Chapter 7
Zoe
Wesley grips a chunk of banana in his fist and smears it across his face, laughing like he just invented comedy.
“Look how well he eats!” my mom says.
To her, anything her grandson does is perfect.
Wesley locks eyes with her, then blows a loud raspberry that sends the tiny bit of banana we managed to get in his mouth flying toward us.
“I have to go, Mom,” I say, leaning in to kiss the top of his head and staying a beat too long, breathing in his baby shampoo.
“Are you nervous?” she asks, even though she already knows.
“I'm terrified,” I sigh.
My mom hugs me hard, the way she used to when I was a kid and I'd get anxiety before big games.
“You're a wonderful mother, Zoe,” she says, holding my gaze. “Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Especially not that asshole ex-husband of yours.”
When I arrive, Yvonne is already in the room. She flips through papers like she's trying to memorize them by force.
“Ready?” she asks without looking up.
“You know I'm not.”
“Good. Doesn't matter,” she says, snapping the folder shut. “Remember. Neutral. Professional. Short answers. Don't let them bait you. Your ex's lawyer is a damn prick.”
“I know.”
Yvonne looks up, and when she looks at me like that, every alarm in my head goes off.
“You know he'll try to make you look like a bad mother. Selfish. Like you care more about your career than your son. Don't you dare lose your temper.”
“I can do this,” I tell her.
“You can. And you will.”
Inside the room, Nate walks in with his attorney, Matthew Harrington.
My ex wears a perfect gray suit, pressed to perfection, hair cut shorter than usual and styled neat.
He looks like an ad for a perfect family.
The kind of dad who helps at home, does dishes, takes out the trash. The opposite of who he is.
He looks at me for one second. No sadness. No nostalgia. Just contempt.
Harrington is a walking cliché: mid-fifties, very expensive suit, even more expensive watch, shark smile.
“Ms. Méndez,” he says, stopping in front of me.
We sit at the table. Yvonne on my right. Across from us, Nate and his lawyer.
The mediator, Patricia Roberts, takes the head seat. Early sixties, thin glasses, a high-school-teacher voice that doesn't tolerate nonsense because she's seen too much of it.
She opens a brown folder to begin and, right then, the door opens behind me.
Soft steps on the carpet.
I don't turn. I don't need to.
Yvonne tilts her head. Her voice drops to a whisper.
“Is that a friend of yours?”
“Yes,” I admit. “From a long time ago.”
Tessa sits in the back, in one of the chairs against the wall. She can't speak. She can't step in. She can only be there. I guess that's enough, because she shows up to support me when I need it most.
The mediator recites the procedure, explains the difference between mediation and trial in this state, assures us she must protect the child's best interest. I nod because I'm supposed to, but I shake from head to toe.
“Mr. Harrington,” the mediator says. “You may begin.”
The lawyer stands. He opens his folder like he's opening a coffin and sliding me inside.
“Thank you, Ms. Roberts. We are here because my client, Nathan Henderson, has serious concerns about Ms. Méndez's ability to provide a stable and consistent environment for her son, Wesley.”
He pins me with his eyes.
He points without pointing.
“These concerns are based on a pattern of behavior that places professional ambition above the child's welfare. This is not about blaming her,” he adds, but his words drip poison.
“As an elite athlete, she has always been trained to put her career ahead of anything else.
Her health, her marriage, or in this case, her son's well-being. I suppose that is the price of fame.”
Yvonne squeezes my hand under the table. A breath escapes me, and I pray it isn't obvious. I put my career on hold at its peak because Nate couldn't wait three or four more years for us to have a child. He threatened divorce, and divorce happened anyway.
And now I'm selfish.
“Ms. Méndez has enough money to retire and devote herself to her child,” Harrington continues, “but she has chosen to return to competition, which forces her to leave the baby with his grandmother every morning, disrupting sleep routines and depriving him of contact with his mother.
All because she needs to feel the crowd's applause again.”
