Page 9 of Anatomy of Us

“Why would you know?” I snap, because anger is easier than anything else. “You’ve been gone seven years. You don’t know anything about me. I’m guessing you haven’t been keeping up with my personal life or my career, right?”

“More than you think,” she says, and the confession steals my next line right out of my mouth.

I stare at her. My pulse spikes. My skin feels too tight.

“Look,” I say, because I have to keep moving. “We both know this is a mess. Working together is going to feel awful. But I also know you’re a professional. You always were. Even when you broke my heart, you did it with a neat little system and a plan.”

“Zoe…”

“Shut up and listen.” I cut her off before she can say something that makes this worse. “You do your job. You evaluate me. You tell me what I have to do to get back on the field. And I’ll pretend that seeing you doesn’t drag me back to the worst year of my life. I can even pretend I don’t know you at all, if you want. Can we do that?”

“We can,” she says at last. “But you need to understand something. If you’re not ready to play, I’m not making any exceptions for you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And I need you to be fully honest with me about any pain, any discomfort, anything you notice in your body. I can’t help you if you lie,” she says, crisp and clinical now.

“I don’t lie about injuries anymore,” I tell her. “I learned the hard way when I tore my ACL.”

“Good.” She points toward the exam table. “Let’s start. Take off your shoes and your shirt. I’m doing a full physical assessment.”

I freeze for a beat.

“My shirt?”

“I’ve seen you naked plenty of times,” she mutters, shrugging while she sets out supplies.

“That does not help.”

“You've had physicals done by a sixty-year-old man while wearing a sports bra and shorts.” She glances up, andfor a second there’s a flicker of something that looks like amusement. “This should be much easier.”

I don’t argue. I don’t have a single good point. I don’t even know why I feel so nervous. I’m covered more than when I go to the beach in a bikini. But this is different.

It’s Tessa.

And for some reason I don’t understand, a strange little smile crosses her mouth and vanishes.

“Actually,” she says, like she’s thinking out loud, “since you just gave birth, I think the first thing I’ll do is check your pelvic floor.”

“What?”

Heat rushes up my neck so fast she probably thinks I’m about to have a heart attack. And I’m half-undressed. No shirt to hide it.

“Yeah, you know how it goes,” she continues, voice too calm. “Quick second. I put a little lubricant on the glove, I slide two fingers inside you—”

I stop breathing.

“I… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I choke out.

She breaks.

She laughs, full and bright, like she can’t help it.

“I’m joking, idiot. You should see your face.”

“You’re such an asshole,” I growl.

For one second, I consider walking out. I’m so tight with tension I shake.