Love on the Table (Seattle Puckaneers #3)

Chapter 1 - Marnie

MARNIE

The Seattle Puckaneers’ practice arena smells exactly like every hockey rink I’ve ever worked in—ice sharp enough to sting your nostrils, sweat that’s somehow both fresh and ancient, industrial-strength disinfectant failing to mask the funk of forty guys’ worth of equipment trapped in an enclosed space.

It’s a smell that’s probably tattooed itself onto my olfactory nerve by now, considering I’ve spent the better part of ten years in places like this.

But the state-of-the-art equipment visible through every doorway and the juice bar next to the weight room remind me this isn’t the minor leagues anymore. This is NHL money. The Show.

“Our cryotherapy chamber cost two hundred thousand dollars,” Winters announces, gesturing at the chamber like he personally installed every bolt.

He’s been doing this for the entire tour—quoting equipment prices like I should be writing thank-you notes for the privilege of seeing them.

“I assume you’re familiar with the latest protocols?

Though I imagine the teams in D.C. operate on more. .. modest budgets.”

There it is. The dig he’s been working up to all morning, trying to figure out why someone would leave a head PT position in Washington for a lateral move to Seattle.

The real answer—my mother is dying and I moved back to watch it happen—isn’t his business, and I’m not about to hand him that kind of ammunition during an interview where he’s clearly already decided I’m not qualified.

“Different markets, different priorities.” Interview speak for ‘I’m not taking your bait.’ “I’m more interested in your return-to-play timelines. Your injury reports last season showed some aggressive recovery schedules.”

His mouth tightens, and I watch him recalculate his approach. Good. I did my homework, tracked down three months of injury reports through a PT friend who works for the Canucks, and he knows it.

“We pride ourselves on efficiency here. Not coddling. Players want to play, and we facilitate that.”

Facilitate. Not ensure they’re ready. Not protect their long-term health.

Facilitate, like he’s running a drive-through window instead of managing human bodies worth millions of dollars each.

I file that word choice away with the other red flags I’ve been collecting all morning—the outdated protocols, the emphasis on “toughness” over science, the way he dismisses every question about long-term outcomes.

This is exactly why they need a new head of PT, and exactly why Winters is going to fight me at every turn if I take this job.

My phone buzzes again. Six times now. I slide it out of my bag before I can stop myself, just to see if it’s the call, if I need to—

“Am I keeping you from something?” Winters’ voice could frost glass.

“No, I—”

“Dr. Walker.” A new voice cuts through Winters’ disapproval, male and authoritative with that particular rasp that comes from years of yelling over arena noise. “Sorry to interrupt, but do you have a minute?”

I turn to find a man in his forties approaching, moving like an athlete who never quite left the ice—controlled energy, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, a team polo stretching across shoulders that suggest he still spends quality time in the weight room.

“Coach Barrett,” Winters says, and his voice does this thing where it tries to sound respectful but lands somewhere closer to condescending. “We’re in the middle of the facility tour.”

“Perfect timing then.” Barrett extends a hand to me. His handshake is testing without trying to crush my fingers, checking if I’ll fold. I don’t. “Dean Barrett. Heard good things about your work in D.C.”

“Marnie Walker. Heard good things about your penalty minutes from last season.”

He barks out a laugh. “You sound like an actual fan. Walk with me, Doc. Got something to discuss.”

Winters makes a noise like a cat getting stepped on. “We haven’t covered the nutrition center—”

“I’m sure Dr. Walker can figure out where you keep the protein shakes.” Barrett’s already walking, clearly expecting me to follow. “Five minutes, Winters. Try not to stroke out.”

I follow Barrett down a corridor lined with team photos spanning decades. He doesn’t speak until we’re well out of Winters’ earshot, then glances at me sideways.

“So. What’s your actual read on this position?”

I study his face, trying to gauge if he wants honesty or diplomacy.

This feels like a test, but I’m not sure what answer he’s looking for.

“Your equipment is excellent, your budget appears substantial, and your current protocols are probably adequate for short-term results.” I pause.

“But I haven’t seen much evidence of long-term planning or comprehensive rehabilitation approaches. ”

He stops walking, turns to face me. “Winters is old school. Tape it up, take a Toradol, play through it. We’ve had three careers end in two years from injuries that should’ve been manageable.”

“And you want someone who’ll actually say no when a player needs to sit.”

“I want someone who gives a damn about these guys having careers past thirty-five.” His eyes are measuring me, calculating. “But who also understands the realities of professional sports. It’s a balance.”

“It’s not that complicated. You protect the asset. A player at 80% for a full season is worth more than one at 100% for six weeks before something tears.”

“Even if that player is your captain and it’s Game 7?”

Ah. There’s the real question, hidden under all this careful dancing around. “Especially then. Your best players set the example. If they take care of their bodies, the culture shifts.”

Barrett nods slowly, like I’ve passed some test I didn’t know I was taking. “Winters won’t like it. He’s been here twelve years.”

“Then Winters can adapt or find someone who shares his philosophy about facilitating injuries.”

My phone vibrates again in my bag. Seven times. Barrett notices my reflex glance toward it and nods.

“Take it. I know that look.”

I answer before I can second-guess myself. “This is Marnie.”

“Ms. Walker, do you have a moment to discuss your mother’s scan results?”

I turn slightly away, though Barrett’s tactfully studying his phone. “Yes.”

“The tumors haven’t progressed. They’re stable. We’re looking at maintaining current treatment protocols.”

Stable. Not shrinking, not cured, but not worse. In pancreatic cancer, stable is the best news you can get without venturing into miracle territory. I’m suddenly aware that I’ve been holding my breath, that my free hand is gripping the strap of my bag hard enough to hurt.

“Thank you,” I manage, ending the call before my voice does something embarrassing.

