THE GREATEST OF ALL TIME-Chapter 735: The Desert Welcome

The private jet touched down at Doha’s Hamad International Airport at 1:05 AM local time. It was well past midnight, but the warm desert air greeted Zachary like a soft blanket as the aircraft’s hatch opened.

He squinted slightly, adjusting to the sudden shift in climate. Just yesterday he was in the biting cold of Manchester, grey skies looming and sleet in the forecast. Here, the night air was dry and still, hovering around 19 degrees Celsius. It was mild by Qatari winter standards, but a far cry from the frigid gloom he’d left behind.

The hum of the engines soon faded as the cabin door lowered into a staircase. Zachary was carefully wheeled to the exit by two medical personnel who had accompanied him on the flight. A brace supported his damaged ankle, and though the pain was dulled by medication, a dull ache still pulsed beneath the surface.

Kristin Stein followed closely behind, her blonde hair tied back, tablet in hand and phone already buzzing with updates. She’d barely slept since Thursday night, but you wouldn’t know it from the brisk efficiency in her stride. Ever the consummate professional, she paused only to give Zachary a quick reassuring glance as they reached the bottom of the steps.

On the tarmac below, the gleaming white Aspetar medical van waited with its hazard lights blinking. It was a luxury vehicle, clearly outfitted for comfort and care—sleek, low to the ground, with the clinic’s emblem subtly embossed on the doors. A pair of uniformed staff stood by, one holding a clipboard, the other ready with a portable ramp.

As Zachary was eased into the van, a Qatari official in a dark suit approached the entourage. He carried himself with quiet efficiency and offered a respectful nod.

"Mr. Bemba," he said smoothly, "welcome to Doha. Your documentation will be processed on your behalf while you’re en route. There’s nothing you need to worry about."

Kristin stepped forward and handed over Zachary’s passport before the official could ask, already anticipating the moment. The man gave a small smile and retreated toward the terminal with it tucked neatly into a leather folder.

Inside the van, the lighting was soft and soothing. There was water waiting in the cupholder, fresh linens on the reclining stretcher, and soft Arabic classical music playing in the background—subtle, calming. One of the Aspetar attendants strapped Zachary in gently, offering a reassuring smile.

"We’ll be at the hospital in twenty minutes," she said. "They’re expecting you." ƒгeewebnovёl_com

Kristin climbed in and took the seat beside him, immediately opening her tablet and syncing it to the clinic’s systems. "I’ve confirmed your intake details," she said quietly. "They’ve prepped a private suite for you."

The doors closed with a muted thump, and the van pulled away from the aircraft, leaving the empty tarmac behind as they merged onto a private route away from the main airport flow.

Zachary leaned back and closed his eyes. He should’ve felt relief, finally arriving at the place that represented the first step in his recovery. But all he felt was exhaustion—and a lingering fear he couldn’t quite silence.

The van glided through the sleeping streets of Doha, the city quiet beneath the early hours of Saturday morning. The shimmering skyline—minimalist towers with golden accents, glowing in the night—passed by the windows like a mirage. Zachary barely registered any of it. His head rested against the cushioned support of the stretcher, eyes half-lidded, thoughts drifting in and out like static.

He was aware of Kristin beside him, scrolling through her tablet, speaking softly now and then to one of the medics. He caught none of the words. His body was there, in that van—but his mind lagged somewhere behind, still on that pitch at the Etihad, still hearing the crowd roar after his second goal. Still feeling the crack of impact when it all changed.

Twenty minutes later, the van slowed and turned into a softly lit drive, bordered by carefully trimmed hedges and palm trees. The signage was subtle, in Arabic and English: Aspetar – Orthopaedic and Sports Medicine Hospital.

Zachary blinked awake as they approached the entrance. The building that greeted him was sleek, modern, and almost serene in its architecture. Curved glass walls reflected the pale wash of overhead lights. The entrance canopy stretched out like a welcoming wing, its structure clean and purposeful.

Even at this hour, the hospital exuded quiet a professional solemnity. A pair of Aspetar staff members were already waiting with a wheelchair ramp and fresh medical linens. Without delay or wasted movement, they opened the van doors and gently eased him onto the mobile stretcher.

"Good morning, Mr. Bemba," one of them said with a soft smile and a reassuring tone. "We’ll take care of everything. You just rest."

Zachary offered a small nod, grateful for their calm efficiency. As they wheeled him toward the automatic glass doors, he caught a glimpse of the reception area through the transparent panels—cool, minimalist interiors with light-toned walls and elegant seating. Everything was quiet, professional. No chaos, no bright fluorescents or echoing corridors. It didn’t feel like a hospital—it felt like a sanctuary.

They didn’t stop at reception.

The medics pushed him straight through a private corridor toward the patient wing, passing silent treatment rooms and softly lit hallways that felt more like a luxury spa than a clinical facility. The scent of antiseptic was faint, almost hidden beneath something citrusy and clean.

Zachary’s limbs felt heavier with every passing minute. His mind was a haze of fatigue. He hadn’t really slept since the match on Thursday night. There had been pain, doctors, scans, statements, interviews, flights... and through it all, a storm of uncertainty he couldn’t shake.

Eventually, they wheeled him into a private room, which was very spacious, calming, and exquisitely designed. The bed looked more like something from a boutique hotel than a hospital ward, with crisp white sheets and adjustable controls built discreetly into the frame. A widescreen monitor was mounted opposite the bed, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the quiet cityscape. A small orchid sat on the side table. Clearly, someone had thought this arrangement through.

Kristin walked in behind him, nodding at the staff before setting her bag down in the corner.

The Aspetar team worked with quiet precision. One of the senior medics gently examined Zachary’s ankle, checking for circulation, inflammation, and discomfort while reviewing the notes transferred from Manchester Royal Infirmary.

"Everything seems stable for now," he said after a brief check. "We’ll run a fresh series of scans in the morning to confirm the extent and plan your treatment accordingly. For tonight, your job is to sleep. We’ve given you something light to help you rest, but if you need anything, just press the call button."

Zachary nodded drowsily. "Thank you," he murmured.

"Welcome to Aspetar," the medic added kindly before stepping out.

As the door closed with a soft click, Kristin approached his bedside, tapping the tablet one last time.

"You’re settled. I’ll be next door if you need anything," she said. Her voice was gentle now, a contrast to the businesslike tone she’d used at the airport. "Try to get some real sleep, okay?"

Zachary let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. His head sank back into the pillow.

The pain was still there, somewhere under the surface. So was the fear. But for the first time since Thursday night, he allowed his eyes to close.

Sleep didn’t take long to find him.

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