Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, crisp and clinical, mingling with the subtle lavender from the lotion Tobin always kept at her desk. The rehab center was unusually quiet this morning. The early hours were her favorite time of day—before the weight rooms filled with the steady clank of machines, before the hushed murmurs of trainers and therapists guiding their patients through recovery. It was a sacred window of peace, a moment to breathe before the work began.

Today, however, peace was elusive.

Tobin stood at the threshold of her office, shoulders squared, fingers curled around the tablet displaying the patient list for the day. She had known who would be at the top before she even looked.

Christen Press.

The name hit her like a punch to the gut, even though she had been preparing for this moment.

Her stomach twisted.

She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling through her nose. It wasn’t that she hadn’t thought about this possibility. When you worked in one of the top rehabilitation facilities for professional athletes, you inevitably encountered familiar names. Still, nothing had braced her for this—for seeing her name in black and white, no longer just a highlight on a screen, no longer a distant memory pressed between the pages of a past she had forced herself to move beyond.

Except she hadn’t, not really.

A sharp knock on the open door jolted her out of her thoughts.

She looked up.

And there she was.

Christen stood in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame, her weight shifted slightly off her injured leg. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, strands escaping to frame her face, her skin lightly flushed from the trek through the hallways. But it was her eyes—those dark, searching eyes—that sent a ripple through Tobin’s chest.

She hadn’t changed.

And yet, she had.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them stretched, thick with something unspoken, something fragile.

Tobin forced herself to exhale, years of restraint pressing down on her like a weight. She had imagined this moment a hundred different ways, rehearsed her reaction, convinced herself that she would feel nothing.

But now, standing in front of Christen for the first time in a decade, she realized how much she had lied to herself.

Christen was the first to break the silence.

"You’re here," she said softly, as if testing the reality of the moment.

Tobin nodded, her fingers tightening around the edge of the tablet. "Yeah. I work here."

Christen’s brows furrowed slightly. "I didn’t know."

"You weren’t supposed to," Tobin replied, her voice carefully measured. She hesitated, then added, "But I knew about you."

Christen’s lips parted slightly, as if the words had surprised her. "You did?"

Tobin tilted her head, her gaze steady. "Of course I did. I never stopped."

A flicker of something crossed Christen’s face—shock, disbelief, maybe even something close to regret. Her fingers flexed against the doorframe, like she needed something to ground her.

"I thought you hated me," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tobin let out a quiet laugh, though it lacked humor. She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I could never hate you, Chris."

Christen swallowed. "Then why did you never reach out?"

Tobin hesitated. The truth was tangled in too many years, too many emotions. "Because you needed to go. You needed to be who you were meant to be. And I—" She paused, searching for the right words. "I couldn’t be the thing holding you back."

A shadow passed over Christen’s features, as if the weight of the past had finally caught up to her.

"And now you’re here," she said, more to herself than Tobin.

Tobin nodded. "Yeah. And I’m going to help you."

The words should have been comforting. But instead, they sent a crack through Christen’s carefully built composure. Her breath hitched, and her fingers tightened around the frame. "Tobin, I—" She exhaled sharply. "I don’t know if I can do this."

Tobin’s expression softened. "Chris—"

"No, you don’t get it," Christen cut in, shaking her head. Her voice was unsteady now, her control slipping. "This isn’t just a setback. This is my career. I’ve seen what happens to players after this injury. I know what the statistics say."

Her breathing was becoming uneven, her shoulders rising and falling faster.

Tobin saw it—the way panic had started to creep in, the way the fear that Christen had likely buried for weeks was now clawing its way to the surface.

She took a step forward.

"Christen," she said gently, her voice grounding, steady. "Look at me."

Christen lifted her gaze, dark eyes wide and brimming with uncertainty.

Tobin reached out, careful and slow, until her hands were resting lightly on Christen’s arms. The warmth of the touch sent something flickering across Christen’s expression—something vulnerable, something raw.

"You’re not alone in this," Tobin murmured. "I know how scared you are. I know how much this means to you. And I promise you—you're going to recover."

Christen let out a shaky breath. "But what if—"

"No ‘what ifs,’" Tobin interrupted softly. "You’re going to get through this. And I’m going to be with you every step of the way."

Christen’s throat worked around a swallow. She let her eyes close for a moment, drawing in a slow breath, trying to steady herself. When she opened them again, Tobin was still there, unwavering, her hands still resting gently on her arms.

For the first time in weeks—maybe months—Christen felt something other than fear.

She felt safe.

