THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME-Chapter 737: The Healing Process

The surgery took place at precisely 4:07 PM that Saturday.

Dr. Khaldoun and his surgical team moved with the kind of quiet, deliberate expertise born of hundreds—if not thousands—of similar procedures.

The operating theatre was prepped to the highest international standards. As Zachary lay sedated under regional anesthesia, a spinal nerve block dulled all sensation from the waist down, while a low dose of IV sedation kept him comfortable and calm throughout.

The Broström-Gould procedure, though delicate, unfolded without complications.

Using a lateral incision just anterior to the fibula, Dr. Khaldoun carefully debrided the torn edges of the anterior talofibular ligament. The remnants were sutured together with non-absorbable fiber tape, then reinforced with the extensor retinaculum, which was tensioned over the repair to add structural integrity. The partial tear to the calcaneofibular ligament was addressed through internal bracing, using suture anchors to stabilize the joint without overtightening.

Finally, they inspected the subtalar joint, checked for any occult osteochondral lesions, and confirmed joint stability with intraoperative stress tests. No residual laxity. No signs of impingement. The final steps were as meticulous as the first—layered closure, steri-strips, a padded dressing, and an orthotic boot to immobilize the ankle.

It was 5:31 PM when they wheeled Zachary out of surgery and into the recovery suite.

-----

Thirty minutes after the surgery, Zachary stirred slowly, the haze of sedation peeling back like morning mist. The ceiling above was unfamiliar, but the soft light filtering through the blinds felt warm and comforting. Kristin’s voice was the first thing he heard.

"You’re out," she said, standing beside the bed, her voice low and reassuring. "Everything went smoothly."

Zachary blinked, his mind still foggy, and turned his head slightly toward her. He saw the tired relief in her eyes before he even found the strength to speak.

"It’s over?" he rasped, his throat feeling dry.

Kristin smiled gently and nodded. "Yes. Dr. Khaldoun said it went as well as they could’ve hoped. Ligaments repaired, no complications. You did great."

He managed a faint smile, then closed his eyes briefly, exhaling as though releasing weeks of tension in that single breath.

"How long was I out?"

"Just under two hours for the surgery. You’ve been in recovery for about thirty minutes now. They’re monitoring you, but everything’s looking good."

Zachary nodded again, slower this time, then shifted slightly under the blanket. "Feels like someone’s drilled into my ankle with a sledgehammer."

Kristin let out a quiet laugh. "That’s about right. They said the nerve block will wear off fully by tonight, so the discomfort might increase a bit, but they’ll manage the pain." freewebnoveℓ.com

He glanced toward the window. The sun was low in the sky now, casting long golden streaks across the floor.

"Thanks for being here," he said quietly.

"I wouldn’t be anywhere else," she replied.

There was a beat of silence. Comfortable. Then, a knock at the door.

Kristin glanced down at Zachary, raising an eyebrow. "You expecting someone?"

Zachary gave her a confused look. "I can barely remember my name right now."

She smiled and walked over to the door. When she opened it, a familiar smirk greeted her—and a bouquet of fresh lilies.

"Well, you look better than I expected," came the voice.

Zachary blinked a few times, then recognized the figure standing in the doorway. "Emily?"

"In the flesh," she said, stepping into the room with her signature poise. "Didn’t think I’d miss your grand reassembly, did you?"

He let out a small, tired laugh. "You flew all the way from London for this?"

"Don’t flatter yourself," she said, setting the flowers on the side table. "I needed the air miles."

Zachary shook his head with a slow smile, his gaze softening. "It’s good to see you."

Emily moved closer, her tone shifting slightly as she took in the sight of him. "I was worried."

Kristin gave them space, stepping back to the far side of the room as Emily pulled up a chair. Zachary adjusted slightly in the bed, wincing at the dull ache that reminded him of where he was—and why.

"Worried about what?" he asked.

Emily leaned in, her expression thoughtful. "That you’d get depressed and also try to carry all this on your own. The injury. The pressure. Everything."

Zachary looked down at his hands resting on the blanket. "It’s part of the game."

"It’s good to handle the pressure by yourself," she said gently. "But it’s not supposed to break you You’re allowed to lean on people."

He glanced at Kristin, who was now organizing some files near the dresser, then back at Emily.

"I’ve got help," he said. "The best kind."

Emily gave him a small smile. "I can see that."

For a while, the three of them spoke—Emily updating him on sponsorships, appearance commitments, and brand messaging that had been temporarily paused. She’d handled the situation well, as always, but it was clear she wanted him to focus on one thing: healing.

"I can stay if you need me," she said eventually as their conversation was coming to an end.

Zachary shook his head. "You’ve already done more than enough. Go back to your husband. Enjoy the honeymoon phase. I promise, if I need you—I’ll call."

Emily hesitated for a moment, then nodded, satisfied. "Alright. But don’t make me chase you down if you go radio silent."

"You won’t have to," he said with a grin. "Kristin will make sure of that."

Kristin turned just in time to catch her name and smiled faintly, acknowledging the shared trust.

