Chapter 8 – Catalina #2
I nod back. “I spent a full year working for the San Jose Breakers after I finished med school.”
He sets his water down so fast it almost tips. “The professional baseball team?”
“Yes.”
His eyes narrow with something like suspicion and disbelief. “You’ve worked in sports medicine?”
“I did,” I confirm, swirling the last bit of melted ice in my drink.
“I have a double specialty in cardio and orthopedics. Chose those specialties because I’d always believed they are closely related.
I knew that I wanted to go the heart route with my career, but I had a hard time getting the fellowship that I wanted straight out of residency.
The Breakers needed a team doctor last minute, so I saw it as an opportunity to get in some clinical hours while continuing to work toward my cardio fellowship.
That’s largely why Hayes vouched for me with Craig.
I did mostly surgeries with the baseball team.
A couple shoulders. Rotator cuffs are practically a rite of passage in baseball.
I was young and still learning and deferred most of the easy, general medicine work to the head of physical therapy so I could focus on surgeries.
But I handled their non-surgical needs, too. ”
He sits back in his chair. “I had no idea.”
“Most people don’t. It was short, and I knew I wasn’t in it for the long haul. I got the fellowship I wanted about a year later, and after completing that, immediately was hired as a Cardiothoracic surgeon at the hospital of my dreams. Been doing that ever since.”
He nods. “Makes sense why you went the heart route. You’re incredibly skilled and passionate about it. Why give it up?”
The question doesn't hit me the way it used to. There was a time when it would've put me on the defensive immediately. Now, it just settles between us, familiar and heavy.
People always wonder. When you're winning awards, when you're the rising star, when everyone keeps telling you you're destined for greatness, they can't understand why you'd walk away from it. Sometimes, I still wonder too.
“I’ll go back to it someday,” I say quietly. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
That’s the messed-up part about being a woman.
Men get to live as many lives as they want to without anyone batting an eye as they pivot.
Marriage, career, kids, if they want. And if they get someone pregnant, life just keeps going for them without even a pause.
Which is exactly what happened with my ex.
But women? We’re the ones judged if we don’t have kids and put our career first. And judged again if we do choose to have family and take a step back from working. Or try to do both. Anytime there’s conversations about ‘balancing’ work and family, it’s always centered around women.
How are you balancing being a working mom?
Why don’t men have anything to balance?
I know the answer. It’s because women are usually doing the physical and emotional labor of raising families while trying to manage their careers.
I don’t know what I want in my future anymore.
Marriage, kids… maybe I’d be perfectly content without any of it.
Maybe I’d just want my career I've worked so hard for.
Maybe I would enjoy having a family to come home to that I get to build.
There are many ways to build a meaningful life… Maybe, I want it all.
But that’s why I’m here. Changing up my routine and my life.
Trying on a different career so that I can figure out what sticks and what doesn’t.
I don’t know what I want because I’ve spent my whole life focused on making other people proud.
I’ve lived like my parent’s expectations were commandments carved into stone.
And the punchline is, all that perfectionism didn’t even work.
My parents talk about my youngest sister, Isla—an engineer in North Carolina—and Daniela, a marketing Vice President for her husband’s egg-and-whiskey business, like they hung the moon.
But me? No matter how many lives I save, I never feel like it’s been enough for them.
And maybe they have expressed their approval in the past. I’ve just missed it because I don’t accept compliments well.
The last few years feel like a blur now.
“It was a difficult decision to walk away from surgery,” I finish softly. “And maybe not a permanent one. I'm not sure what I'll do after this.”
Jensen’s brows pull together like he wants to understand me better but knows I don’t like to be pushed.
He takes another sip of water, gaze drifting over the backyard of the bar.
There are a few couples playing corn-hole off to the side, but for the most part, we're cloaked in the dark shadow of the building and given complete privacy to talk.
“So… you like it so far? Working the rodeo circuit?”
“I do,” I admit, and that's the first time I've said that part out loud. “It’s different.”
“And that’s what you wanted? Different?”
I nod. “Yes.” For now.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Hayes mentioned you’re sort of his sister-in-law.”
“That’s right. My sister married his wife’s brother.”
