Chapter 4 Roman
ROMAN
I stare at the spreading puddle of dark roast and ceramic shards, my hand still extended in the motion that should have set it on the counter.
Except I missed. By three inches. Because I was thinking about the way Marnie’s hair falls out of that messy knot when she’s concentrating, and how one strand always catches against her cheek, and whether she knows she hums along to Fall Out Boy when she thinks no one’s listening.
“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing a dish towel.
This is exactly why the guys call me “The Machine.” Because I don’t get distracted.
Because I’m disciplined. Because my pre-game routine hasn’t varied in seven years, my meal prep happens every Sunday at noon, and I can tell you my exact sleep schedule down to the fifteen-minute window I allow for falling asleep.
I don’t spill coffee. I don’t miss counters. And I definitely don’t think about physical therapists while I’m making breakfast.
Except apparently now I do.
The facility at 5:45 AM should be empty, but Brody’s already in the weight room when I arrive, working through his usual routine. He’s been keeping these hours since he joined the team, back when he was trying to prove he belonged. Now he just likes the quiet, same as me.
“Morning, Cap.” He doesn’t look up from loading his bar. “You’re here even earlier than usual.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Shoulder bothering you?”
My grunted response could be taken either way. The truth is that after only three sessions with Marnie, the constant ache I’ve been living with for months has started to ease, replaced by the clean soreness of actual healing.
“Just restless.”
“Mmm.” Brody starts his set, and I move to the light weights she’s assigned, trying to focus on form. On breathing. On anything except the fact that I have another appointment with her this morning and I’ve been counting down since I woke up at 4 AM.
“So the new PT,” Brody says between reps, his tone deliberately casual. “She’s good.”
“Yeah.”
“Called me out yesterday for cheating on my ankle exercises. Didn’t even blink when I tried the charm offensive.”
I squeeze the dumbbell hard. “You tried to charm her?”
The words come out crankier than I intended.
Brody racks his bar and looks at me, eyebrows raised, a grin spreading across his face. “Oh, this is even better than I thought.”
“I meant—”
“No, no, please continue explaining why you sound like I just told you I wrecked your truck.” He’s fully grinning now, the bastard. “Or better yet, explain why you care if I flirted with someone you barely know and definitely don’t have feelings for.”
I set down the weight, needing distance. “I’ve got a meeting.”
“It’s not even 6 yet.”
“Then I’ve got something else.”
His laugh follows me into the hallway. “You know, for someone with a murder face that scares half the league, you’re terrible at hiding when you like someone!”
I keep walking, focusing on breathing. On not punching walls. On not turning around to confirm what we both know is true.
Because the thing is, I do like her. I liked her from the first moment she stepped onto the ice in her interview clothes, looked at my dislocated shoulder with zero fear, and proceeded to lecture me about my own body like I was a rookie who didn’t know better.
I liked that she called me under-brained in front of the entire team and meant it.
I liked that when I tried to intimidate her with size and silence, she just rolled her eyes and told me to lie down.
I’ve been fighting it for weeks now. Telling myself it’s just respect for her competence. Appreciation for her refusal to coddle me. Professional admiration for someone who actually knows what they’re doing.
Except respect doesn’t explain why I notice the way her fingers linger on my shoulder an extra beat when she’s checking range of motion.
Appreciation doesn’t explain why I showed up ten minutes last week just to hear what music she’d be playing.
And professional admiration definitely doesn’t explain why the thought of Brody flirting with her makes me want to put him through the boards.
The treatment room door is closed, but I can hear music drifting through.
Fall Out Boy again, played at a volume just loud enough to hear but not overwhelm conversation.
She plays it during every session, along with other songs from that same era.
All guitars and angst and lyrics about wanting things you can’t have.
I should walk past. Should head to the locker room, kill time until our actual appointment. Should do literally anything other than stand here in the hallway like some kind of stalker.
Instead, I watch through the window as she sets up for the day.
She moves with the grace of someone completely comfortable in their own expertise, organizing resistance bands by tension level, checking measurements on her tablet.
Her hair’s in that messy knot again, the one that makes my fingers itch to reach out and tuck back the strands falling loose.