A bit later, as visiting hours began winding down, Emily stood and leaned over to hug him gently, careful not to disturb the wires and bandages.

"Take care of yourself, Zachary," she said softly. "One step at a time. The time of recovery will pass by before you know it."

"Sure. I’ll do my best."

Then, with one last hug and a squeeze on his shoulder, Emily left, and as the light faded outside, Zachary had dinner—light grilled chicken, couscous, and steamed carrots—with Kristin beside him. They ate in silence at first, but it was a comfortable kind.

Eventually, as night fell over Doha, he rested, the faint hum of the AC and the muted cityscape outside lulling him into the first real sleep he’d had in days.

The days that followed marked the beginning of the second step in his recovery—post-operative management. For the first week, Zachary was confined to bed rest and monitored closely for any signs of infection or complications.

A strict icing protocol was rotated every two hours, compression garments helped manage swelling, and the nurses kept his vitals steady while he remained non-weight-bearing. Blood thinners were administered to avoid clotting, and he wore a pneumatic compression device overnight to prevent deep vein thrombosis.

Kristin remained ever-present—organizing his schedule, coordinating calls with the Liverpool medical team, and liaising with the hospital’s physiotherapy unit.

And more than that, she kept him sane. Some mornings, she brought in the Doha papers and read out match results, trying to mask the parts about Liverpool’s midfield struggles in his absence. Other times, she played board games with him late into the evening or queued up old 80s football documentaries he pretended not to enjoy.

By the third week, Zachary was finally allowed out of the orthotic boot for limited periods and began hydrotherapy in Aspetar’s elite pool facility. The buoyancy allowed him to begin partial weight-bearing exercises without risking re-injury. His sessions included low-resistance band work, isometric contractions, and controlled range-of-motion exercises that, though small, felt like enormous victories. Ultrasound and cold laser treatments helped stimulate blood flow to the healing ligaments.

He was still sleeping long hours, and pain occasionally flared in the early morning, but with every week came progress. Kristin was by his side through all of it, gently urging him on when he wanted to cut a session short, bringing protein smoothies she’d perfected to his taste, and even learning a few phrases in Swahili just to make him laugh on the harder days.

More time passed, and by the sixth week, Zachary had transitioned out of the wheelchair entirely, relying on crutches for short distances and walking independently inside the gym with supervision. Proprioception training was introduced using wobble boards and balance pads. Anti-gravity treadmills let him ease back into straight-line walking with reduced impact, and upper-body training was back on the program in full swing. The worst pain had passed, replaced by a focused, burning determination.

Each day began with blood flow restriction therapy and neuromuscular reactivation drills, followed by controlled mobility routines. The doctors were cautious but optimistic. "You’re ahead of schedule," Dr. Khaldoun said during one of the reviews. "But we won’t rush. Let’s build it right."

By the end of the third month, Zachary had begun light jogging, lateral movement drills, and even non-contact shuttle runs. There was no ball work yet—that would come later—but the sensation of motion, of sweat rolling down his back from exertion and not fever, felt euphoric. He was moving again, stronger, steadier.

On a cool April morning, Kristin happened to meet him just outside the recovery wing, a small box in hand before their usual garden walk. The sunlight filtered softly through the courtyard trees as birds chattered in the distance.

Inside the box was a hand-carved olive wood keychain, smooth and warm to the touch.

"For when you start running again," she said with a soft smile. "Every journey needs a symbol."

Zachary turned it over in his hand, thumb brushing the grain. A small engraving on the back read April Forward.

"Thanks," he said quietly, his voice thick with something deeper than gratitude. "For everything."

Kristin shrugged gently. "We’re only halfway through," she said. Then, after a pause, she added, "Actually... there’s something else we should talk about."

Zachary glanced at her, curious.

"I spoke with the club yesterday—Dr. O’Connell and Max, from physio. They’ve been following your progress closely through the shared logs. Everyone’s really happy with where you’re at," she began, keeping her tone casual but warm. "And they agree with Aspetar’s team: you’re ahead of schedule—but in a good way. Controlled. Consistent."

He nodded slowly, already sensing where this was going.

"They want you to stay here through May. Finish Phase Four with Aspetar. Keep riding this momentum in the environment that’s worked best so far," she continued. "Then, early June, you’ll head back to Liverpool. Final assessments, ball work integration, and full team reconditioning."

Zachary took a deep breath, the wooden keychain still in his hand. It made sense. The thought of returning home stirred something in him—but it didn’t feel like impatience anymore. Just a distant horizon, getting clearer.

"Five months here," he said. "Then the last mile at Melwood."

Kristin smiled. "Exactly. They want you ready—not just fit, but ready. Physically. Mentally. No shortcuts."

Zachary looked out toward the walking path, sunlight catching the dew on the stones. He slipped the keychain into his pocket and met her eyes.

"Alright then," he said. "Let’s finish what we started."

Kristin fell into step beside him, and together they began their morning walk—stride by stride, breath by breath—toward the final stretch of recovery.

Foll𝑜w current novels on fre(e)w𝒆bnovel