Chapter 13 Marnie
MARNIE
October twenty-third arrives gray and drizzly, the start of Seattle’s rainy season.
I’ve been at the facility since five, running through Roman’s final assessment protocol three times to make sure I haven’t missed anything.
Because if I clear him and something goes wrong—if his shoulder subluxes during contact, if he takes a hit wrong and the joint gives out, if any of the nightmare scenarios I’ve been cataloging for all these weeks actually happen—Winters wins.
And I really, really don’t want Winters to win.
But that’s not the only reason my stomach is in knots.
“You need to relax,” Jake says from the doorway, holding two coffees. “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes until I either clear him or don’t. Ten minutes until I tell Roman Varga he can go back to playing professional hockey or that he needs more time. Ten minutes until everything changes.
“I know.” I take the coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. “His shoulder’s ready.”
“But?”
“But nothing. Medically, he’s cleared.” I pull up the imaging on my tablet, studying it for the fourth time this morning. “Strength’s at ninety-two percent, stability’s excellent, range of motion is full. He’s done everything right for the past few months.”
The imaging is perfect. The data supports clearance. There’s no medical reason to hold him back.
“So why do you look like you’re about to tell him he has three months to live?”
Because once I clear him, everything changes.
He goes back to being the captain. The untouchable franchise player. The guy who shows up for team events and media obligations and lives in a completely different stratosphere than the physical therapist who helped him rehab a shoulder injury.
I go back to being staff. Professional. Someone who treats players and documents sessions and maintains appropriate boundaries.
The careful distance we’ve maintained since Calgary—professional during sessions, not-so-professional in hotel rooms and hallways when no one’s watching—becomes impossible to justify once he’s cleared.
Right now I’m his PT. I have a reason to see him every day, to touch him, to be alone with him in treatment rooms. Once I sign his clearance, that ends. We’re just a staff member and a player who maybe shouldn’t have been doing what we’ve been doing.
And I don’t know which terrifies me more—clearing him and losing the excuse to see him, or holding him back for reasons that I don’t want to put words to.
“His numbers are good,” I say finally, setting down the tablet before I obsessively check the imaging a fifth time.
Jake studies me with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not holding him back because you’re scared of Winters.”
“No.”
“You’re holding back because you’re scared of what happens when you don’t have a medical reason to see him every day.”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to. Jake’s too perceptive for his own good.
“Clear him, Doc. The shoulder’s ready. The rest of it—” He shrugs. “That’s not a medical decision.”
He’s right. I know he’s right, but it doesn’t make it easier.
The door opens before I can respond.
Roman fills the doorway in athletic shorts and a compression shirt, hair still damp from his morning shower, and my stomach flips.
Almost two weeks of stolen moments and text messages at midnight and that one time in the equipment room after everyone left that still makes my face burn.
“Morning, Doc,” he says, voice carefully neutral. “Jake.”
“I’ll just...” Jake gestures vaguely toward the door. “Be literally anywhere else.”
He leaves. The door clicks shut.
Suddenly all I can hear is Roman’s breathing.
“Shirt off,” I say, pulling on my professional mask. “Final assessment.”
He complies without comment, and I try not to notice the way his muscles shift. Try not to remember how those muscles felt under my hands when we weren’t in this room, when I wasn’t his PT and he wasn’t my patient.
“On the table.”
He sits, watching me with those pale gray eyes that see too much.
I wash my hands, dry them, anything to delay touching him because once I start, I’m not sure I’ll maintain the clinical detachment this requires.
“Marnie.”
“Lie back.”
“Marnie, look at me.”
I do, and immediately regret it. He’s studying my face like I’m film he’s analyzing, looking for weaknesses.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” he says quietly. “Just do the assessment.”
Right. The assessment.
I position his arm, testing internal rotation. His breathing stays even, controlled.
“Any pain?”
“No.”
External rotation. “Here?”
“No.”
I move through the rest mechanically, documenting everything. His shoulder is perfect. Functionally, structurally, everything has healed exactly how it should when a patient actually follows protocol.
He sits up and now we’re close, my hands still on his shoulder, his eyes locked on mine.
“Well?” he asks.
