Chapter 11 Marnie
MARNIE
Thursday morning, I’m standing in my childhood home watching Teresa, the hospice aide, adjust Mom’s pain pump.
“Small doses throughout the day are better than waiting until the pain is unbearable,” Teresa explains, her voice gentle but practical.
Mom nods from the hospital bed that’s replaced the living room couch. She’s trying to focus, but I can see the effort it takes. The way her eyes don’t quite track. The way she keeps losing the thread of what Teresa’s saying.
“Marnie knows all this,” Mom says. “She’s medical.”
“I’m a PT, Mom. This is different.”
“Still medical.” She reaches for my hand.
Her hand feels like paper in mine. When did that happen? When did her bones become visible through skin that’s gone translucent, when did the woman who used to garden for hours start needing help to sit up?
“Go to work. Teresa and I will be fine.”
My phone buzzes.
Jake
Winters wants you in Barrett’s office. Now.
The meeting is exactly what I expected.
Winters has prepared documentation about Roman’s extended timeline, complete with charts showing projected return dates versus “typical recovery patterns.”
“Three additional weeks is excessive,” he says, clicking through his presentation like he’s revealing scientific breakthroughs instead of showing graphs any first-year PT student could create.
I sit with my hands folded, waiting for him to finish. Barrett watches from behind his desk, expression blank.
“The initial twelve-week protocol was already conservative,” Winters continues. “Adding three more weeks means our captain misses opening night. That’s unacceptable.”
“What’s unacceptable is rushing a player back from a fifth shoulder dislocation complicated by muscle tears,” I say calmly. “The labrum is barely functional. One bad hit ends his career.”
“That’s speculative.”
“That’s based on imaging and fifteen years of sports medicine evolution that you seem to have missed.”
Winters’ face reddens. “I’ve been with this organization for—”
“Twelve years. Yes, you’ve mentioned that.” I pull out my tablet, queue up the file I’ve been preparing for exactly this moment. “In those twelve years, how many players have you sent for surgery that could have been prevented with proper conservative management?”
“That’s not—”
“Donovan. Granger. Louden. Should I continue?”
Barrett shifts in his chair, and I can see him doing the math. Those are three career-ending surgeries that happened on Winters’ watch.
“Dr. Walker makes valid points,” Barrett says.
“Dr. Walker may be letting personal feelings cloud her judgment,” Winters says carefully, and the shift in his tone makes my stomach drop.
The room goes very still.
“Could you elaborate?” My voice is perfectly level even though my pulse is suddenly racing.
“I’ve heard there was an incident. Unprofessional conduct.”
I let the silence stretch just long enough to make him uncomfortable. Long enough to show I’m not rattled even though we both know what he’s implying.
“If you have concerns about my professional conduct, I encourage you to file a formal complaint with the appropriate boards,” I say. “They can review my treatment protocols, success rates, and patient outcomes. I’m confident in their findings.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Or perhaps you’re suggesting that my personal life somehow affects my medical judgment? That would be an interesting position to take, considering your own history with the team nutritionist three years ago.”
Winters goes pale.
Barrett’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the flicker of recognition. He knows. Of course he knows. Everyone knows about Winters and the nutritionist who quietly transferred to another team.
“My protocols are based on current best practices and peer-reviewed research,” I continue, keeping my voice clinical.
“Captain Varga will miss opening night because he lifted excessive weight against medical advice. That’s documented.
” I turn my tablet to show Barrett the log.
“The extended timeline ensures he returns at full capacity rather than limping through a season that ends in surgery. If you disagree with that approach, you’re welcome to present alternative treatment plans backed by current medical literature. ”
Silence.
Winters is staring at me like I’ve just pulled a weapon he didn’t know I had.
“I’ll take that as agreement,” I say, standing. “Roman remains out until October twenty-third. Non-negotiable.”
I leave before either of them can respond, before Winters can regroup, before Barrett can see my hands starting to shake.
My hands are still shaking when I reach my car.
