It's difficult to find the way everything fits into place once it's broken, even if a surgeon gives you a pretty significant first push. Alexia's recovery is progressing with hope. Her knee is responding well to rehabilitation, but she doesn't feel...
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"Okay, how do we do this then?" she asked confidently and energetically, after laughing for a few seconds.
"Please have a seat," I said solemnly. "Alexia, right?" I pretended to look at some papers. She nodded, amused. "Alright, Alexia, what is the reason you decided to come to therapy?"
"A slightly crazy waitress forced me to," she replied unabashedly.
I stifled a laugh.
"She seems like a very nice person with a great sense of humor."
"It seems so."
We looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. The atmosphere grew heavy, and I decided to speak.
"Well," I cleared my throat, "why do you think that nice girl would say your shirt was from a different match?"
"It's not a shirt to boast about," she shrugged.
"Do you think that not having a good game diminishes your importance in the team or the admiration you have earned over the years?"
Alexia furrowed her brow and closed her eyes for a few seconds.
"It's like having a shirt from a player's declining stage. You have it because no one desires it anymore, and if you showed it to someone after I retired, they would just say, 'Oh, well, from when it didn't matter anymore.'" She didn't look me in the eye. "We'll get into why you think that way about this, but first, do you believe that you no longer have value?"
"It's hard to come back from a long injury and still be the same as before," she explained. "The ball feels strange in my feet, the game gets tangled in my head, and my strength is never properly measured."
I looked at her incredulously.
"Alright, let me put it this way," I swallowed, maintaining professionalism. "Do you remember when you were a child and went on summer vacations, and when you came back and had to write and take notes again, your hand would hurt for at least a week?" Alexia remained silent, analyzing my words. "You've played your first game, you've written your first page. There are many more to come this week before your hand knows what it's doing."
Seconds passed. I needed to let her settle and draw her own conclusions from my words.
"I'm scared. People expect a lot from me. During all that time I was injured, I heard comments about how I would have scored that last goal or read the defensive lines and gaps in the other team," she said. I remained silent, listening to her. "What if I come back and don't score that goal as they thought, or I can't find where the through pass should go? What if I lost it?"
"So what if you lost it?" I responded, genuinely annoyed and unprofessional. Alexia blinked several times. "So what if you lost it? Huh?" The blonde swallowed, surprised. "If you lost it, you recover it. If you can't read the pass, you study it. If you don't score, you practice it all night. You're fucking Alexia Putellas. And that's not because of the goals or assists. You're Alexia Putellas because of the spirit, the ambition, the desire to improve, the energy to get better, the tirelessness, the stubbornness, the persistence, the annoying nature. And if you forget it, you can approach any random girl and give her one of your shirts just to later tell her that it's worthless, because I assure you she'll remind you."
Alexia clenched her lips and held her breath. Her eyes welled up slightly, and in that moment, my anger disappeared completely, giving way to embarrassment and guilt. I couldn't afford to keep looking at her like that, so I fixed my gaze on the bottles of spirits jostling for space on the shelves behind the bar.
The seconds felt like an eternity, waiting for the moment when the girl who still surprised me by sitting next to me would get up and leave without a word, mock the audacity with which I had just dared to speak to her, or simply insult me.
Her skin touched mine, and my whole body trembled. Her hand slid over mine, her fingers seeking space between mine and gripping tightly where they separated. It took me a few seconds to look at her, enough to make sure my mind wasn't playing tricks on me, that it was really happening, and that my entire body was tingling because of it.
"Thank you," she whispered.
She didn't let go of my hand, and neither did I. I raised my eyes to hers and saw how they hid behind rapid blinks. My chest weighed so much that I wanted to ask for help to hold it up.
"I'm sorry for how I spoke to you," I said, not looking at her.
"Don't be sorry," she replied, sincerely. "That's what I needed to hear."
"Still, I went too far. I don't know you well enough to take the liberty of doing that."
"Maybe," she laughed without enthusiasm and then leaned back on the stool, letting go of my hand. "But I like that. Lately, I don't often get the opportunity to meet people as they really are. So I guess impulsive people like you are a big plus for me right now."
She managed to make me smile, and upon seeing it, she smiled too in a comfortable silence. I sank into her eyes, her expression, her lips. I felt a twinge somewhere in my chest, and then I reacted, perplexed. I needed to learn to relax. With the other players, it had been easier to stop feeling those nerves, but with Alexia, I still felt something destabilizing me inside when she looked at me more than necessary. I had to keep it in check if I didn't want to become a crazy fan. I sprang to my feet.
"Can I make it up to you with a drink?" I asked her.
"Do I have a multitasking therapist?" she said sarcastically.
"You don't come often enough to pay my rent."
"Not yet," she added casually. I didn't respond, and she didn't insist. "What are you having?"
"Well, it's not coffee time..." I winked at her. She laughed heartily. "Make it two then."
"Wait!" she exclaimed. I turned towards Alexia, raising my eyebrows. "I'd prefer you to make it up to me in another way."
I held my breath.
"Which way?"
"Now you know personal things about me, but I don't know anything about you, and that's not fair."
"Ah," I thought to myself, a mixture of relief and disappointment? Was that disappointment? I cleared my head of thoughts to continue the conversation.
"And how can I make sure you won't run straight to the press to spill all my dark secrets? You can't sign a napkin for me, blondie."
I placed two glasses on the table with some ice anyway and started pouring gin into them, enjoying how the last word changed her expression, which had been quite amusing.
"What can we do? You'll have to take a risk," she said, leaning over the bar, closer to me. Was she having fun?
I took the first sip of my gin and lemon, and she followed suit.
"That doesn't convince me. What else do you propose?"
I leaned over the bar as well, making her step back. I didn't know what game she was playing, but I could have more fun. I took another sip.
"I'm the fucking Alexia Putellas, right?" She imitated me, mocking.
"That's right," she took another sip, and I grabbed a napkin pretending to write and recited aloud, "The patient is making rapid progress."
"Then I'll score a fantastic goal in the next game and give you that jersey if I break my promise and tell someone your dark secrets."
She smiled sweetly, and I took a moment out of the banter to return the same.
