Chapter 33
ALEJANDRA
Tutto a puttane - Bresh
Once the doctor took off her sling, the scar on her shoulder was barely visible—thin, pale, almost unnoticeable—which felt like a fucking mockery, because what had resulted from that tiny scar had been life-altering for her.
“That’s it?” Alejandra let out, staring down at the faint line against her tanned skin.
“What did you expect?” Doctor González asked raising a brow
It was just the two of them in the office.
Alejandra hadn’t wanted her parents or Carlos there.
She didn’t want them seeing the hesitation, the doubt, the flicker of something ugly behind her eyes.
She’d brushed them off easily enough, rolled her shoulders like it was nothing, like this was just another checkpoint on the way back to the water.
Back to surfing.
The thought alone tightened something deep in her stomach. A quiet, sick knot. She probably made a face, because the doctor tilted her head slightly.
“Some scars are more mental than physical, Alejandra.” Her voice was soft, coated in a kind of empathy that only made everything worse.
“What do you mean?” Alejandra almost snapped, the words sharper than she intended. “I’m fine. Completely fine.”
Spoiler. She wasn’t. Not even close.
From the wide windows of Dr. González’s office, she could see the streets of Seville bathed in warm afternoon light. Normally, that view grounded her. It reminded her of home, of who she was outside the water, outside competition, outside everything. Today, it felt like a personal attack.
“Your shoulder is recovering very well—faster than we expected, in fact. But I sense that there’s something else we need to address.”
Alejandra looked away, jaw tightening.
“You’ve never been a scared little girl,” Dr. González continued.
They’ve known each other for years. Every time she had to have a check up, they called her.
“You’ve defied waves that would terrify the average person.
You’ve faced storms, and you’ve won. But now…
” She paused. “Now you need help getting back to that version of yourself.”
That version of yourself.
The words echoed uncomfortably.
What if she’s gone?
“I told you I’m fine,” Alejandra said through clenched teeth. The doctor didn’t even react to the tone. She just reached for a pen.
“I’d like to refer you to a sports psychologist,” she said calmly. “She’s based in London. One of the best when it comes to trauma and athletic performance.”
Alejandra’s stomach dropped before the paper even slid across the desk. Dr. González scribbled something quickly and pushed the note toward her. Alejandra stared at the name. The number. The neat handwriting that somehow felt heavier than it should.
And something inside her just… crumpled.
This is real. She thinks I’m broken. Maybe I truly am.
She suddenly did feel like a scared little girl. The kind who didn’t know where to go, or how to be brave again. The kind who pretended not to be afraid until she was alone, until the silence got too loud.
“I don’t need a shrink,” Alejandra muttered, her voice defensive, brittle.
She hated how it sounded. Petulant. Small.
But admitting she might need help felt like failure.
Like everything she’d built—her strength, her fearlessness, her identity—had already drowned under Pipeline’s waves.
It made no sense. She knew that. Logically, she knew that.
And still, a therapist might say it out loud. Put words to the things she only dared to whisper to herself in the dark.
That she was broken.
That she was scared.
That she didn’t trust herself anymore.
And that… that terrified her more than the ocean ever had.
“Everyone needs someone to talk to,” Dr. González replied, steady and unwavering. “Especially someone trained to understand why our minds go where they go.”
Alejandra stayed quiet.
“This injury isn’t just physical,” the doctor added.
“It’s emotional. If your brain is stuck in fear, your shoulder will never move past that invisible wall.
Ever.” She mimicked the restricted rotation with her own arm.
“Plus, I heard a quote the other day: there are two kinds of athletes—those who have been injured, and those who haven’t been injured yet.
You’ve been very lucky to be in the second category for much of your career, but now things have changed, and you have to consider your mental health, not just your physical health. ”
Alejandra’s gaze flickered to her.
“I’ll look into it,” she replied stiffly.
“I’m not a therapist,” the doctor continued with a small sigh, “but I’ve had my share of demons. Surround yourself with people who see your pain without minimizing it. People who feel it with you.”
Alejandra swallowed.
“I know you went to Ericeira for the USL. How did you feel there?”
Her jaw clenched immediately.
“I could’ve felt better,” she admitted.
You almost fell apart.
If Callum hadn’t been there, she probably would have.
Completely. No control, no mask, no pretending.
And she hated that. Hated that he’d become that anchor in such a short time.
Hated how safe he’d made her feel. How easy it had been to lean into him, to let him carry pieces of her she couldn’t hold anymore.
The sex. The kisses. The way he called her cariad. The way he hadn’t asked her to be okay. Hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t demanded. He’d just… been there.
And God, that had been worse.
Because it made staying feel easy. Too easy.
She shook her head slightly, like she could physically dislodge the memories—the warmth of his hands, the press of his mouth, the way her body had betrayed her fear for something softer, something dangerously close to comfort.
“Talk to the therapist,” Dr. González said, standing now. “Or take a road trip. Train. Move. Push through the block. But don’t let the fear control you.”
It already does.
Alejandra nodded anyway, mostly to end the conversation.
Outside, her parents and Carlos were waiting.
The second she stepped out, her mother’s voice wrapped around her. “So, how did it go? Happy to be without the sling?”
Her fingers brushed gently against Alejandra’s bare shoulder.
Alejandra resisted the urge to flinch. Because she still felt it. The pressure. The tightness. Like the sling was still there, just invisible now. Wrapped around her, holding her back, refusing to let go.
She nodded, forcing a smile into place. “Yeah. I have a training schedule for you, Carlos. Some physio stuff too.”
Keep it normal. Keep it easy. Keep moving.
The goal was not to worry them. She was their main income, the reason they could afford to retire early and live a life on the road.
If she didn’t recover from it, she wasn’t going to just fuck herself up, she was going to fuck them up too. And that, she couldn’t allow it.
“Are you sure you’re okay, cielo?” her dad asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His thumb lingered against her cheek.
Another smile. Tighter this time. Her jaw ached from holding it together.
“Yeah. Sure, Papá. I’m fine. Everything will be fine.”
Say it enough times and maybe it becomes true.
But it didn’t feel fine. Not even close. It felt like the sling coming off hadn’t solved anything. Like the real injury was still buried deep, under layers she couldn’t reach. Like something inside her had shifted permanently, and no amount of physio or training schedules could fix it.
Everything ahead felt like a steep, endless climb.
And she was already breathless after ten meters.
And sometimes, when the panic hit just right, she was back there.
Under Pipeline. The silence of water pressing down on her.
The weightlessness that wasn’t freedom but helplessness.
Her shoulder slamming against the reef. The disorientation.
The violent pull of the current. The moment she didn’t know which way was up.
The moment she thought—this is it. The silence of almost drowning louder than anything she’d ever heard.
How could she explain that to them?
How could she put that into words without sounding insane? Weak? Broken?
How could she say that her greatest love—the ocean—had almost killed her and that she didn’t know if she could ever trust it again?
If I go back, will it happen again?
What if I freeze?
What if I can’t move?
What if I’m not me anymore out there?
How do you rebuild something that tried to break you?
And worse, how do you admit that you don’t even know who you are without it?