Not from anger. From the effort of staying calm while Winters tried to use Roman against me. From the realization that the supply closet was stupid, reckless, and everything I’ve worked for could disappear because I couldn’t keep my hands off Roman for five minutes.
A knock on my window makes me jump.
Roman’s standing there.
I roll it down.
“Shouldn’t you be at practice?”
“Watching practice. There’s a difference.” He studies my face, and I can see him cataloging everything I’m trying to hide. “Winters?”
“And Barrett.”
“About my timeline?”
“Among other things.”
Understanding crosses his face. “Fuck.”
“Apparently Jake mentioned something.”
“Fucking Jake needs to learn discretion.”
“We need to learn discretion.” I rest my head against the steering wheel, suddenly exhausted. “Opening night is tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. My shoulder needs the time.” He pauses. “Your mom?”
“Teresa moved in this morning. Full-time help.”
“That’s... good?”
“It’s necessary. Mom can’t manage her pain anymore. Can barely get to the bathroom.” My voice cracks slightly despite my best efforts. “Teresa’s teaching her how to die comfortably.”
The words hang there, brutal and honest.
“Marnie, wait—”
“I have to do clearances. Final checks before tomorrow.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“People will talk.”
“People are already talking.”
He’s right. And somehow that makes it both better and worse.
The training room the next day is pure insanity.
Everyone needs something. Tape, adjustments, clearance forms. I move through it mechanically, checking joints, signing papers, pretending my mother isn’t dying and I didn’t compromise everything for a man I can’t have.
Rodriguez chatters while I tape his ankle. “Cap looks miserable in that suit.”
“It’s a nice suit.”
“It’s not gear though.”
I focus on the tape, keeping my hands steady. “No. It’s not.”
Dex is next, needing his knee checked. “Roman’s been watching you work for twenty minutes.”
“I’m fascinating.”
“You’re something,” he says, but there’s no judgment in it. Just observation.
Even Luca, usually lost in his own pre-game rituals, mentions it while I’m clearing his shoulder. “The captain seems distracted.”
“Big game tonight.”
“That he’s not playing in.”
“No.”
Each interaction is a reminder that the team knows. Some saw Roman follow me to the supply closet. Jake’s discretion lasted about thirty seconds. Everyone knows something happened, even if they don’t know exactly what.
The arena practically vibrates with energy.
Fans flood the concourses wearing new jerseys and waving signs. Media is everywhere, cameras tracking every movement. The team’s running on pure adrenaline, that opening night electricity that makes even practice feel different.
I’m in the medical room doing final checks when Roman shows up wearing a suit that makes him look older, more formal. Like someone’s father, not the man who had me pressed against shelving four days ago.
“Shouldn’t you be with management?” I ask, not looking up from Rodriguez’s tape job.
“Shouldn’t you be telling me my shoulder’s miraculously healed?”
“Miracles are outside my scope of practice.”
Rodriguez glances between us, then stands carefully. “I’ll just... go warm up.”
When he’s gone, Roman steps into the room.
“How’s your mom?”
“Watching on TV. Teresa has her comfortable.”
“Good.”
“It’s not good. It’s manageable.” I set down the tape, finally looking at him. “I have three more players to clear.”
“I know.”
He turns to leave, stops at the door.
“If it matters to you I’d rather be in gear. But watching you work doesn’t suck.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with medical supplies and the weight of everything unsaid.
The tunnel leading to the ice is packed an hour before game time.
Players in full gear doing their pre-game rituals, tapping sticks against the wall in patterns only they understand. Coaches with their game faces on, reviewing last-minute strategies. Media trying to capture the energy, the moment, the story of opening night.
I’m rushing down the hallway with last-minute supplies when I see Roman.
He’s standing alone in the hallway opposite the locker room door. Back against the wall. Eyes closed. In his own head.
I should keep walking. Should give him this moment. Should leave him alone with whatever he’s processing.
But my feet stop.
“MORETTI!” Barrett’s voice carries through the door, muffled but clear. “You ready to stand on your head tonight?”
