Page 13 of Anatomy of Us
She nods, slow.
“I see a woman who gave birth seven months ago,” I say. My throat tightens. I keep going anyway. “I see a body that did something huge and is paying for it in fitness right now. And I see the same fighter you’ve always been. The kind of person who’ll headbutt a wall if it gets you what you want. One of the best players in the world fighting to get her career back.” I let out a long breath. “And I don’t have any doubt you’ll do it. Because for me, it’s personal too.”
Zoe looks at me like she’s seeing me for the first time.
“You really think that?”
“I don’t lie.” The words come out quiet, hard. “I can run. But I don’t lie. You know that.”
“Thanks,” she whispers. “That means a lot. Even if you don’t think it does.” She leans in and hugs me.
I walk her out to her car. In the back seat sits a baby car seat. Gray. Plain. Probably the exact same as a thousand other car seats.
But next to it there’s a small plush soccer ball, about the size of my fist, wedged between the seat and the door.
Proof that Zoe has a life outside our rehab sessions. A baby who needs plush balls and car seats and probably a hundred other things I know nothing about.
“Tessa?” Her voice cuts through my spiral. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer on reflex. “Get some rest, okay? I’ll see you next session.” I try to force a smile, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t land.
Chapter 5
Zoe
“I swear to you, if I don’t start touching a ball, I’m going to lose my mind!” I yell at Tessa in our last session.
And now here we are with Hades, who refuses to miss my first touches, alone on one of the practice fields. One of those we barely use, the kind they rent out in the afternoons to local youth soccer clubs.
The sprinklers have just run. The grass smells sharp and green, and the white lines shine like someone drew them with a brand-new marker. God, I miss this.
Four weeks of modified planks and glute bridges. Four weeks of pelvic floor work so humiliating I want to cry every session. Four weeks rebuilding my body muscle by muscle. Four weeks watching my teammates train through the rehab room window like I’m on the wrong side of a life I’m supposed to be living.
And finally, Tessa clears me for light work with the ball.
My first touch is trash: too hard, zero control, the ball rockets off with no real direction. Hades lets out this huff that tells me she’s disappointed.
The second touch is better. The third almost feels normal.
By the fourth, I’m smiling.
“That smile,” Tessa says from the sideline when I pass her. Her voice drops like she doesn’t want the field to hear it. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve touched a ball on a soccer field,” I shoot back, stopping the ball under my cleat right in front of her and my coach. “God, this is… I can’t even find the words.”
“Let’s try something a little more complicated and see how you feel,” Hades says, already walking toward the middle with a stack of cones.
She sets them out every few yards in a straight line. It’s basic. The kind of drill she’d run with twelve-year-olds in any local club: weave through the cones, turn, come back the other way.
“Trust your body,” Tessa whispers, gripping my elbow before my first run.
When I start, the ball moves between my feet with that tap-tap-tap rhythm that lives in my bones. Pure muscle memory. My eyes burn and I hate how close I am to crying.
This.
This is who I am.
Not the woman who couldn't hold a plank for a full minute a month ago. Not the exhausted mom who sometimes forgets to eat because Wesley needs every ounce of me. Not the woman who has to defend herself from a toxic ex-husband who uses her kid like a weapon.