Chapter 2
Tessa
The whiskey burns the way it should: clean, sharp, no bullshit.
I’ve been in Seattle for two weeks and I still have boxes unopened. After seven years bouncing between Munich, Manchester, Barcelona, and now Seattle, I’ve gotten good at living out of half-unpacked suitcases. It’s a skill. A sad one. But it keeps me light enough to run.
Today the coach gives me exactly forty-two minutes of her time, which I’m told is generous. She repeats, more than once, that it will be hard to get the players to trust me the way they trusted my predecessor.
At least she’s direct. I like that in a coach.
Three players waiting for medical clearance. One of them coming back from a long maternity leave.
“You’ll have access keys to the files this afternoon,” she tells me before she leaves.
“And, Tessa, the one who gave birth? I need her back. She’s…
she’s special. Not for sentimental reasons.
When she’s fit, she’s the best midfielder I’ve ever coached.
I want her evaluation first. Tomorrow at nine. ”
A notification on my phone says she keeps her word. There it is. The key for the records.
I open the first file. Ankle sprain from playing beach volleyball with friends. Out four weeks, one left, range of motion back to ninety percent.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “She could’ve lost all preseason just to mess around on the sand.”
Second file. ACL surgery seven months ago. Final phase of rehab. Aggressive timeline, but still within normal limits.
Good.
I take another sip of whiskey. Longer this time. I tell myself I’ll glance at the last file and go to bed.
MéNDEZ, Zoe
Position: Midfielder
Number: 10
Status: Maternity leave
Expected return date: TBD
I read the name three times.
On the fourth, my brain finally catches up with what my eyes keep throwing at it.
“Fuck,” I growl, dragging a hand through my hair.
I need another glass.
Relevant medical history:
ACL reconstruction, right knee (2019)
Full-term pregnancy, vaginal delivery without complications.
Zoe has been pregnant.
Zoe has had a baby.
I followed her career in the early years, then I got swallowed by European soccer. When the club called me, I watched the latest league matches. I thought she’d retired. Instead, she was pregnant.
I shouldn’t have taken this job.
I snap the laptop shut. The click cracks through the apartment like a gunshot.
My heart runs too fast. My hands sweat.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I stand up, walk to the window, and press my forehead to the glass. It’s cold. Cold usually helps.
Tonight, nothing helps.
My phone rings and yanks me back to earth.
Klaus Hermann. My mentor in Munich. The only person who knows the full version of why I left the United States seven years ago, and what I left behind. Also, unfortunately, the person most likely to hand me a truth I don’t want.
“Tessa. How’s your first day in the new job?”
His German accent has softened after thirty years fixing the knees of some of the best athletes on the planet, but it still clings to his vowels.
“The facilities are excellent. The staff under me is solid. Diana Creed runs a strict program,” I answer, no hesitation.
“And why do you sound like you’re completely miserable?”
“I’m reviewing player files.”
“And? You can’t have that many injuries right now, can you? In Europe we’re months into the season, but you haven’t even started preseason there.”
“It’s not that. It’s… complicated.”
“Complicated how?” he presses.
“One of the players is someone I knew. Before. Back in my college years,” I say, and I can’t stop the long breath that leaks out of me.
“I see.” He pauses, and it lasts too long. “Is that the reason you agreed to come to Munich?”
“One of the reasons.”
“And now she’s on your injured list.”
“Exactly,” I say, and my sigh feels like it scrapes my throat.
On the other end, I hear the creak of a chair. Klaus settling in like this is now a real conversation.
“What are your options?”
“Recuse myself. Tell the coach there’s a personal conflict of interest and assign the evaluation to another doctor,” I say, quick and clean.
“Sensible option.”
“Or I do my job. I evaluate her with objectivity. I keep professional boundaries. Seven years ago, yes, there would’ve been a conflict. We’ve both moved on. She’s probably happily married. With a baby. There shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Brave option,” he says, and then another pause. “Which one are you choosing?”
I rub my eyes. My contacts still sit there, dry and gritty. I should’ve taken them out hours ago.
“If I recuse myself, I have to explain why, and Diana Creed didn’t hire me to dodge hard situations,” I say, forcing the words into a neat line. “Like I told you, it’s all in the past. It was seven years ago. What would you do?”
“Since last year, I've been a retired surgeon living in Munich with three cats, Tessa. My life choices got easier the day I stopped operating,” he jokes. Then his voice shifts, gentler, sharper at once. “But if you want my real opinion: you can’t outrun the things you care about. You can only decide if you’ll face them or keep hiding. ”
“I’m not hiding,” I complain.
“Aren’t you? How many boxes have you unpacked in your new place?”
“Three.”
“Out of how many?”
“Twelve.”
“There. Proof.” I can hear the smile in his voice, which makes me want to throw my phone. “Either choice is valid. But please stop pretending this is just another medical file for you. It’s clear it isn’t.”
**
After I hang up, I walk to the one box I’ve left half-open, the only one labeled “personal.” It’s packed with photos and small scraps of memory. One photo grabs me right away.
Eight years ago. Zoe celebrating a NCAA Championship, soaked in sweat and joy, surrounded by teammates. I’m in the back of the photo, watching her.
God, I look at her like she’s the sun and I’ve spent my whole life in the dark.
I remember that day. The roar of the stands chanting her name. The taste of salt on her skin when she kissed me after the final whistle.
“We did it,” she whispered against my mouth.
I knew she meant the team. I also knew she meant us. That we had built something real in the middle of her impossible season and my brutal hospital residency hours.
A few months later, I accepted Munich.
A year later, she married Nate.
I flip the photo over. It’s only memories. Proof that something existed and then stopped existing. Nothing more.
I slide it back into the box. I don’t want it where I can see it.
I also can’t throw it away.
I pull up her file again. There’s a note from the previous doctor, a guy named Joe: “Player highly motivated. May need restraint rather than encouragement. History of overtraining during recovery from ACL rupture in 2019.”
I laugh. It sounds exactly like Zoe. The woman who showed up to the gym an hour before anyone else. The one who played half a match with a cracked rib before she admitted something was wrong.
The one who never learned how to want anything halfway.
I close the laptop again. This time for good. I change into pajamas and head for bed.
Seven years. I spent seven years running, just to end up back in Zoe’s orbit.
I built the exact life I was supposed to want, the life any sports medicine doctor would dream about.
And it’s so empty I can hear the echo of my own steps as I walk to the bedroom. Maybe I should adopt a cat. Or three, like my old mentor.
I take a deep breath and turn off the light. Tomorrow at nine, Zoe Méndez walks into my office. It’s going to be professional.
I’m not going to think about how her laugh sounded against my neck.
I’m not going to think about the last time I touched her bare body.
I’m not going to remember how she dragged me into paradise every time we made love.
I won’t stare at the freckles near her belly button.
She’s married now. She has a baby. And I’m going to do my job.
Nothing else.