She’s wearing athletic leggings and a team tank top, nothing special, nothing that should make my pulse pick up.
But it does.
She glances toward the door, and I step back before she can catch me watching.
My reflection in the glass across the hallway shows exactly what Brody was talking about.
The expression I usually reserve for opponents who’ve crossed a line.
The look that makes rookies stutter and keeps the team in line.
Except I’m not thinking about protecting anyone right now.
I’m thinking about how she looked at me during our last session when I asked if she was okay, and she said “fine” in a voice that meant anything but.
I’m thinking about the way her phone keeps buzzing with messages she won’t answer during our appointments, and how her hands shake slightly when she checks them afterward.
I’m thinking about the exhaustion in her eyes that has nothing to do with work and everything to do with whatever she’s carrying alone.
I’m thinking about things that aren’t my business. Things I have no right to notice.
The weight room is fuller when I return, Rodriguez and Dex arriving with the usual morning crowd. I go through my modified routine, the one Marnie designed that works around my shoulder instead of through it, and try not to think about the appointment in ten minutes.
“Cap.” Dex drops onto the bench next to mine, not even pretending to work out. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The brooding thing. The captain-with-a-problem thing.” He studies me with the same intensity he uses to read plays. “It’s the new PT, isn’t it?”
“It’s my shoulder.”
“Your shoulder that’s healing faster than it has in years?” He’s not buying it. “Try again.”
I focus on my form, on controlling the movement exactly as Marnie demonstrated. “Drop it, Dex.”
“Can’t drop what’s already been picked up by the entire team.” He leans back, watching me with that knowing expression. “You like her, Cap.”
“I don’t like anyone.”
“Please. You looked ready to murder Rodriguez when he made that joke about her yoga pants yesterday.”
I had not been ready to murder anyone. I’d simply pointed out that Rodriguez should focus on his own exercises instead of commenting on staff members’ clothing choices. I was demonstrating appropriate captain behavior. Protective of team culture.
“That was inappropriate workplace conduct,” I say.
“It was a harmless comment that you took as a personal offense.” Dex grins. “Face it, Cap. You’re into her.”
I set down the weights, wiping sweat from my face to buy time. To figure out how to deny what’s apparently obvious to everyone who knows me.
“Even if I was,” I say carefully, “which I’m not confirming, it would be complicated.”
“Why? Because she works for the team?”
“Because she’s got enough on her plate without dealing with players who can’t keep it professional.”
“Ah.” Something shifts in Dex’s expression. “You’ve noticed the phone thing too.”
I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Jake mentioned her mom’s sick,” Dex says quietly. “Really sick. That’s why she moved back to Seattle.”
The information lands hard, confirming what I’ve been suspecting. “Then she definitely doesn’t need complications,” I say.
“Or maybe she needs someone who actually gives a shit.” Dex stands, clapping me on the shoulder. “Just... don’t wait too long, okay? Life’s short and all that.”
He leaves me alone with thoughts I don’t want to examine. About Marnie carrying something heavy. About knowing exactly what that feels like. About Matty, who I didn’t save because I was on the road, because I missed the signs, because I thought I had more time.
I don’t think about Matty here. Can’t afford to. The guilt lives in a box I only open in the privacy of my house, when there’s no one around to see me fall apart over my kid brother who stopped answering my calls because depression is a liar and I should have known better.
But watching Marnie carry her own weight, the exhaustion and the phone calls she can’t answer and the way she holds herself together with visible effort, it’s like looking in a mirror from five years ago.
When I was trying to be everything for Matty.
Captain of my team and caretaker. Missing the signs because I was too busy trying to fix everything else.
I couldn’t save him. Couldn’t even see how bad it was until it was too late.
And now here’s Marnie, drowning in responsibility, and all I want is to help. To not fail someone again.
But that’s not fair to her. To make her carry my guilt too.
Marnie appears in the doorway of the weight room, tablet in hand, scanning the space until she finds me.
“Captain,” she says, all business. “You’re up.”
I follow her to the treatment room, aware of every single movement she makes. Of the way other guys’ eyes track her as we pass. Of the irrational urge to step closer, to make it clear she’s off-limits.