“YES COACH!” Luca’s response is immediate, full of that goalie intensity.
“Good! You’re in the crease!” Barrett’s voice rises. “MALONE! You ready to light the lamp?”
“YES COACH!”
“CARTER! You ready to throw the body?”
“HELL YES, COACH!”
The team erupts in response, clapping and hollering and pounding sticks against the floor.
Roman’s jaw is clenched tight. His hands are fists in his expensive suit pockets.
“RODRIGUEZ! You ready to dance through their defense?”
“ALWAYS, COACH!”
This should be Roman’s moment. He should be in there, responding to Barrett’s call, probably leading the team’s energy with that captain’s voice I’ve heard him use. Instead he’s out here in the hallway, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to memorize the sound of his team getting ready without him.
“ANDERSON! You ready to crash the net?”
The team laughs, pounds their sticks harder.
I can’t move. Can’t leave. Can’t speak.
Roman opens his eyes and sees me standing there.
We stare at each other while his team—his boys—get hyped for a game he can’t play. While they prepare for battle and he’s stuck on the sidelines.
Tears burn suddenly behind my eyelids and I blink quickly to keep them from falling.
This is my fault. My protocol. My decision to extend his timeline because he was stupid with weights, yes, but also because I want him healthy long-term and that means he misses this. He’s standing in this hallway because of me.
“I’m sorry, Roman.” The words come out broken.
He holds my gaze while Barrett’s voice continues calling the roster, the team responding with increasing intensity.
“It’s not your fault, Moxie.”
“It is though.”
“No.” He pushes off the wall, takes a step closer but not too close. Not here where anyone could see. “My shoulder’s fucked because I’ve been stupid for years. You’re trying to fix it.”
“BOYS!” Barrett’s voice rises above everything else. “WHO ARE WE?”
“PUCKANEERS!” The team roars in unison, and the sound is primal. Pure energy and brotherhood and readiness.
Roman’s eyes never leave mine, but I can see what it costs him to stand here instead of in there.
“Go,” he says quietly. “They need medical staff visible.”
“I don’t want to leave you like this.”
“Please. Let me do this alone.”
I nod, throat too tight to speak.
As I walk away, I hear the locker room door burst open, the team pouring out in a wave of energy and noise. Skates on concrete. Sticks tapping. Voices calling encouragement.
When I look back, Roman’s still standing there.
Alone in his suit.
Watching his team leave for battle without their captain.
I force myself to keep walking, to get to the bench where I’m supposed to be, to do my job even though every step feels wrong.
Later, he’ll sit in the press box and watch them from far above the ice. The media will speculate about his injury, his return, what it means for the season.
But right now, he’s just a man in an expensive suit, standing in an empty hallway where his team’s voices still echo off the walls.
My phone buzzes as I reach the bench.
Roman
Three weeks. Then I lead them properly.
I stare at the words, then type back with shaking fingers.
I promise.
Roman
I know, Moxie. I trust you.
The words blur through my tears and I have to wipe my eyes before anyone on the bench notices that the team’s PT is crying during the national anthem.
The puck drops.
The season begins.
And Roman’s not on the ice.
Because of me.
The game is a blur. We win 4-2, and the arena goes insane. The team celebrates on the ice, piling on Moretti after his thirty-seven saves. Barrett’s pumping his fist. The fans are screaming.
And when I look up at the press box, I can see Roman standing there. Not sitting with management. Standing. Watching. His hands pressed against the glass as if he could get closer to the ice through sheer force of will.
My phone buzzes again.
Roman
Next time, I’m down there with them.
I know you will be.
Roman
Because you’re going to make sure I’m ready.
The trust in those words breaks something in me.
I pocket my phone and focus on post-game checks, on making sure no one needs immediate attention, on doing my job.
But I can’t stop seeing Roman in that hallway.
Can’t stop hearing the sound of his team leaving without him.
Can’t stop knowing that I put him there.
Even if it was the right call medically, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
And judging by the look on his face in that hallway, it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to accept.