3 #2
She opened one message at random. Then another. The words blurred, panic bleeding through every line. Apologies that didn’t explain anything. Defensiveness disguised as reassurance.
Her trembling fingers hovered over a link to an online article.
The image loaded slowly – pixel by pixel – cruel in its patience.
Jason. He’s on a yacht, shirtless and sunburned.A woman wrapped around him, impossibly beautiful, laughing into his neck.The sea behind them, so blue it hurt.
Claire stared at the screen, the silence of the hospital break room suddenly became too loud, too sharp. A nurse laughed somewhere down the hall. A pager beeped. Life continued, oblivious to Claire’s entire world being upended.
Her orange sat forgotten on the table, untouched.
She didn’t cry. Not yet.
She simply sat there, phone glowing in her hands, realizing that her fiancé, the person who she is supposed to spend the rest of her life with, is not who she thought he was.
And there would be no quick fix for this one.
After that, it was all a blur.
When she finally made it home that night, he came through the door, frantic, eyes red, hair shoved under a baseball cap like that might make him anonymous in the confines of their home.
Jason tried to apologize, of course, but it was never enough.
While she packed his bags and encouraged him to go stay with friends, he talked fast, words tumbling over each other.
“It didn’t mean anything,” he said. “It was a mistake. I was drunk. I didn’t even know her like that. Claire, I swear –”
Denial clung to him like glue. If he said it often enough, loudly enough, maybe it would become true.
She listened. Silent. Still in her scrubs from a long shift. She listened while he yelled. He wasn’t yelling at her, but more angry with himself for allowing him to fall into the temptation.
Then came bargaining.
He sent flowers. So many, too many of them filling the living room of the house they’d bought together, the one with the stupidly perfect kitchen and the view he’d insisted on. He promised therapy. Promised transparency. Promised rings, dates, timelines.
“I’ll do anything,” he said. “I’ll quit if you want. I’ll fix it. I’ll go through counseling."
Claire didn’t scream. She didn’t throw anything. She went cold instead, unresponsive to his grift. She asked questions he couldn’t answer cleanly. Why Ibiza? Why her? Why now?
Jason snapped back eventually. Accusations crept in. Pressure. Reputation. Stress.
“You don’t understand what this life is like,” he said once, voice sharp with frustration. “You’re never around.”
That was when something inside her went very still.
Depression settled in quietly after that.
She stopped going to work. Even if she tried to go, paparazzi were everywhere.
When she finally did go in to resign, the department head closed the office door and tried to talk her out of it. HR offered leave. Paid time. Space.
“You’re one of our best,” they said. “Don’t make a permanent decision because of a temporary crisis.”
Claire nodded. Thanked them and signed the papers anyway.
Walking out of Kaiser Permanente for the last time felt unreal. Her badge surrendered, locker empty, hands shaking as she pushed through the glass doors into sunlight that felt too bright for someone whose life had just imploded.
She packed one suitcase. Left everything else behind. Everything that was empty, and meaningless. The house, the furniture, the framed engagement photos she couldn’t bring herself to turn face-down. Jason wasn’t home when she walked out. Maybe that was a mercy.
At LAX, she ignored the cameras. Men and women just trying to make a buck on pictures of Jason Markey’s fiancé leaving him for good.
On the flight, she stared at the seat in front of her for ten straight hours, barely blinking. When the plane touched down in London, exhaustion finally claimed her.
Her parents were waiting just beyond arrivals. They didn’t send a car for her. It was exactly what Claire needed.
Her mother didn’t ask questions. She simply wrapped Claire in her arms, tight and fierce, like she could hold her together by force alone. Her father took the suitcase without a word, unsmiling and humorless, eyes silent with things he wanted to say, but didn’t.
At home, Claire collapsed.
Days blurred into nights. She slept and slept and slept. When she woke, she cried until her chest ached, then slept again.
Food appeared beside her bed. Tea. Toast. Soft knocks at the door that she rarely answered.
The world shrank to the size of her childhood room.
She replayed everything – the yacht, the headlines, the apologies – until even anger grew tired and faded into something hollow and aching. It was just all so public.
If Claire knew anything, she knew that grief didn’t move in a straight line.
It lingered.
And for a long time, that was all she could do. Wallow in the wreckage, breathe through it, and wait for the moment when survival felt like something more than just endurance.
Acceptance didn’t arrive like relief.
It came quietly, one morning Claire woke and realized she hadn’t cried in her sleep. Her chest still ached, but it no longer felt like it was caving in. The grief had softened. It was not gone; it was just quieter. More manageable.
