So this is it. I’ll go back to Sydney and manage hotels for the rest of my life––take over my father’s dynasty and give up on mine.

The truth hurts––my time on the rugby field has ended. I had my glory days, but they’re gone. Reality is staring me down in high-definition clarity on his computer screen.

“With that being said, I believe I can fix this.”

My head snaps up. “Wait… what?”

He swivels the monitor again and clicks through more images. “Don’t get me wrong. It will not be easy. The damage is significant, and the recovery will be grueling. But with the right surgical approach and proper rehabilitation, I believe you can make a full recovery.”

I stare at him, waiting for the catch. The fine print. The inevitable but that always follows statements like that. “You’re telling me I can play again?”

He nods. “It’s one of the worst I’ve ever seen, but I love a challenge.”

Good news is what I’d hoped for, but this seems almost too good to believe. “I don’t know what to say. I’m speechless.”

“Surgery is only the first step. Rehab will push you harder than anything you’ve done before. And if you’re not committed, if you don’t follow the protocol to the letter⁠—”

“I’m one hundred percent committed.” The words leave my mouth before I put any thought into them. If there’s even the slightest shot at getting back to the sport I love, I’ll take it. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

I won’t blow this again.

Dr. Tate nods, satisfied with my response. “Good. Because this isn’t only about getting you back to rugby, Alex. It’s about making sure your ankle holds up for the long-term. You’ll be in pain the rest of your life if we don’t fix this. Not just in a game, but every day with walking, running, even standing too long. It will lead to impaired mobility.”

This is my first time hearing that prognosis.

It’s a real kick in the twig and berries.

After all this time, something stirs inside me. Not the hopeless longing I’ve been drowning in for months, but something sharper. Stronger. The spark I’d lost.

And just like that, the impossible becomes real again.

Dr. Tate taps a few keys to pull up a detailed recovery timeline on the screen. “Let’s talk about what recovery looks like. This will not be a quick fix. We’re looking at a structured, phased approach over the next several months.”

I nod, my eyes skimming the outline he’s handed me, though the words blur together almost immediately. I clear my throat, pushing down the old instinct to fake it. Not today. Not when everything about my future is on the line.