“Good news?” Barrett asks quietly.

“Not bad news.” I pocket my phone, force my shoulders back into professional territory. “My mother has pancreatic cancer. The scans were stable.”

“Hell.” He says it simply, but there’s understanding underneath. “That’s why you’re relocating.”

“I grew up here, but I’ve already moved back to help her, and this job would be a bonus. Doing what I love with my hometown team.” I pause. “If I get it.”

“When.” He corrects. “When you get it. I’ve already decided. Just need to navigate the politics.”

We’ve reached the tunnel that leads rinkside, and I’m still mentally processing the casual job offer when he pivots back to interview mode.

“How do you handle difficult personalities? Players who think they know better than medical staff?”

The question is pointed. “Depends on whether they’re being difficult because they’re genuinely concerned or because they don’t like being told what to do.”

“And if it’s the latter?”

I think about some of the athletes I’ve worked with over the years, the ones who fought every protocol until their bodies forced them to listen.

“Most resistance comes from fear—of losing playing time, of looking weak, of career implications. Address the underlying concern and the resistance usually disappears.”

“Usually?”

“Sometimes you just have to be more stubborn than they are.” I glance at him. “Most athletes respond to confidence and competence. Show them you know what you’re doing and genuinely care about their long-term health, they’ll typically come around.”

Barrett actually laughs. “Excellent. Because we have a few players who might test that theory.”

Before I can ask what he means, there’s a commotion from the direction of the rink. Shouting, the distinctive sound of bodies colliding with ice, then cursing creative enough to make me mentally catalog which Eastern European player it probably came from.

“For the love of—” Barrett mutters, already moving. “Ten bucks says someone’s done something stupid.”

We head toward the noise. I can hear Winters’ voice now, sharp with irritation, mixed with what sounds like several players talking over each other.

“MEDIC!”

The shout carries real urgency. Barrett breaks into a jog and I follow, my heels clicking against the tunnel floor, already running through injury assessment protocols in my head.

We push through the doors to the bench area and I immediately shift into clinical mode. There’s a cluster of players on the ice, someone down in the center. Even from here I can see the unnatural angle of a shoulder, the way the injured player’s holding his arm away from his body.

“Get off me, I’m fine.” The voice is pure stubbornness wrapped in pain.

“Dude, your shoulder’s pointing the wrong direction,” someone responds.

“It’ll pop back.”

Jesus Christ. I drop my purse and kick off my heels without thinking. “That’s an anterior dislocation that needs immediate reduction.”

“Dr. Walker, this isn’t—” Winters starts.

“Anterior dislocation based on positioning,” I call over my shoulder, already stepping onto the ice in my stockings. The cold bites through immediately but I’ve done stupider things. “Needs reduction before the muscle spasms make it worse.”

The injured player is massive even by hockey standards—dark hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, jaw clenched like he’s trying to bite through steel, attempting to stand while a younger teammate hovers uselessly nearby.

“Stop.” I order, sliding toward them with more confidence than I probably should have in stockings on ice. “Unless you want nerve damage to go with that dislocation.”

His eyes snap to mine and they’re a shade of blue so pale they’re almost gray, startling against the flush of pain in his face. He takes in everything—the stockings, the interview suit, the lack of team credentials—and dismisses me in the same breath.

“I didn’t ask for—”

“No, but you need it.” I kneel beside him, already assessing the joint through his practice jersey, feeling for the humeral head displacement. “Shirt off. Now.”

A couple players whistle. Someone mutters “holy shit.”

He starts working his jersey off one-handed, still glaring at me like this is somehow my fault, and the movement is making everything worse. I can see the exact moment the pain spikes—his breathing hitches, his face goes a shade paler.

“I can manage,” he says through gritted teeth, still trying to lever himself upright.

“No, you can’t.” I position myself to block his attempt to stand. “I’m Dr. Walker, and that shoulder needs to be reset immediately. Is this your first dislocation?”

“Fifth.” His voice is rough, strained, but there’s something else underneath it. Something like a challenge.

“I know the drill.”

“Fifth time makes you an idiot, not an expert.” I probe the joint carefully, feeling the rotation, cataloging the muscle tension. “Let me guess—you never did the full PT after the first one. Just waited until it felt okay and went back to playing like you’d never injured it.”

A murmur runs through the gathered players. I ignore it, focused entirely on the injury and the stubborn jackass attached to it.

“Lie back.”

“I can handle—”

“You can handle watching from the press box for six months if this goes wrong. Your choice.” I meet his gaze directly, letting him see I’m not going to be intimidated by his size or his glare or whatever authority he thinks he has.

“In about thirty seconds, the muscle spasms are going to make this twice as painful and three times harder to reduce.”

We stare at each other. The rink goes quiet except for the hum of the refrigeration system.

“Maybe we should move to the medical room,” Winters suggests, his voice tight with disapproval.

“No time. Every minute increases recovery time and complications.” I’m still holding the player’s gaze. “You want to play this season or spend it rehabbing?”

Something flickers in those gray eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or the first hint that he’s realized I actually know what I’m doing. He gives a single, sharp nod and finally lies back on the ice.

“This is going to hurt,” I warn, positioning myself for the reduction.

“Not my first rodeo, Doc.”

Despite everything, his mouth quirks slightly at one corner. Almost a smile but not quite, and I catch myself thinking that under different circumstances—like ones where his shoulder wasn’t currently displaced—he’d probably be attractive in that overgrown hockey player way.

“Clearly.” I position my hands, calculating angles and force. “Maybe stop playing like an over-built, under-brained hockey stereotype with a hero complex. And stop leading with your dominant side on checks.”

A ripple of surprised laughter from the watching players.

“Ready?”

He looks up at me with those strange gray eyes, intense and evaluating.

“Do your worst.”