What if she’s gone?
“I told you I’m fine,” Alejandra said through clenched teeth. The doctor didn’t even react to the tone. She just reached for a pen.
“I’d like to refer you to a sports psychologist,” she said calmly. “She’s based in London. One of the best when it comes to trauma and athletic performance.”
Alejandra’s stomach dropped before the paper even slid across the desk. Dr. González scribbled something quickly and pushedthe note toward her. Alejandra stared at the name. The number. The neat handwriting that somehow felt heavier than it should.
And something inside her just… crumpled.
This is real. She thinks I’m broken. Maybe I truly am.
She suddenly did feel like a scared little girl. The kind who didn’t know where to go, or how to be brave again. The kind who pretended not to be afraid until she was alone, until the silence got too loud.
“I don’t need a shrink,” Alejandra muttered, her voice defensive, brittle. She hated how it sounded. Petulant. Small. But admitting she might need help felt like failure. Like everything she’d built—her strength, her fearlessness, her identity—had already drowned under Pipeline’s waves. It made no sense. She knew that. Logically, she knew that.
And still, a therapist might say it out loud. Put words to the things she only dared to whisper to herself in the dark.
That she was broken.
That she was scared.
That she didn’t trust herself anymore.
And that… that terrified her more than the ocean ever had.
“Everyone needs someone to talk to,” Dr. González replied, steady and unwavering. “Especially someone trained to understand why our minds go where they go.”
Alejandra stayed quiet.
“This injury isn’t just physical,” the doctor added. “It’s emotional. If your brain is stuck in fear, your shoulder will never move past that invisible wall. Ever.” She mimicked the restricted rotation with her own arm. “Plus, I heard a quote the other day: there are two kinds of athletes—those who have been injured, and those who haven’t been injuredyet. You’ve been very lucky to be in the second category for much of your career, but now things have changed, and you have to consider your mental health, not just your physical health.”
Alejandra’s gaze flickered to her.
“I’ll look into it,” she replied stiffly.
“I’m not a therapist,” the doctor continued with a small sigh, “but I’ve had my share of demons. Surround yourself with people who see your pain without minimizing it. People who feel it with you.”
Alejandra swallowed.
“I know you went to Ericeira for the USL. How did you feel there?”
Her jaw clenched immediately.
“I could’ve felt better,” she admitted.
You almost fell apart.
If Callum hadn’t been there, she probably would have. Completely. No control, no mask, no pretending. And she hated that. Hated that he’d become that anchor in such a short time. Hated how safe he’d made her feel. How easy it had been to lean into him, to let him carry pieces of her she couldn’t hold anymore.
The sex. The kisses. The way he called hercariad. The way he hadn’t asked her to be okay. Hadn’t pushed. Hadn’t demanded. He’d just… been there.
And God, that had been worse.
Because it made staying feel easy. Too easy.
She shook her head slightly, like she could physically dislodge the memories—the warmth of his hands, the press of his mouth, the way her body had betrayed her fear for something softer, something dangerously close to comfort.
“Talk to the therapist,” Dr. González said, standing now. “Or take a road trip. Train. Move. Push through the block. But don’t let the fear control you.”