She exhaled slowly, a small, almost hesitant smile pulling at her lips.

"Okay," she whispered.

Tobin smiled back, squeezing her arms lightly. "Okay."

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The first session was always the hardest.

Tobin had seen it countless times—athletes walking through the doors of the rehab center with their chins high and shoulders squared, determined to beat the odds. But beneath that polished confidence, she knew the truth.

They were all afraid.

Fear of the unknown. Fear of failure. Fear of losing the thing that had defined them for so long.

And Christen was no exception.

Tobin sat on the padded bench across from her, one ankle resting over her knee, clipboard balanced in her lap. She could see it—the tension in Christen’s shoulders, the way she held herself rigid, as if bracing for the worst.

"You don’t have to pretend with me, you know," Tobin said, breaking the silence.

Christen glanced up, startled. "What?"

Tobin gestured toward her. "The act. The whole ‘I’ve got this’ thing."

Christen’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the hem of her training shorts. "I’m not pretending."

Tobin gave her a look.

Christen exhaled sharply, looking away. "Fine. Maybe a little."

Tobin smirked, but her voice was gentle when she spoke again. "You don’t have to."

Christen held her gaze for a long moment before finally relaxing, her shoulders dropping a fraction.

Tobin nodded, satisfied. "Alright. Let’s start with the basics." She gestured for Christen to extend her injured leg. "How’s the pain today?"

"Manageable."

Tobin hummed, her fingers pressing lightly along the joint, testing the tension in the surrounding muscles. Christen inhaled sharply at one point, and Tobin immediately pulled back, studying her expression.

"Sharp pain?"

Christen shook her head. "No, just—just stiff."

Tobin nodded. "Normal for this stage. We’ll work on mobility first before we even think about strength training."

Christen sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "This is going to take forever, isn’t it?"

Tobin leaned back slightly, watching her. "It’s going to take time," she admitted. "But we’re not measuring this in days, Chris. We’re measuring it in progress."

Christen let out a quiet breath, nodding.

Tobin stood, offering her hand. "Come on. Let’s get started."

Christen hesitated for only a moment before slipping her fingers into Tobin’s.

It was the first time they had touched since that moment in the office, and something about it felt heavier now. Tobin tried not to think about it—tried not to focus on the warmth of Christen’s skin against hers, or the way Christen’s grip tightened just slightly before she let go.

Instead, she focused on what she did best.

Helping Christen heal.

The session was grueling in its simplicity.

Small movements. Slow stretches. Exercises that, to an untrained eye, looked almost laughably easy—but Tobin knew they weren’t.

She saw the way Christen’s jaw tightened with every extension. The way her fingers curled into fists when she had to shift weight onto her injured leg.

The frustration built steadily.

"You’re doing great," Tobin said as Christen finished another rep.

Christen huffed out a breath, shaking her head. "I feel like I’m learning how to walk again."

Tobin’s expression softened. "In a way, you are."

Christen’s jaw clenched. "It’s humiliating."

"It’s recovery," Tobin corrected gently. "And you’re already ahead of where most people would be."

Christen didn’t respond, her gaze fixed on the floor.

Tobin studied her for a moment before sighing and setting down the resistance band. "Alright. That’s enough for today."

Christen’s head snapped up. "But I—"

"Rest is part of recovery," Tobin interrupted, her tone firm but kind. "Pushing too hard too soon will set you back."

Christen exhaled sharply, clearly annoyed but knowing Tobin was right.

Tobin smiled slightly. "Come on. Let’s get some ice on that knee."

She turned toward the treatment table, expecting Christen to follow. But instead, Christen’s voice stopped her.

"Tobin."

Tobin turned back. Christen was watching her, something unreadable in her expression.

"I just..." Christen hesitated, exhaling slowly. "Thank you."

Tobin’s breath caught.

It was such a simple thing. Two words. But coming from Christen—after everything—it meant more than she could put into words.

So she just nodded.

"Always."

And as they sat in silence, ice wrapped around Christen’s knee, something between them—something fragile, something unspoken—shifted just slightly.

Neither of them knew exactly what it meant.

But for now, it was enough.

Chapter Text

Tobin could tell Christen was restless the moment she walked in.

She had been prepared for this. The first week of rehab was always the hardest—not physically, but mentally. The reality of the process started to settle in, and for an athlete like Christen, who thrived on movement, patience wasn’t exactly her strongest trait.

Tobin watched as Christen moved the treatment table up and down at the press of a button, trying to keep her mind occupied.

