I drop into another round of banded squats, resistance biting around my thighs, fire igniting behind my knees. The reps aren’t pretty. My form’s far from perfect, but it’s improving. Slowly. I knew the road to who I used to be would be a long one.
The mirror across from me doesn’t lie. I’m not where I was years ago. Not even close. But the man in the reflection? He’s coming for it. And every tremble in my quads, every stinging bead of sweat that rolls down my spine is proof. Not punishment.
Progress.
Not so long ago, I walked with a limp. Today, I’m stacking sets and pushing a sled as if I’ve got something to prove. Because I do.
I press into the next push, driving forward with every ounce I’ve got left. Ankles screaming, core locked, hands white-knuckled on the bar.
One more. Just one more.
This isn’t only about rugby. It’s about reclaiming my body. My focus. My name.
I drive the sled until there’s nowhere left to go—just wall and frustration. Then I drop into a crouch, hands on my thighs, chest heaving.
I don’t hear her, not over the music or the sound of my heartbeat thundering. But she’s there when I lift my head––my sweet Magnolia––with arms folded across her chest, lips tugged into a smile.
She’s leaning against the doorframe looking as though she’s been there a minute, watching me wreck myself for redemption. And God help me… she’s never looked more beautiful.
Her hair’s pulled back in one of those loose knots she does when she’s not trying to impress anyone, which somehow always impresses me. There’s something different in her expression that I can’t quite put my finger on.
I grab the remote and lower the music, the thrum of bass dropping to a steady pulse behind me. My breath’s still coming hard, sweat dripping down my back.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, grabbing a towel and dragging it across my face.
“Long enough to admire the view.”
I grin, dragging the towel over my neck and shoulders. “Hope you’re into sweaty and slightly unhinged.”
She comes closer, watching me like I’m her prey. But I’m the one who pounces first, pulling her in and kissing her forehead, one hand brushing over her hip as I breathe her in. Cherry vanilla and clean skin. My favorite combination.
“Where’ve you been?”
There’s a pause. A shift. Her eyes meet mine, and something flickers there. “The doctor.”
Everything in me stills.
I straighten, muscles forgotten. “What’s wrong?” My voice drops an octave. “Are you not feeling well?”
“Not that kind of doctor,” she says, cutting me off before panic can bloom.
“Okay… what kind, then?”
“An OB-GYN.”
That lands like a quiet thunderclap, and my brain stumbles. “Why?”
Her voice is soft, almost careful. “I just wanted to know where I stood. To have everything checked out, so when the time comes for a baby, I’ll know that my body is ready.”
I stare at her, trying to process.
“And?”
Her mouth curves, gentle and sure. “Everything looks great. The doctor said I’m healthy. She sees nothing that would prevent me from getting pregnant. Obviously, no guarantees—but it all appears to be in good working order.”
The floor vanishes from under me—but not from fear. From something that feels a hell of a lot like hope. “You just gave me the best news I didn’t know I wanted to hear.”
Her words settle in my chest, a spark dropped on dry kindling.
