Chapter 6
Tessa
“Has anything changed?”
Her question hits me square in the face, like a poorly cleared ball.
Zoe doesn't say it to hurt me. She says it the way you flick on the bathroom light at three a.m.—no drama, no buildup. Just truth. And she has every right to ask.
I can't lie to her.
I can't promise her anything either.
Not the brave thing. Not the pretty thing. Not the line that would sound good in a cheap rom-com. Seven years apart should have given me a better answer than the painful silence that forms between us.
I sit on my bed with my knees bent at the edge of the mattress. Seattle stays dark, that blue-black winter shade that sinks into your bones. On the window, fat raindrops slide down like the glass is crying over how stupid I am.
I need to run. Or scream. Or fuck.
Or all three. Order doesn't matter.
I grab my shoes.
It's the easiest option.
Outside, the rain slaps my clothes to my skin, a cold second layer. Capitol Hill is almost empty: a hunched delivery guy staring at the sky and cursing the rain, a metal shutter grinding up with a squeal, a ripped trash bag nobody bothered to toss in the bin.
I start easy. Five minutes to warm up. Then I push to the pace that makes me feel competent. Hard enough that my breathing should force my brain to shut up.
It doesn't work.
Because my brain can do two things at once: run and tear me apart.
I shouldn't have kissed her.
The sentence follows me like a shadow.
“You broke my heart the first time.”
Zoe says it like a fact. Too obvious to argue with. Devastating. Not even as an accusation. And that makes it worse. It's a quieter kind of torture. The kind that doesn't bruise your skin but changes something inside you.
I chose Munich knowing exactly what I was leaving behind. I sold myself the idea it was the best option: the prestige of the sports medicine program, the name Klaus Hermann spoken with respect anywhere people talk about soccer rehab. Klaus looked at me once and told me he was proud of me.
And I clung to that sentence like it was oxygen.
Months later, Zoe married Nate.
For years I used that as my perfect alibi. “See? It was obvious. Nate wasn't just a friend. There was something she didn't tell me, and that quick wedding proves it. I left and cleared the path. It wasn't that deep. I did her a favor.” I repeated it like a mantra, over and over.
Now I think I lied to myself so reality would hurt less.
Zoe married Nate because I left her heart in pieces. Because she needed something to hold onto, and Nate showed up at the right moment with pretty words… fake words. Because after what I did to her, anything felt better.
I grind up Pine Street and turn toward Volunteer Park. The park sits empty and gray. My shoes slap wet pavement in a rhythm that should calm me down. The air smells like soaked dirt, and it reminds me that some things grow back even after you step on them.
But that's the sad pattern of my life.
When things got hard, when a relationship started to feel too serious, I picked the emergency exit. I protected my heart. I always had a stack of excuses that sounded believable enough to run.
The question comes back. It refuses to die.
“Has anything changed?”
And my answer stays the same.
I don't know.
I finish five miles and get home drenched. I shower. Hot water pounds my neck and back, but I don't feel better. I smack the tile with my open palm. I want to cry from anger, because something this simple works for everyone except me.
I step out and walk naked down the hall. Water still slides down my legs, and my feet leave dark prints on the wood floor. My phone buzzes on the counter. I check the time before I pick it up.
7:30 a.m.
Nobody texts at that hour on a Sunday unless something goes wrong. I brace for a message from the club's medical team.
It's Jordan Hayes, our sports psychologist.
“I saw you go for a run at 6:30 a.m. Nobody runs in the rain on a Sunday at that hour unless she's running from something. I'll be at the club café at 9 if you want to talk. Or you can ignore this if you'd rather suffer alone. No pressure. Your call.”
I stare at the screen.
She has this weird talent for telling you the truth to your face and somehow making you want to thank her and hug her afterward.
I type back without thinking too much, because if I think, I won't go, and if I stay home, I'll spiral into memories that shred me.
Me: 9 at the club café. Thanks.
The three dots show up right away.
Jordan: don't thank me yet. I'm going to ask you uncomfortable questions.
A smile slips out.
**
The café at the training center is small, and on a Sunday at this hour it's almost empty. Through the window I can see part of the main field: dark green, white lines shining under the rain.
Jordan already sits at the corner table with a coffee and a croissant she hasn't touched.
“On time,” she says as a greeting when I sit across from her.
“Habits you pick up in Germany, I guess,” I say, hanging my coat on the chair.
“Munich, right? Klaus Hermann.” She watches me close. “I read your résumé when Diana hired you. Impressive.”
“Thanks.”
“That wasn't a compliment.” Her mouth pulls into a strange smile. “Or not completely. It was a warning. You built the perfect career to make sure you never stay anywhere longer than two years. Munich, Manchester, Barcelona… always moving.”
Thank God the server brings my coffee and gives me a second to breathe. I take a long sip that burns my tongue, like I'm punishing myself before I let Jordan keep going.
“Do you know we went to the same university?” she asks, out of nowhere.
“No… I didn't.”
“Normal. I'm a couple years younger, and I always kept my head down. Attention scared me.” She tilts her head. “But everyone knew Zoe Méndez, the women's soccer star… and her girlfriend Tessa.”
“Fuck,” I breathe.
