Page 11 of Anatomy of Us

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.

The document in front of me has a clinical header, as neutral as I can make it: “Return to Competition Protocol: Zoe Méndez, Weeks 1–14.” Below that, fourteen weeks mapped out with surgical precision. Specific drills. Reps. Conditional progressions based on how her body responds.

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.”