Page 6 of Anatomy of Us

“And now she’s on your injured list.”

“Exactly,” I say, and my sigh feels like it scrapes my throat.

On the other end, I hear the creak of a chair. Klaus settling in like this is now a real conversation.

“What are your options?”

“Recuse myself. Tell the coach there’s a personal conflict of interest and assign the evaluation to another doctor,” I say, quick and clean.

“Sensible option.”

“Or I do my job. I evaluate her with objectivity. I keep professional boundaries. Seven years ago, yes, there would’ve been a conflict. We’ve both moved on. She’s probably happily married. With a baby. There shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Brave option,” he says, and then another pause. “Which one are you choosing?”

I rub my eyes. My contacts still sit there, dry and gritty. I should’ve taken them out hours ago.

“If I recuse myself, I have to explain why, and Diana Creed didn’t hire me to dodge hard situations,” I say, forcing the words into a neat line. “Like I told you, it’s all in the past. It was seven years ago. What would you do?”

“Since last year, I've been a retired surgeon living in Munich with three cats, Tessa. My life choices got easier the day I stopped operating,” he jokes. Then his voice shifts, gentler, sharper at once. “But if you want my real opinion:you can’t outrun the things you care about. You can only decide if you’ll face them or keep hiding.”

“I’m not hiding,” I complain.

“Aren’t you? How many boxes have you unpacked in your new place?”

“Three.”

“Out of how many?”

“Twelve.”

“There. Proof.” I can hear the smile in his voice, which makes me want to throw my phone. “Either choice is valid. But please stop pretending this is just another medical file for you. It’s clear it isn’t.”

**

After I hang up, I walk to the one box I’ve left half-open, the only one labeled “personal.” It’s packed with photos and small scraps of memory. One photo grabs me right away.

Eight years ago. Zoe celebrating a NCAA Championship, soaked in sweat and joy, surrounded by teammates. I’m in the back of the photo, watching her.

God, I look at her like she’s the sun and I’ve spent my whole life in the dark.

I remember that day. The roar of the stands chanting her name. The taste of salt on her skin when she kissed me after the final whistle.

“We did it,” she whispered against my mouth.

I knew she meant the team. I also knew she meant us. That we had built something real in the middle of her impossible season and my brutal hospital residency hours.

A few months later, I accepted Munich.

A year later, she married Nate.

I flip the photo over. It’s only memories. Proof that something existed and then stopped existing. Nothing more.

I slide it back into the box. I don’t want it where I can see it.

I also can’t throw it away.

I pull up her file again. There’s a note from the previous doctor, a guy named Joe: “Player highly motivated. May need restraint rather than encouragement. History of overtraining during recovery from ACL rupture in 2019.”