She sat at her desk in that bedroom, sunlight slanting across old textbooks and framed certificates and degrees that her parents had never taken down. For the first time in a long time, she opened her laptop with a purpose.
She updated her CV.
Sports medicine. Internal medicine. Emergency coverage. Research projects she’d once been proud of. She searched hospitals across London, Manchester, Leeds – places she knew, places she’d trained. Each posting felt too close. She needed to get away.
It wasn’t enough to leave Jason. She needed to leave the version of herself that had existed alongside him.
She started to close the tabs one by one but paused when her phone rang.
KP - Vikram
She almost ignored it, like she had been doing the past couple months, but something made her answer.
“Claire?” came a familiar voice. “It’s Vikram. From Kaiser.”
Her old boss.
She sat up straighter immediately. “Hi. Yes. Hi.”
“I wanted to check in,” he said gently. “See how you’re doing.”
“I’m… better,” she said. And this time, it was true.
There was a pause. Then: “Listen. This might sound strange, but an opportunity crossed my desk. I thought of you immediately. Did you already find a new position?”
She frowned slightly. “What kind of opportunity?”
“New Zealand,” he said. “Sports medicine. Rugby.”
The words landed differently than she expected – New Zealand.
“A club just moved up a tier,” he continued. “Semi-international level. High-performance athletes, travel, embedded medical staff. They need someone experienced, someone who can handle pressure. I told them about you.”
Claire closed her eyes.
Rugby.
Grass instead of concrete. Team dynamics instead of headlines. Medicine that lived and breathed alongside the people it served.
“I worked sports before hospital medicine,” she said quietly. “I loved it.”
“I remember,” Dr. Patel replied.
The line went quiet.
On her desk, the laptop waited – London job boards still open in the background. Too close. Too familiar.
New Zealand was far enough to be anonymous. Far enough to be free.
“When would they need someone?” she asked.
“Soon,” he said. “Preseason.”
Claire looked out the window at the grey London sky. Thought of sun on open fields, warm beaches, of bodies in motion.
Resolve settled into her bones.
“Thank you for thinking of me. Send me the details,” she said. “I’ll apply.”
She ended the call and exhaled, slow and steady.
Claire shook her head, forcing herself back to the present.
The New Zealand pitch was wide and alive, a different rhythm entirely, but her heartbeat still echoed that old tension, that familiar tug.
She slipped the memory away like a bookmark in a book she hadn’t finished, letting it rest at the back of her mind where it couldn't interfere.
She made the decision to instead focus on her goals for the week that were clear in her mind:
● Learn the team’s routines and dynamics. Who responded to coaching, who pushed boundaries, who needed extra attention during recovery. Observation would be as important as intervention.
● Build trust quickly. Players respected competence, but respect alone wouldn’t earn them. She needed consistency, clarity, and reliability.
● Establish professional boundaries. This was her job, her space, her rules. Early clarity would prevent later misunderstandings.
● Assess injury risks and recovery protocols. Each player was a machine, and each machine had its quirks. She would familiarize herself with prior injuries, recovery plans, and training loads.
● Connect with staff. Beyond the pitch, the physios, trainers, and support staff were her allies. Understanding their workflow would smooth every future interaction.
Claire realized, with a small pang of awareness, that she hadn’t really met Noah Wilson. She wanted to spend time with him and the team. To know the players, she was tasked to treat.
He kept staring at her intently, sure. She’d seen him in action on the pitch, commanding, watchful, composed, and exchanged a few clipped words, but that was it.
No handshake beyond the polite nod, no real conversation, no sense of the man behind the captain’s stoic mask.
She’d needed to remedy that sooner rather than later, even if it seemed he added no effort in an introduction.
In a team like this, first impressions mattered, and if she was going to earn his trust, and the team’s, a proper introduction was long overdue.
Back inside, Tania caught Claire as she was heading toward the Med Box. “We’ve got physicals scheduled for every player this week,” she said, tapping at her tablet. “It’s a good chance for you to meet them all individually, get a sense of their health history, and start building your rapport.”
Claire nodded, feeling a spark of anticipation.
This wasn’t just paperwork; it was reconnaissance.
Each assessment would give her insight into who pushed too hard, who hid injuries, who tested her patience, and who responded well to her guidance.
She tucked her tablet under her arm, ready to step into the rhythm of the week – confident, organized, and entirely focused on the work ahead.
Claire whipped out her cell phone to send a quick text to her mum who would likely be settling into bed back in England.
Will call when I get the chance. Going good. Miss you. Will send game schedule once got. xoxo send love to dad xoxo.
The day was a volley of introductions, schedules, typical onboarding, but Claire was ready for tomorrow.