“You’re cleared. Full contact, no restrictions.” The words taste like victory and loss at the same time. “Tomorrow night against Nashville, you can play.”
Relief crosses his face, then excitement, then something I can’t name.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” I step back, needing space. “Your shoulder’s stronger than it was before the injury. If you maintain your PT schedule and don’t do anything stupid—”
“When do I do stupid things?”
“Do you want a chronological list or alphabetical?”
He almost smiles. Almost.
“Fair.”
I turn to my tablet, pulling up his maintenance protocol, aware of him behind me. The air feels charged, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
“So,” he says finally. “Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
“You’ll be there? In the medical booth?”
“Where else would I be?”
“Just checking.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Marnie, about—”
“Don’t.” I don’t turn around. “Not here. Not now.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
I hear him stand, the rustle of fabric as he pulls his shirt back on. Feel him move closer, stop just behind me. Close enough that I can feel his warmth but not close enough to touch.
“Okay,” he says quietly. “But we are going to talk about this.”
“I know.”
He leaves without another word.
I stand there staring at my tablet until the screen goes dark, trying to remember why professional boundaries matter when all I want is to chase him down the hallway and finish what we started.
My phone buzzes.
Mom
Blood work today. Teresa says you should come by after work.
Right. Because Roman’s not the only thing I need to think about.
October 25th
The arena buzzes with an energy that’s been missing—their captain’s back.
I’m in the medical booth overlooking the ice, running through my pre-game checklist. Jake’s handling warm-ups while I coordinate with the training staff, but my eyes keep finding number seventy-nine on the ice.
Roman moves like he never left. Maybe better. His skating’s smooth, powerful, edges sharp on every turn. He takes a few practice shots, and I hold my breath with every rotation of his shoulder.
“He looks good,” Jake says, climbing into the booth. “Really good.”
“He’s ready.”
“You look like you’re going to throw up.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve said that like six times today. It’s not getting more convincing.”
The arena lights dim. The crowd roars.
I grip the edge of the bench as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, calling the starting lineup.
“...and your captain, NUMBER SEVENTY-NINE, ROMAN VAAAARGA!”
The noise is deafening.
He skates to center ice, and I can see the set of his shoulders, the focus in his stance. This is his element. His ice. His team.
I’m just the woman who cleared him to play.
The puck drops.
Nashville’s not making it easy. They’re physical, targeting Roman specifically, testing whether he’ll protect his shoulder or play through contact.
He doesn’t hesitate.
First period, he takes a hit that sends him into the boards shoulder-first, and my hand reaches for my kit before he pops back up and keeps skating.
“He’s fine,” Jake says, reading my panic.
“I know.”
But I don’t know. Won’t know until I can get hands on that shoulder and verify everything’s still aligned, stable, perfect.
Second period.
Roman’s on the power play, quarterbacking from the point. I watch him scan the ice, reading the defense, patient. The puck moves through the triangle—Rodriguez to Dex to Roman—and he one-times it top shelf before the goalie can react.
Goal.
The arena explodes.
His teammates mob him, but through the celebration, his head turns toward the medical booth. Toward me.
His eyes find mine and everything else disappears. Just him, breathing hard, grinning like he can’t help it, looking at me like I put that puck in the net instead of him.
“Oh, you’re fucked,” Jake mutters beside me.
“Shut up.”
“Completely, totally fucked.”
He’s not wrong.
Third period, Roman scores again—a wrist shot from the slot that’s pure muscle memory and perfect mechanics. The team’s up 4-2 with five minutes left, and I should be relaxed but I’m not. I’m watching every shift, every hit, cataloging his movements for any sign of compensation or weakness.
The final buzzer sounds.
Seattle wins 4-2.
The team celebrates on the ice while the crowd chants Roman’s name, and I’m already heading down to the medical room because he’ll come straight there, it’s protocol after the first game back, and I need to see him.
The hallway’s chaos—media, staff, families crowding and talking and celebrating. I slip into the medical suite, flip on lights, prep the treatment table.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
The door opens fifteen minutes later.
Roman, still in his gear except for his helmet and gloves, hair plastered to his head with sweat.
“Hey,” he says.
“Jersey off. I need to check—”
“Marnie.”
“—make sure there’s no inflammation or—”
“Marnie.”