I curl my fists. My lawyer squeezes my hand again. Behind me, Tessa's chair creaks as she shifts. I hope she learned, over the years, to control the temper she had back when we were together.
“A baby of only a few months,” Harrington adds. “Left daily with his grandmother while Ms. Méndez chases... what, a dream that will not come back? All because she refuses to accept that it's time to retire. I imagine fame is a very hard drug.” He smiles like he enjoys his own voice.
I can't take it.
“My mom raised me alone and I'm not traumatized,” I snap.
Yvonne squeezes harder. Shut up.
Harrington's eyes light up like he just hooked something.
“Let's look at the club's preseason schedule. Two and a half weeks in Florida. Eighteen days away from the child.”
“Many parents travel for work,” Yvonne says.
“True,” Harrington allows, tilting his head. “But not many do it when they could avoid it, simply because they refuse to accept their sports career is over.”
“I plan to take Wesley with me to Florida,” I blurt.
“A baby traveling with a professional soccer team. Very appropriate.”
Patricia Roberts lifts a hand.
“Mr. Harrington. This is mediation. Lower your tone and refrain from sarcasm.”
“Of course,” he says, and he looks pleased anyway. “I'm only establishing relevant facts.”
“Wesley is healthy, happy, and well cared for,” Yvonne counters. “Everything else is interpretation.”
Then he says the words that freeze my blood.
“Let's discuss her rehab work before returning to the team,” Harrington says, pulling out another document. “Three sessions per week with the club's director of medical services, Dr. Tessa Marie Clark.”
Shit.
“A brilliant résumé, no question,” Harrington says. “Munich, Manchester, Barcelona... and she returns to Seattle exactly when Ms. Méndez decides to return to play. Exactly when she needs medical services not to raise objections about her physical condition.”
“Dr. Clark was hired by the club. Not by my client,” Yvonne says.
“What a coincidence, all the same,” Harrington replies. “Ms. Méndez, did you know Dr. Clark prior to her hiring by the club?”
God, I didn't think they'd bring this up. I didn't think it mattered. I should have told Yvonne.
“Yes,” I say, my voice so thin it barely exists.
“Pardon? I don't believe I heard you.”
“Yes,” I repeat.
“And how did you know her? University?” Harrington asks, like he's tossing me a rope made of thorns. “Classmates? I can't imagine you shared many classes, can you?”
“No.”
“Then,” Harrington says, and pauses like he's on a stage, then leans toward me, “what exactly was the nature of your relationship with Dr. Clark?”
“We dated,” I say, and the word tastes like blood.
Yvonne's face doesn't change, but her hand tightens over mine.
“For how long?”
“Three years.”
“I see,” Harrington murmurs, closing his folder very slowly. “So the person who decides whether you are fit to return to competitive soccer, to travel, to leave the care of your son Wesley... is your ex-girlfriend. Who also, coincidentally, travels with you to Florida for two and a half weeks.”
“Dr. Clark is an impeccable professional,” my lawyer says, even though she doesn't know Tessa at all.
“I don't doubt it. But my client states she was precisely the person who filled Ms. Méndez's head with ambitious dreams years ago. Perhaps the same thing is happening again.”
Nate. Of course.
Son of a bitch. He used to boil every time he saw us together. He never understood why I chose Tessa over him.
“Ms. Méndez, has there been any non-professional contact between you and Dr. Clark since your recovery began?”
The kiss flashes through my mind: cold air, wet grass, her hand under my sports bra. The second the world stops. The way I shove her away like she burns.
“No,” I lie.
“Objection,” Yvonne says, standing. “Speculation without foundation. And it borders on harassment.”
Patricia Roberts raises both hands.
“Enough. Fifteen-minute recess,” she says, staring Harrington down. “When we return, we discuss custody. Not voyeurism.”
The room empties. Nate leaves first without looking at me. His lawyer gathers papers with slow, careful movements.
Yvonne turns to me the second they're far enough away not to hear.
“Is there anything else I need to know? Because you're making this very hard for me, you know that?” Her voice turns too cold, and she looks me straight in the eyes.