He hums thoughtfully. “And what’s your family like?”
At first, I’m surprised by his question. Then I realize, oh, right.
This is the kind of small talk people make when they’re hanging out with friends in casual settings.
Or dates. And apparently, according to June, I’m overdue for one.
Like, ten years overdue. But this isn't a date. This is just two people who work together having a conversation. Maybe I should practice on Jensen if I’m going to attempt the horror that is online dating.
“My parents are immigrants,” I say. “They moved to California when I was five, Daniela was three, and Isla hadn’t been born yet.”
“You’re the oldest daughter?”
I nod.
He studies me with that steady, assessing gaze—like he’s seeing puzzle pieces click into place. “Makes sense,” he murmurs.
I’m sure it does.
Spanish was my first language. Growing up, I was the family translator for everything—appointments, paperwork, major decisions, even some pretty scary medical conversations.
I helped my parents learn English, but that took them years.
Until then, a lot of the household and communication responsibility fell on me.
I was handling family affairs long before I was old enough to understand the weight of what I was carrying.
“What’s your family like?” I ask.
He sits back, exhales, and says flatly, “Well, my mom loved drugs.”
I choke on my drink. “Sorry. That’s not what I was expecting you to say.”
His mouth curves into a small, amused smile. “Not the best opener, I know, but unfortunately, it’s the truth. Doesn't bother me to share it.”
He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward. “She loved drugs and alcohol. And my dad loved her. She only stopped when she was pregnant with me, and after I was born, she went right back to them. She had to choose—me or the bottle. She chose the bottle.”
“Horrible,” I whisper.
He nods like he’s long made peace with the hurt. “My dad had a choice too, and he chose her. That ended up being his downfall.”
Something inside my chest twists sharply. Jensen is big, capable, strong in ways that have nothing to do with physical appearance or muscle. The idea of a kid like him being left behind makes my heart ache.
For all my parents’ expectations, for all the pressure they've put on me, and I've put on myself, they’ve never abandoned me. And I know that they never would. In fact, they sacrificed so much for us that we all feel like we owe them something.
I am aware that they love me. Sometimes I think they struggle with knowing how I want to be loved. Likely because I don’t know that answer either.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “That’s terrible.”
He shrugs one shoulder, but his smile is real this time. “Grandma chose me, though. Raised me from about six onward. Taught me how to ride horses in Tennessee, which eventually turned into getting on the back of cattle at Dawson’s ranch, then bull-riding.”
“Wow, you loved riding that much?”
He drags his hand along the back of his neck, suddenly bashful in a way that should not be allowed with the way he looks in that backward cap.
“Ah… yeah, I did. Bull-riding made sense to me.” He flashes me a grin and then a playful wink. “I was always good at staying on top of things. Got real strong hips.”
Heat hits my cheeks so fast I have to look away.
Jensen notices it. I can hear the smile in his voice when he adds quietly, “You okay there, Doc? Should I go try to find that fib you were talking about? I won’t know how to use it, but you seem like you could save yourself if you had to.
Or you can talk me through it. I’m good at following directions. ”
I take a sip of my drink and stifle a laugh.
Jensen has this uncanny ability to go from serious to amusing to shamelessly flirtatious in the span of a few seconds.
It should be exhausting, but it isn't. Maybe that's why I feel more comfortable with him than I would with any other man having this conversation.
“It’s called a defibrillator, and I’m fine. I’m concerned if you went asking for one, no one would even know what you’re talking about anyway,” I tease.
He smiles like he’s been waiting for me to dish it back. “I like it when you laugh. You look real pretty.”
I’ve never had a man be so forward with telling me he thinks that I'm pretty. It takes my brain a few seconds to catch up to what he said.
“Anyone ever told you that you look like Jessica Alba?” he asks.
“Yes. I get that a lot. Especially since we share a last name. People think we’re related. Unfortunately, we’re not.”
His grin kicks up a notch. “I had a poster of her hanging up in my room as a teenager.”
“What did Grandma say about that?”
He shrugs. “She stayed out of my room after I hit puberty. Couldn’t stand the smell of it.”
I laugh imagining a teenage Jensen being raised by his grandma. “Was she your first crush?”