Chapter 4
Tessa
The laptop screen throws blue light across stacks of printed studies: research on postpartum athletic return, pelvic floor rehab protocols, core strengthening progressions built for elite athletes. I read every word twice. Some paragraphs, five times.
Every variable controlled. Measured. Tracked.
Except the one that matters.
Because I can’t control that it’s Zoe.
I can’t stop thinking about the fact that my hands will be on some part of her body three times a week; fixing her posture, checking muscle activation, guiding her through movements that require her to trust me completely.
I can’t control that when I read “Week 3: Introduce core rotation patterns,” what I really see is: my hands will be on her waist, exactly where they used to be when nothing about our touch was professional.
I snap the laptop shut.
**
Zoe shows up right on time. Not a minute early, so she won’t look anxious. Not a minute late, so she won’t look like she doesn’t care. That’s her.
She’s in an oversized hoodie. Back when we were together, she took every chance to show off her abs. Now she hides. Her ponytail swings side to side as she walks. Her eyes look sandpaper-dry, like she barely sleeps.
I take mental notes. Her right shoulder sits a little higher, likely from holding Wesley on the same side. Her pelvis still tilts.
“Lie back on the table, face up, and open your legs a little.”
“Wow. Romantic.” Her mouth twists. “Years ago you’d have taken me to dinner or bought me chocolates before you asked me for that.”
I look up from my tablet and I can’t stop a smile from slipping out.
“Are you going to do that every session?”
“Do what?”
“Turn everything into a minefield.”
“Only if you keep acting like nothing happened,” she says, clicking her tongue.
I step closer to start the assessment and I’m aware, all at once, of how close we are. My heart kicks up at least fifteen beats a minute. Maybe more.
“I’m checking your transverse abdominis activation.
” My voice goes into my work tone. I guide her hands to the right points on her lower belly.
“Put your fingers here. Now exhale all the way and draw your belly button toward your spine without moving your pelvis. You know it matters for power. Shots. Cutting. Jumps—”
“I’ve played soccer my whole life,” she says. “I know the basics. Also, you loved giving me anatomy lessons.”
“What you might not know is it stretches a lot during pregnancy, and if it doesn’t fire right, you don’t have power,” I say, and the look on her face makes me wish I didn’t.
Zoe tries. I see the effort in her expression, that focused frown I used to love. I place my hand over her abdomen, just above hers, feeling for the muscle to engage.
Her skin is warm. I try not to notice the warmth and focus on the subtle tension under my palm. Muscles trying to remember their job.
“Okay.” I keep my voice even. “It’s there. Weak, but it’s there. We’ll build it.”
“Weak?” Worry cuts through her.
“Zoe.”
“What?”
“You’re human.” I squeeze her hand before I think better of it. “You gave birth to a beautiful baby. I’ll get you fit. I promise.”
“Yeah. I’m human.” Her jaw tightens. “But you’re still not clearing me to train with the team yet, right?”
I only shake my head, and I don’t know if it hurts me more than it hurts her.
**
Three sessions turn into six. Six turn into twelve. The weeks blur into a routine of drills and reassessments, a brutal, steady rebuild—muscle by muscle—until her body starts to look like her own again.
Little by little, we start to talk. Not about the past. Not about what happens between us.
We both dodge that like it’s live fire. But she starts asking questions.
She wants to know why we pick one exercise and not another.
The distrust still lives somewhere inside her.
In her head. In her heart. But things shift. They improve.
“Today we’re working on lumbopelvic dissociation,” I say. “You need to relearn how to move your pelvis independent of your lower back. It’s key for core stability after pregnancy.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Stand here and set your feet about hip-width apart,” I tell her.
She does, and I step behind her. Too close.
“I need to feel the movement directly,” I explain, keeping my voice as professional as I can when I see her body lock up. “You’ll move between my hands. I’m placing one hand on your pubic bone and the other just above your glutes. Is that okay?” I ask before I touch her.
She exhales. I put my hands where I say I will. A faint blush climbs her cheeks, and heat rises up my own neck like a flare.
I press in behind her, my chest against her back, my body bracketing hers, too aware that my right hand sits inches from her sex.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves.
“I’m going to guide the motion, okay?” I whisper near her ear. “You let yourself go. Tip your pelvis forward, press into my hand, then tilt back into the other.”
“Ugh,” she breathes the moment we start.
“Ugh?”
“This movement…”
“Relax. You’re tense,” I murmur.
“How am I not supposed to be tense?” She gives a short, broken laugh. “Jesus. You’re one harness away from it being like before you left. We’re done for today.” She steps away fast.
I try to apologize, but she doesn’t look mad. Just… I don’t know. Startled. Because I’m startled too. This is standard postpartum work for an athlete. I do it with other women. I’ve never felt what I just felt with Zoe.
She’s right. It’s too familiar. Too close.
Too… hot.
At least she rolls her eyes and laughs.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. I just need to prep myself before we do stuff like that, okay? Sorry.” She shrugs like it’s nothing.
Then doubt flickers across her face.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You know you can,” I say, and I take her hands without thinking, holding them between mine.
“What if I never come back?” Her voice drops. “Not to my level. Not to anything that matters. Soccer is my life. It’s all I know. It’s what defines me. I don’t even know what’s there when it ends. I never thought about it and now…”
“You want to know what I see?”
She nods, slow.
“I see a woman who gave birth seven months ago,” I say.
My throat tightens. I keep going anyway.
“I see a body that did something huge and is paying for it in fitness right now. And I see the same fighter you’ve always been.
The kind of person who’ll headbutt a wall if it gets you what you want.
One of the best players in the world fighting to get her career back.
” I let out a long breath. “And I don’t have any doubt you’ll do it. Because for me, it’s personal too.”
Zoe looks at me like she’s seeing me for the first time.
“You really think that?”
“I don’t lie.” The words come out quiet, hard. “I can run. But I don’t lie. You know that.”
“Thanks,” she whispers. “That means a lot. Even if you don’t think it does.” She leans in and hugs me.
I walk her out to her car. In the back seat sits a baby car seat. Gray. Plain. Probably the exact same as a thousand other car seats.
But next to it there’s a small plush soccer ball, about the size of my fist, wedged between the seat and the door.
Proof that Zoe has a life outside our rehab sessions. A baby who needs plush balls and car seats and probably a hundred other things I know nothing about.
“Tessa?” Her voice cuts through my spiral. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer on reflex. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll see you next session.” I try to force a smile, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t land.