"You know, if you break the table, I’m making you pay for the repairs," Tobin quipped, leaning against the counter.

Christen shot her a look. "I can’t sit still."

Tobin smirked. "You never could."

A brief flicker of something—nostalgia, maybe—flashed across Christen’s face before she shook her head. "I just... I hate this."

Tobin’s amusement faded. She stepped forward, hands slipping into the pockets of her track pants. "Hate what?"

Christen exhaled sharply, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. "Feeling weak. Feeling like I have no control over my own body. I hate every second of this."

Tobin nodded slowly, understanding.

She had been here before.

Not just in this room. Not just as the one guiding recovery.

She had been on that table once.

"You’re not weak," Tobin said quietly. "And you’re not out of control. This is just a different kind of fight."

Christen scoffed. "It doesn’t feel like a fight. It feels like I’m losing."

Tobin inhaled, steadying herself. "You’re not losing, Chris."

Christen’s jaw tightened. "How do you know?"

Tobin hesitated.

There were things she never said out loud. Things she had locked away because they were too painful, too raw. But as she looked at Christen now—seated in front of her, breaking piece by piece—she knew she couldn’t hold them back.

She took a slow breath, then spoke.

"Because I did."

Christen stilled.

Tobin exhaled, glancing away for a brief moment before meeting Christen’s gaze again. "I lost, Chris. I lost the game. I lost the career. I lost everything that I thought made me me. And it almost broke me."

The room felt impossibly small.

Tobin’s voice softened. "But it didn't and I’m still stronger than ever."

Christen swallowed hard.

Tobin stepped closer, her voice steady. "And so are you."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, quietly, Christen admitted, "I’m scared, Tobin."

Tobin felt her chest tighten.

She had seen Christen in a hundred different ways—fierce, determined, untouchable. But vulnerable? Rarely. Christen didn't get injured. This vulnerability was new to the two of them.

Slowly, Tobin reached out, placing a hand over Christen’s.

"You don’t have to be."

Christen looked down at their hands, then up at Tobin. "How can you say that?"

"Because I’m going to take care of you," Tobin said simply. "Every step of the way. No matter how long it takes. I’m not letting you go through this alone."

Christen’s breath hitched.

Tobin squeezed her fingers gently. "You’re going to recover. You’re going to get back on that field. And I promise you, Chris—you’re going to play again."

Christen let out a shaky breath, her grip tightening on Tobin’s hand.

And for the first time in weeks, she believed it.

Flashback - Ten Years Ago

They had sat on the bleachers, the stadium lights casting a soft glow over the empty field.

Tobin’s knee was wrapped in ice, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the brace. Christen sat beside her, silent.

"You should go," Tobin had said, voice barely above a whisper.

Christen turned, frowning. "What?"

Tobin swallowed. "You should take the offer. Go to Europe. Play at the highest level."

Christen’s throat tightened. "I don’t want to leave you."

Tobin forced a small smile. "You have to."

Christen shook her head. "Tobin—"

"Chris." Tobin’s voice was quiet, but firm. "You were always meant for more than this."

Christen’s chest ached. "So were you."

Tobin looked down at her knee, her fingers curling into a fist. "Not anymore."

Silence hung between them, heavy and unbearable.

Then, softly, Tobin whispered, "But I’ll be watching."

Christen’s breath hitched.

Tobin finally looked at her, something unreadable in her eyes. "Wherever you go. However far. I’ll always be watching."

Present Day

Tobin watched as Christen exhaled slowly, nodding.

"Okay," Christen murmured. "Okay."

Tobin smiled gently. "One day at a time. You got this. And when you feel like you don't, you have me."

Christen let out a breath, her fingers still tangled with Tobin’s.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

The night was quiet, except for the rhythmic hum of the ocean just beyond the rehab facility. The waves moved in and out, steady and relentless, much like the thoughts circling in Christen’s mind.

She sat on the edge of a lounge chair, her injured leg stretched out in front of her, the soft glow of the moon casting silver over the terrace.

Tobin was beside her, leaning back against the railing, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug, the other resting on her thigh. It had been a long day of rehab, and exhaustion clung to both of them—but neither had moved to leave.

The silence between them was familiar, comfortable. And yet, Christen’s heart was pounding.

She didn’t know why she felt it now, this need to ask.

Maybe it was the vulnerability creeping in after months of breaking herself down in order to rebuild. Maybe it was the way Tobin had been there—every step, every struggle, never wavering. Maybe it was the realization that time hadn’t dulled what she felt, that no matter how much life had changed, Tobin still felt like home.