“Look. I'm not trying to stick my nose where it doesn't belong, but—”
“I swear I didn't know Zoe wanted to keep playing after pregnancy. I didn't take the job because of her, and we didn't speak for seven years,” I cut in. The words pour out too fast, almost tripping over each other.
“But now you know she's here,” Jordan says, calm as a judge.
“Now I know.”
“And…?”
“And it's a damn disaster,” I admit, and my lungs finally dump a long breath.
Jordan breaks the croissant with her fingers instead of eating it. Crumbs fall onto the plate. I focus on them because it's easier than focusing on anything else.
“Does Hades know?”
“Why do you call her Hades?”
“Long story. Answer me. Does she know?”
I lift one shoulder. For some reason the coffee machine sounds too loud.
“I'm going to be very clear,” Jordan says. She leans in, elbows on the table, chin on her hands. “You decide if Zoe trains, if she plays, if she competes. That's power over her.”
“I'm the director of the club's medical services. That's my job.”
She raises her brows and holds my gaze. She doesn't buy it.
“If you clear her early because you want to see her happy, you get her hurt. If you hold her back because you're scared she'll get hurt, you screw her career because they won't renew her.” Her voice stays level. “Can you promise you'll be one hundred percent objective?”
I open my mouth. Twice. No sound comes out. I close it again.
Because the honest answer is no.
And I can't make myself say it.
Jordan draws a slow breath.
“And if someone finds out and complains, like another player or a staff member, there will probably be an investigation. A file. You get pulled off the case. And in the worst possible scenario… you're out.”
“The league?” I ask, and my throat goes tight.
“The league won't get involved unless there's abuse or compromised medical decisions.” Her eyes sharpen. “And here's the worst part.”
“The worst part?”
“Nate,” she says, like she's naming a storm.
“What does he have to do with—”
“He has everything to do with it,” she cuts in, still speaking low, and that scares me more than yelling would.
“You know Zoe is in a legal battle for custody of the baby.
You know what Nate's lawyer would love? To hint that the doctor clearing Zoe to go back on the field is also her girlfriend.
Every report. Every test. Every decision.
They'll call it unprofessional. And it could hurt Zoe.”
My chest squeezes. Air turns thin.
“He could use it to say Zoe came back because of favoritism, not because she earned it. That she risks her body because she's chasing being a star.” Jordan finally takes a bite of her croissant. “That kind of story. It's bullshit, but it doesn't only screw you. It could screw up her custody.”
“Jesus,” I exhale.
Jordan nods once.
“So think hard, because there's a lot on the line. We aren't only talking about whether you two get back together or not. This isn't just about you breaking her heart again if you do.” Her gaze doesn't blink. “Everything can get complicated fast.”
I stare at my hands. They shake. My mind fills with memories I don't invite in. These same hands on her bare body. Her back arching. The heat on my neck when she tugged my hair when we made love. Her nails on my back. My name in her mouth when she comes.
And after. Her quiet, soft silence. Her touch. Her kisses.
Jordan keeps talking, but her tone turns closer.
“You can't keep pretending nothing is happening. Sooner or later something will break.”
“Then what do I do?”
“I can't decide for you, Tessa.” She watches me.
“You need to think calmly. And if there's still anything there for Zoe, you need to talk to her.
I'm not asking you to decide today. Changing her medical plan right before preseason would be a screw-up.
We go to Florida in two weeks. We're there about two and a half weeks, more or less away from the press. You've got a little over five weeks.”
“Five weeks,” I repeat, like it's a sentence.
“Five weeks to do perfect work on her recovery,” Jordan says, pointing at me. “And to be brutally honest with yourself. Every medical decision you make, ask if you'd make the same call with any other player.”
“I can do that.”
“Can you?” She arches a brow. “I'm not talking about the obvious stuff.
I mean the small stuff. What I said earlier.
Do you let her play a full match because she's ready…
or because you like seeing her smile? Do you stop her because she needs it…
or because you're terrified something happens and it's your fault?”
My lungs lock again.
“If even once the answer is 'because of me,' you come see me right away,” she says. “And we talk to Diana. No drama. With a plan. I don't want this to blow up.”
She stands and pauses for a beat, like she wants to add something.
“And Tessa… if at any point you realize you aren't objective, that isn't failure. That means there's still something there.” Her voice softens, but it doesn't turn sweet. “And it might be what Zoe needs to see in you.”
She leaves me with the smell of coffee and most of her croissant untouched.
And a thousand questions in my head.
Back at my apartment, I stand in front of the unopened boxes.
Eight still sealed.
Clear evidence that staying is hard for me. In Seattle or anywhere. Always ready for the next city, the next challenge, the next way to feel nothing.
My phone buzzes again, and this time my heart skips several beats.
Zoe: I have a meeting with Nate's lawyer on Thursday. I don't know why I'm telling you. I guess… I don't have anyone else to tell who would really get it. Ignore this if you want.
My fingers move like they have a mind of their own, before my brain finishes catching up.
Me: Do you want me to go with you?
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Time stretches like gum.
Then one word comes through.
Zoe: Yes.
That's it. And my heart races so hard I can barely type.
Me: Count on me. I'll be there.
I set the phone on the counter. I walk to the boxes. I rip the tape off the first one. Books, articles, folders. My life packed up like it's temporary.
I start stacking the books on the empty shelf, one by one.
I grab another box.
I open it.