Two birds, one stone. “It does mention who I am. Qualified coach, four years’ experience in the charitable sector—cheers for that, by the way.”

“Yeah, okay. But what about Zafir Ansari, retired pro—”

“Retired.” Zaf snorted, straightening up.

“Retired,” Jamal repeated firmly. “You decided to stop, so you stopped.”

More like Zaf’s own brain chemistry had conspired to stop him getting out of bed, but sure.

“And,” Jamal went on, “the things you went through, during that time in your life, are part of why you’re doing something like Tackle It. You know it, I know it, potential supporters should, too.”

“Sure,” Zaf said flatly. “I’ll write an essay all about how I was a D-list rugby player who became a tragic story for bored gossip rags after my dad and brother died. Sounds like exactly the kind of attention I want.”

Jamal’s expression softened. “That was seven years ago, Zafir. The press aren’t going to notice an old pro’s new charity. But it’d impress head teachers and whoever else, trust me.”

“Give them inspiration porn, you mean.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being inspiring,” Jamal insisted, his voice low. He put a hand on Zaf’s shoulder and squeezed, looked him in the eyes. “Listen to me. I remember how things were. I remember when your anxiety got so bad you were scared to get out of bed or let Fatima out of your sight. And I remember how hard you worked to get that under control so you could live again. You don’t think that’s relevant to what you’re doing here?”

Zaf knew what his friend was trying to do, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. His jaw tight, he said firmly, “When you’ve moved past something, you don’t focus on the rearview mirror. I’m good now. I don’t need to go back there.”

“Mate, you know there’s a middle ground between—”

“Later,” Zaf muttered, and turned back to the kids. “You lot, stop tripping Allen up. If you break his ankle, his dad’ll burn your house down.” While the boys grumbled, Zaf picked up the phone he’d left by a bag of practice balls, mostly to avoid talking to Jamal. Unusually, as soon as he touched it, the screen buzzed to life with a notification from Tackle It’s Instagram page.

Speaking of, he should really get better at posting on there.

The phone buzzed again. Twice.

Jamal frowned in his direction. “Who’s texting you? No one texts you except me, and I’m here.”

“Charming.” And true. Buzz. Buzz.

“It’s not Kiran, is it?” Jamal asked casually. “I mean—home. Everything okay?”

Zaf shot him a strange look. “Why would it be Kiran?” And why is the first worry on your mind my brother’s widow?

Jamal shrugged, his gaze sliding away. But Zaf would bet his car that the man’s dark skin hid a blush.

“Seriously,” he pushed, “you and my sister have been acting—”

He was interrupted by yet another buzz, only this one . . . this one didn’t end. Buzz-buzz-buzz-buzz-buzz, just like Zaf’s heart when his anxiety really kicked off. He stared at the screen as notifications flared out of nowhere, moving so fast his eyes couldn’t follow.

After a moment of stunned silence, he said slowly, “I think my phone is having a panic attack.”

Jamal cracked up, which wasn’t helpful.

“Lucas!” Zaf snapped. “Get over here.”

The teenager scowled as he dropped his bike and peeled away from his friends. “What?”

“My phone broke.”

“It’s not broken, Zaf,” Jamal snorted. “People are . . . following you, or commenting, or—” He broke off with a shrug. “Something.”

“Why?”

“Oh my days.” Lucas sighed and snatched the phone. “Put your finger on the button.”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Zaf unlocked the phone and watched Lucas tap rapidly at the screen. He wondered if the younger generation had the strongest thumbs known to mankind. Maybe from now on, kids would be born that way, like evolution.

A few more taps, and the angry buzzing cut out.

Zaf exhaled. “What did you do?”

“Turned off push notifications.”

Zaf caught Jamal’s eye and mouthed, What?

Jamal wrinkled his nose. Dunno.

“Now let’s see what’s going off,” Lucas muttered. More taps, and then a moment of frozen surprise on the kid’s face. After a second, the surprise melted into a shit-eating grin that made Zaf, who understood teenagers much better than he’d like, feel nervous.

Very nervous.

“What?” he demanded. “What is it?”

Lucas looked up, his blue eyes dancing in a way that didn’t help Zaf’s nerves one fucking bit. “@FatimaAnsari’s tagged you in something.”

“Fatima’s always tagging me in things.” Zaf frowned, holding out his hand for the phone. “What is it?”

But Lucas skipped out of reach and said loudly, “Zaf. You didn’t tell us you had a girl!”

The handful of boys who hadn’t left yet dropped their bikes, their heads snapping up like predators smelling blood on the breeze. A second later, they swarmed Lucas like piranhas.

“What are you on about?” Zaf demanded.

The boys were jostling to see the phone now, muttering shit like “Give it here” and “Whoa. Who is that?”

“Look, look, look.” Lucas pointed a gleeful finger at the screen and said, “Dr. Rugbae!”

Everyone fell about laughing.