“I'm sorry,” I say. “I guess I should've told you about Tessa.”
“You guess? Why didn't you?”
“Because it was seven years ago. Because it ended badly. Because... I thought it didn't matter anymore.”
“In these cases, everything matters.” Yvonne's mouth tightens. “Is there anything else they can use against you? Anything more recent?”
I think of the kiss. I think of how Tessa looks at me lately when she thinks I'm not watching.
“No,” I say, and I grip the edge of the chair until my knuckles ache.
Yvonne nods once.
“I'm going to call your coach. I know you don't want her dragged into this, but I need Dr. Clark's full history.” She grabs her bag. “And Zoe, I hope it's spotless and we don't get any more surprises.”
The second she walks out, tears spill. I can't stop them. My son is the most important thing in my life. It would hurt not to return to the field, but if keeping custody means Nate can't get near him, I'd make any sacrifice.
I hear footsteps coming closer. Slow. Like she's giving me time to tell her to leave.
I don't.
She sits beside me, not in Yvonne's seat. In the chair next to it. Close, but not touching.
“I should've expected it. I'm sorry,” Tessa says, and her voice cracks on the last word. “Nate always hated me. I'll ask Diana to replace me. I won't go to Florida with the team. I'm sorry I caused you problems.”
“No.” The word comes out like a growl. I slap my palm on the table.
“If you step back, they'll say they were right and that this was planned.
They'll say you're not a professional. If you go to Florida and keep doing my recovery, they'll say I get special treatment.
You lose either way. But I swear I'll prove I can be who I was on the field again.”
Tessa's jaw sets.
“Okay,” she says. “Screw those damn assholes. You'll come back even stronger than before.”
I laugh and cry at the same time. That “screw them” feels too familiar. Too intimate. Like when we were young and thought the world ran on pride and kisses.
“Thanks for coming to support me,” I whisper, and I rest my head on her shoulder.
“I wasn't there when you needed me seven years ago,” Tessa says. “Now I know that what I told myself was the right decision was really just fear.”
“Tessa...”
“Let me finish.” Her breath warms my hair.
“I chose Munich. My career. Running. I was scared of you.
Of what you made me feel. Of not being enough.
I'm not asking you to erase the last seven years, but I'm not running this time.
When this custody mess ends, I'm going to ask you if there's still anything between us.” She kisses my forehead and wipes a tear off my cheek with her thumb.
The door opens, and Tessa pulls back at once.
Yvonne walks in with her phone in hand, her expression almost satisfied.
“Good news. Your coach confirms Dr. Clark's record is spotless and very strong. We'll present it later. Harrington raised doubt, but he has no proof.”
The mediation ends without a resolution. Patricia Roberts schedules another session for three and a half weeks from now, right after we get back from preseason in Florida.
Nate leaves first, without looking at me. Harrington follows with that shark smile I want to punch off his face and maybe take a tooth or two with it, even if I have to pay for them later.
“Zoe... be careful in Florida,” my lawyer warns me. “Nate will look for anything he can use against you.”
**
That night, after I put Wesley down, I sit on the couch with my laptop open and a packing list on the screen.
Two and a half weeks in Florida. Full preseason. Sun, double sessions, a match or two, and all my teammates living in the same hotel with the coaching staff. With Tessa.
And Wesley.
Because I'm not leaving him. I can't. I can't go that long without seeing him, without smelling his hair after his bath, without hearing that giggle when I blow raspberries on his belly...
No. Impossible.
My phone buzzes.
Tessa: How are you?
I stare at the message for thirty seconds.
Me: Packing. Wesley is coming to Florida no matter what.
The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Tessa: Are you sure? it's going to be complicated.
Me: I know. But I can't be without him that long.
A long pause.
Tessa: Then we make it work. We'll all help with him.
I smile at the screen. My first real smile since this morning.
Me: Thanks.
Tessa: Don't thank me yet. Florida is going to be hell.
Me: Because of the heat?
Tessa: Because of everything.