22. Alex Sebring
Chapter 22
Alex Sebring
Dr. Harrison Tate studies his computer screen, his eyes scanning the images of my ankle with a focus that makes my stomach twist. The large monitor casts a cool glow over his face, highlighting the lines of concentration etched into his features. He’s one of the best in the world—people fly from all over the globe just to sit in this chair.
I’ve been in Dallas for two days, going through one test after another. Now comes the part I’ve been dreading.
The verdict.
He clicks through a few more scans before giving me his attention.
“Alex.” He exhales, folding his hands together on his desk. “Your injury is more extensive than we first expected.”
The words hit like a wrecking ball to the gut, but I keep my cool, my hands gripping the armrests a little tighter. “How bad?”
His lips press into a thin line. “It’s obvious that the injury didn’t heal as it should. There’s extensive scar tissue, and the alignment is off.”
He turns his monitor around, and points to the glaring problems on the 3D scan, explaining a lot of medical terms I remember from before but still don’t understand.
“There was never any real chance of you returning to play rugby with your ankle in this kind of condition.”
The weight of his words hits like a physical blow. A part of me wants to argue, to push back, to tell him I’m a hard worker and this won’t keep me down. But the evidence is staring me right in the face.
“I don’t have to tell you that rugby is a demanding sport,” he says.
The last thread of hope I’d been holding on to frays and snaps. I should’ve known better. Should’ve listened the first time they told me it was over.
A bitter laugh escapes me, hollow and resigned. “Guess I was foolish for hoping I could make a comeback.”
“Hope is never foolish.”
So this is it. I’ll go back to Sydney and manage hotels for the rest of my life––take over my father’s dynasty and give up on mine.
The truth hurts––my time on the rugby field has ended. I had my glory days, but they’re gone. Reality is staring me down in high-definition clarity on his computer screen.
“With that being said, I believe I can fix this.”
My head snaps up. “Wait… what?”
He swivels the monitor again and clicks through more images. “Don’t get me wrong. It will not be easy. The damage is significant, and the recovery will be grueling. But with the right surgical approach and proper rehabilitation, I believe you can make a full recovery.”
I stare at him, waiting for the catch. The fine print. The inevitable but that always follows statements like that. “You’re telling me I can play again?”
He nods. “It’s one of the worst I’ve ever seen, but I love a challenge.”
Good news is what I’d hoped for, but this seems almost too good to believe. “I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless.”
“Surgery is only the first step. Rehab will push you harder than anything you’ve done before. And if you’re not committed, if you don’t follow the protocol to the letter?—”
“I’m one hundred percent committed.” The words leave my mouth before I put any thought into them. If there’s even the slightest shot at getting back to the sport I love, I’ll take it. No hesitation. No second-guessing.
I won’t blow this again.
Dr. Tate nods, satisfied with my response. “Good. Because this isn’t only about getting you back to rugby, Alex. It’s about making sure your ankle holds up for the long-term. You’ll be in pain the rest of your life if we don’t fix this. Not just in a game, but every day with walking, running, even standing too long. It will lead to impaired mobility.”
This is my first time hearing that prognosis.
It’s a real kick in the twig and berries.
After all this time, something stirs inside me. Not the hopeless longing I’ve been drowning in for months, but something sharper. Stronger. The spark I’d lost.
And just like that, the impossible becomes real again.
Dr. Tate taps a few keys to pull up a detailed recovery timeline on the screen. “Let’s talk about what recovery looks like. This will not be a quick fix. We’re looking at a structured, phased approach over the next several months.”
I nod, my eyes skimming the outline he’s handed me, though the words blur together almost immediately. I clear my throat, pushing down the old instinct to fake it. Not today. Not when everything about my future is on the line.
“Just so you know, if it looks like I’m not reading this properly, it’s not because I don’t care. I’ve got severe dyslexia. Reading’s always been a bitch for me.”
Dr. Tate’s gaze sharpens, but not with judgment. With understanding. He gives a quick nod and starts explaining instead.
“For the first six weeks post-surgery, you’ll be in a cast or boot with minimal weight bearing. Then we’ll get you back on your feet, focusing on mobility and strength over the next few months. At the six-month mark, you’ll start working on more sport-specific training—jogging, controlled exercises, agility work. Full-contact play, though? You’re looking at anywhere from nine to twelve months before you’re cleared to play.”
Nine to twelve months. Up to an entire year of my life facing rehab, of waking up every day and fighting for something that isn’t guaranteed.
“It’s a long road, but if you put in the work, you can come back stronger than before.”
“And if I rush it?”
He gives me a pointed look. “You don’t rush it. Not unless you want to risk blowing it all over again.”
Reality sinks in. This isn’t only about getting back on the field. It’s about doing it the right way, about giving myself the best shot at a future I thought was out of reach.
“Brutal truth… what are the odds of success?”
“Stay committed, follow my instruction, and I’d say your odds are damn good. At least ninety percent.”
Hope flares in my chest.
It’s going to be hell. But for the first time in almost three years, it feels like there’s a way forward.
“There are conditions about signing on for this that you may find difficult.”
Okay, here we go.
“You must stay in Dallas for the first twelve weeks post-op. No exceptions. The success of your recovery depends on doing proper therapy. I don’t trust that task to anyone other than my team.”
Twelve weeks. Three months away from home. I let that number settle in for a moment.
Being here all alone is daunting, but what other choice do I have?
“It’s a lot to take in. If you need time to process, discuss with your people?—”
“I don’t need time. Let’s get it done as soon as possible.”
A flicker of satisfaction crosses Tate’s face. “All right. I’ll have my assistant put you on the schedule.”
I shift forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “How soon can we do this?”
He turns his attention to his computer and makes several clicks. “Looks like I can get you in next week.”
Next week. I nod, rolling the possibility over in my mind. It’s enough time to get my head straight and tie up loose ends.
He stands, offering his hand. “This won’t be easy. But it’ll be worth it.”
I leave the clinic with a weight heavier than hope. After swinging by the hotel to grab my bag, I head straight to the airport.
The hum of the jet engines fills the cabin, a low, steady vibration threading through my chest. I stare out the window, watching Dallas shrink below me, anticipation flickering to life in my gut.
The road ahead looks different. But as the plane climbs higher, darker thoughts creep in, coiling tight around my heart. No surgery, no miracle fix, can heal the part of me that’s still broken.
Without giving myself time to second-guess it, I press the intercom button. “There’s been a change of plans.”
A crackle, then the pilot’s voice cuts through. “Yes, Mr. Sebring?”
“We’re going to Charleston instead.”
A beat of silence. Then, “Charleston. Copy that. I’ll need a moment to adjust the flight plan.”
Charleston.
Magnolia.
Closure.
That’s the lie I sell myself—that this is about getting answers so I can finally move on.
My therapist once told me closure isn’t about fixing the past; it’s about finding a way to live with it. Maybe that’s true. Maybe I need to see her one last time. Hear it from her own lips.
Because if I don’t, I’ll stay stuck in this purgatory forever—halfway between healing and heartbreak.
And that’s no way to live.