Chapter 4 Roman #2
Which is insane. She’s not mine. She’s my physical therapist. She’s professional and competent and dealing with her own shit.
And I’m still noticing everything about her.
The treatment room smells like the menthol gel she uses and whatever vanilla lotion she wears. She gestures to the table and I pull off my shirt, trying not to think about how her eyes follow the movement before she catches herself and looks away.
“How’s it feeling today?” she asks, washing her hands.
“Good. Better than good, actually.”
“Any pain with movement?”
“Minimal. More like awareness than pain.”
“That’s good progress.” She moves behind me, hands finding my shoulder, warm and steady against my skin. “We’ll start with soft tissue work today. You’re carrying a lot of tension through here.”
Her thumbs dig into muscle, finding knots I didn’t know existed. I bite back the sound that wants to escape, focusing on breathing through the discomfort.
Her hands move lower, working through my lats with firm pressure that borders on painful but somehow feels necessary.
“How’s your sleep?”
The question catches me off guard. “Fine.”
“Roman.” Her hands still. “I can feel the tension. You’re not sleeping.”
“I sleep enough.”
“That’s not the same as sleeping well.” She resumes her work, pressure more gentle now. “Stress manifests physically. Your body’s telling me you’re carrying something you’re not addressing.”
“You a mind reader now?”
“Bodies tell stories.” Her voice is matter-of-fact. “Yours says you’re used to carrying everything alone. That you think rest is weakness. That you’ve been holding yourself together through sheer stubbornness for longer than is sustainable.”
The accuracy of it steals my breath. I want to deny it, to deflect with sarcasm or redirect the conversation.
Instead I hear myself say, “Had to be. After my brother...”
I stop, unable to keep going.
Her hands still on my back. “After your brother what?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“Roman.” Her voice is softer now. “If you want to talk, I’m happy to listen.”
“I’m fine.” The words come out too sharp. “Can we just finish?”
She doesn’t respond, just resumes working, but something’s shifted. The silence feels heavier now, weighted with what I’m not saying.
“You don’t have to be fine all the time,” she says quietly. “Not with me.”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Because if I start talking about Matty here, in this room that smells like menthol and vanilla, with her hands on me like this, I might not stop.
Her phone buzzes on the counter. Once. Twice. Three times in quick succession.
She ignores it, but I can feel her hands press harder into my shoulder, like she’s trying to work out her own tension through mine.
It buzzes again.
“You can check it,” I say.
“It’s fine.” But there’s tension in her voice now, in her hands.
“Marnie.” I twist to look at her over my shoulder. “Check your phone.”
She hesitates, then reaches for it. I watch her face as she reads, see the exact moment her professional mask slips. See the fear underneath before she hides it again.
“Everything okay?” I ask, though it clearly isn’t.
“Fine.” She sets the phone down with hands that tremble slightly. “Just my mom’s aide checking in.”
The confirmation of what Dex told me. Proof that she’s dealing with exactly what I suspected.
“If you need to cut this short—”
“I don’t.” Her voice has an edge now. “I’m fine. My mom’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t use your captain voice. The one that says you want to fix whatever’s wrong.” She returns to my shoulder, digging in harder than necessary. “I don’t need fixing, Roman.”
“Never said you did.” I turn my head away, giving her space to rebuild whatever walls she needs. “Just checking if you needed to leave.”
“No. But... thank you.”
The session ends ten minutes later. She walks me through the next set of exercises, all business again. When I leave, she’s already setting up for her next patient, and I have to physically stop myself from looking back.
I’m sitting in the lounge hours later when Dex texts.
Dex
So how’d it go with your definitely-not-a-thing PT?
Professional.
Dex
Lies
Drop it.
Dex
Can’t. You’re too entertaining when you’re being stupid about women. Which btw is always.
She’s dealing with enough without adding me to the list.
Dex
You know she’s single right? Jake confirmed it. No boyfriend, no complicated ex situation. Just her and a suspicious lack of someone warming her bed at night.
The image that creates is not helpful. At all.
That’s none of my business.
Dex
It could be your business. If you stopped being a coward about it.
I stare at my phone, at Dex’s words, at the truth I’ve been avoiding for weeks.
I want her. Have wanted her since she stepped onto that ice and refused to be intimidated.
Want her when she’s competent and professional.
Want her when she’s tired and trying to hide it.
Want her in ways that go beyond physical therapy and the way she sees through my bullshit while carrying her own.
Another text comes through.
Dex
Matty would’ve already asked her out by week two.
The gut-punch of that truth makes me close my eyes.
Because Dex is right. Matty would’ve been all over this. Would’ve charmed her with terrible jokes and that easy smile. Made her laugh instead of just making her work harder. Matty would’ve taken the risk instead of sitting in a parking lot convincing himself it’s noble to keep his distance.
Yeah well Matty had game. I have a shoulder injury.
Dex
Had. You HAD a shoulder injury. Which is now healing. Which means you need a new excuse.
I don’t have a response to that. Don’t have a defense that doesn’t sound like exactly what it is. Fear dressed up as protection.
Because the thing about Matty is that he loved easy and hard and without reservation. And it still wasn’t enough. He still died alone while I was playing hockey, while I was being the responsible one, the one who had his shit together.
And maybe that’s what I’m really afraid of. Not that I’ll hurt Marnie or make her job harder. But that I’ll care about her the way I cared about Matty, and it still won’t be enough. That I’ll miss the signs again. That I’ll fail someone else who matters.
That I’ll let myself want something, and it’ll end the same way everything I want ends. With me standing in an empty space wishing I’d done more, said more, been more.
I drive home in silence. No music. Just the sound of traffic and my own thoughts circling the same conclusion I’ve been avoiding.
I’m in trouble. Not the kind that comes from injury or bad plays or even professional complications.
The kind that comes from wanting someone in a way that makes everything else feel secondary.
The kind that makes you stand in hallways watching them work.
The kind that started the moment a woman in stockings stepped onto the ice and called me under-brained, and I realized I was dealing with someone who would never, ever let me get away with my usual shit.
I’m in trouble, and it’s been inevitable since day one.
And that pisses me off more than anything else.