Or maybe it was just that she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

She swallowed hard, turning slightly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Tobin?"

Tobin glanced at her, raising a brow. "Yeah?"

Christen hesitated, fingers gripping the edge of the chair.

Then, softly—tentatively—she asked, "Is your heart still mine?"

Tobin stilled.

The question lingered between them, fragile and exposed.

For a moment, Tobin just looked at her, the weight of ten years pressing into the space between their bodies.

Then, in a voice steady and certain, Tobin answered.

"It’s always been yours, Christen."

Christen sucked in a breath.

Tobin shifted, turning fully now, her eyes never leaving Christen’s.

"Always," she said again, quieter this time. "And forever."

The words settled in Christen’s chest, warm and aching all at once.

Tobin let out a small breath, as if she had been holding it in for years. "I told myself once that if we were meant to find each other again, we would." She gave a soft, almost self-conscious laugh. "I didn’t know if I believed it back then. But now? You’re here. And I’m here. And I don’t think that’s an accident."

Christen’s throat tightened.

She wanted to say something—anything—but her emotions were tangled in the back of her mind, impossible to sort through.

So instead, she did the only thing that felt right.

She reached out, sliding her fingers over Tobin’s.

Tobin didn’t pull away.

Instead, she curled her hand around Christen’s, holding tight.

And for the first time in a decade, Christen let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, they had found their way back to each other for good.

Flash Forward – Two Years Later

The stadium roared.

It was deafening, electric, the kind of sound that vibrated through bone and muscle, that made hearts beat just a little faster.

Christen could barely breathe, her pulse hammering in her ears as she stood in the center of the field, blinking against the floodlights, against the reality settling in around her.

They had done it.

The U.S. had won the World Cup.

Against Spain. Against the odds.

Gold confetti rained down, the air thick with shouts and tears and unrestrained joy. Her teammates were celebrating around her, collapsing into each other’s arms, screaming into the sky.

But Christen wasn’t thinking about the victory.

She was thinking about her.

Her eyes scanned the stands frantically, searching, searching—until they found her.

Tobin.

Standing near the front, hands gripping the railing, eyes locked onto Christen’s with something indescribable written across her face.

And in that moment, Christen didn’t think.

She ran.

Through the field, past her teammates, past the chaos, until she reached the barricade separating the field from the stands.

And then—without hesitation—she climbed over it.

Tobin barely had time to react before Christen’s hands were on her face, before their bodies collided in a tangle of adrenaline and overwhelming emotion.

And then Christen kissed her.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t tender.

It was raw and desperate and ten years in the making.

Tobin froze for only half a second before she melted into it, her hands coming up to cradle Christen’s face, holding her as if she was afraid to let go.

The crowd around them erupted, a mix of cheers and gasps and camera flashes.

But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered except the feel of Tobin’s lips, the way her fingers curled into the back of Christen’s jersey, the way her breath hitched like she had waited forever for this.

And maybe she had.

When they finally broke apart, Christen was breathless, her forehead resting against Tobin’s.

Tobin let out a soft, shaky laugh. "I take it you’re happy?"

Christen laughed, still catching her breath. "I think so, yeah."

Tobin smirked. "Just a little?"

Christen rolled her eyes before pulling Tobin into another kiss.

Later, After the Award Ceremony

The locker room was quieter now, the chaos having died down as everyone settled into the reality of what had just happened.

Christen sat on one of the benches, her medal hanging around her neck, her fingers tracing the cool metal absently.

Tobin leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, watching her.

After a moment, Christen looked up.

Without a word, she took off the medal and placed it around her neck.

Tobin frowned. "Chris—"

Christen shook her head. "I want you to have it."

Tobin hesitated. "Christen—this is yours. You earned it."

Christen smiled, small and knowing. "And I wouldn’t have gotten here without you."

Tobin swallowed hard, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

Christen leaned forward, pressing the medal into Tobin’s hands. "You’ve been my rock, Tobin. Every step of the way. Every hard day. Every doubt. You made sure I never gave up. And I wouldn’t have made it back without you."

Tobin stared at the medal, then at Christen.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Chris…"

Christen reached out, fingers brushing against Tobin’s.

"You said you’d take care of me," she murmured. "And you did."

Tobin exhaled slowly, her grip tightening around the medal.

Then, after a long moment, she whispered, "Always and forever."

Christen smiled, her heart full.

Because this time—this moment—there were no more uncertainties.

No more what-ifs.

Just them together.

And that was enough.