I stop. Look at him.
He’s standing there dripping sweat in my medical room, eyes bright with adrenaline and want.
“I need to check your shoulder,” I tell him, but my voice wavers.
“I know.” He moves closer, starts working his jersey over his head one-handed. The other hand—the one attached to the shoulder I spent twelve weeks rehabbing—reaches for my face. “But first I need to do something.”
“Roman, we can’t—”
“Tell me you didn’t watch me score and think about this.”
“That’s not—”
“Tell me you weren’t thinking about Vancouver. About that equipment room. About every time we’ve almost—”
“Your shoulder—”
“Is perfect. Because of you.” His thumb traces my jawline. “You know it is. That’s not why you’re freaking out.”
He’s right. God, he’s right. The shoulder’s fine. Better than fine. I did my job perfectly, and now he’s here in my space, touching me, and I want to check his joint stability but I also want to pull him closer and that’s the problem.
“Door,” I manage.
He reaches past me, flips the lock. The click echoes in the small room.
“Now,” he says, voice dropping lower. “Check my shoulder.”
It’s not a request. It’s a challenge.
I press my palm against his chest, feeling his heart racing. “On the table.”
“Make me.”
“Are you serious right now?”
He lifts me by the waist, sets me on the treatment table instead. Steps between my knees.
“Or you could stay here, and I could show you exactly how functional my shoulder is.”
My brain short-circuits. Professional thoughts scatter.
“This is a bad idea,” I breathe.
“Terrible,” he agrees, but he’s leaning closer, mouth hovering just above mine. “Want me to stop?”
No. God, no. I want him to kiss me until I forget why this is complicated. Until I forget that someone could knock on that door any second. Until I forget everything except how his hands feel sliding up my thighs, gripping my hips, pulling me closer.
“We’re going to get caught,” I say, even as my fingers find his hair, damp with sweat.
“Don’t care.”
“Winters will—”
“Fuck Winters.”
Then he’s kissing me, and I’m done pretending this isn’t exactly what I wanted the second he walked in.
His mouth is demanding, confident, tasting like victory and sweat, and my legs wrap around his waist automatically, pulling him closer. He groans against my lips.
“Your shoulder—” I gasp when he moves to my neck.
“Is fine,” he mutters against my skin. “Stop being my PT for five fucking minutes.”
His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, sliding under my team polo. My fingers trace the muscles of his shoulders, his back, checking by instinct for any sign of weakness, finding only solid strength.
“Marnie.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, pupils blown, breathing hard. “We need to talk about this.”
“Now?” My hands are still in his hair. “Right now?”
“Before I do something that gets us both fired.”
Someone pounds on the door.
We freeze.
“Doc?” Jake’s voice, carefully neutral. “Media’s asking about the captain’s first game back. Need him for a quote.”
Roman drops his forehead against mine, laughing quietly. “Cockblocked by media obligations.”
“Professional hazard.”
But I’m smiling too, breathless and flushed and completely wrecked.
“Tomorrow,” he says, not a question. “We talk about this tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Marnie. No more avoiding.”
“I know.”
He steps back, and the loss of contact is physical. I slide off the table, trying to smooth my hair, my shirt, anything to look less like I was just making out with my patient.
“DOC?” Jake calls again.
“Coming!” I yell back, then catch Roman’s expression. “Don’t. Not one word.”
“Didn’t say anything.”
But his grin is filthy.
I unlock the door and yank it open.
Jake takes one look at us and sighs.
“You two are terrible at this,” he informs us. “Your hair’s a mess, Doc. Cap, you have lip gloss on your neck. Also, there are cameras everywhere in this hallway, so maybe cool it for like five minutes?”
“Cameras?” My voice comes out higher than intended.
“Relax, they’re off right now for player privacy. But they won’t be in ten minutes when media gets access.” He looks between us. “So whatever this is? Figure it out. Soon. Because you’re not subtle and Winters is absolutely looking for ammunition.”
He leaves.
Roman and I stare at each other.
“Tomorrow,” he says again.
But as he finally leaves for the locker room and I face the waiting media questions about his shoulder, I know tomorrow’s conversation will change everything.
And I’m not sure either of us is ready for what comes next.