Chapter 2 - Roman
ROMAN
“Do your worst.”
I say it like I’m daring her, because I am.
Most medical staff handle me with kid gloves—intimidated by the C on my jersey, worried about pissing off the largest man on the team, generally treating me like I might shatter if they apply actual pressure.
This woman in her soaked stockings and interview suit just called me an over-built, under-brained hockey stereotype, and instead of being pissed, I want to see what she does next.
She doesn’t count down or telegraph the movement.
Just grips my arm with surprisingly strong hands for someone her size and pops my shoulder back in with one smooth motion that makes my vision white out for a second.
The joint slides home with a wet sound that echoes off the glass, and my only reaction is a sharp inhale, quickly controlled.
No point giving the boys more ammunition for their group chat.
Christ, that was clean. Better than our last PT, better than the specialist who took three tries last season and left me nauseated on the exam table. This woman knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Better?” Her fingers are already moving, pressing specific points around the joint, checking for nerve damage with the kind of knowledge that comes from doing this a hundred times.
“Yeah.” The word comes out surprised. My shoulder actually does feel better—not just relocated, but stable in a way it hasn’t been in months.
“Good. Ice, immobilization, imaging within twenty-four hours.” She helps me sit up, still supporting the joint like she doesn’t trust me not to immediately do something stupid. She’s not wrong. “And I mean actual rest, not whatever passes for it in your vocabulary.”
“It’s fine now.” I start to push myself up with my good arm. “Feels normal.”
She looks at me like I just told her the earth is flat. “It feels normal because endorphins are masking the damage. You’ve probably got capsule damage, labral tearing, and definite ligament strain.”
“You can’t know that without imaging.”
“Fifth dislocation? I absolutely can.” She stands, ice crystals falling off her skirt, and I’m abruptly aware that she just reset my shoulder in stockings on ice without hesitating. “Are you actively trying to end your career, or is this just recreational stupidity?”
The boys are loving this. I can hear Brody trying not to laugh, Dex making some comment to Rodriguez about getting this for social media.
But I’m focused on this woman who clearly doesn’t give a shit that I’m six-six and could bench press her, who’s lecturing me like I’m a rookie instead of a seven-year veteran.
The lecture stings because she’s not wrong. But I don’t like being called out by someone who’s never taken a hit, never had to choose between playing hurt or watching your team fall apart without you.
“Dr. Walker.” Winters appears at her elbow, looking like he’s swallowed something unpleasant. “That was quite the... unconventional approach.”
“But effective,” Barrett interjects before she can respond. He’s been watching from the bench, and there’s something calculating in his expression that I recognize from contract negotiations. “Clean work, quick thinking. Exactly what we need.”
“I was just doing my job,” she says, but there’s steel underneath the diplomatic response. “Though I’d recommend having medical staff closer to the ice during full contact practice.”
The direct hit lands exactly as intended. Winters’ face goes red, and I find myself fighting a smirk despite the throbbing in my shoulder. She’s not wrong—our response time was shit, and everyone knows it.
“Varga,” Barrett cuts in. “Medical room. Full eval. Now.”
It’s not really a request, but I try anyway. “Coach, I’m fine—”
“No.” Dr. Walker is stepping back into her heels, and even that movement is efficient, purposeful. “You’re not fine. You’re functional. There’s a difference, and if you don’t learn it, you’ll be retired by thirty-two.”
It’s like being doused in ice water. Nobody talks to me like that. Not anymore. Not since I became captain and definitely not since Matty—
I cut off that thought before it can form.
“She’s right,” Barrett says, and his tone makes it clear the discussion is over. “Jake, get us set up in medical. Dr. Walker, if you don’t mind accompanying them? I’d like your assessment.”
“Of course.” She picks up her bag and turns to look at me. “Though I should be clear, I’m not technically authorized to provide official medical opinions for your organization.”
“Yet,” Barrett corrects, and something in his voice makes my stomach drop.
Yet. As in she’s not part of the organization yet. Oh fuck. She’s interviewing. She’s not some random doctor who happened to be touring the facility—she’s here for Kellerman’s job. Which means this woman who just manhandled me and called me an overgrown hockey stereotype might be permanent.
Jake appears at my elbow, barely suppressing a grin. “Come on, Cap. Let’s get you checked out before you do something stupid like try to lift weights.”
I catch the exact moment she processes the word.
Her whole body stills, then her eyes snap to the C on my jersey that’s been right fucking there the whole time.
I watch her replay the last ten minutes—calling me under-brained, ordering me around, the complete lack of any deference—and for a second she looks like she might throw up before her expression goes carefully blank.
“Captain,” she says, voice perfectly controlled now, but there’s a stiffness that wasn’t there before.
Interesting. So she does care about hierarchy when it suits her.
“Roman,” I correct, not sure why I want to ease whatever panic is happening behind her eyes.
“Right.” She falls into step beside us, and I notice she’s trying not to limp. Those stockings are definitely soaked through, probably freezing against her skin. Professional hazard of stepping onto ice in interview clothes to save idiots from themselves.
Jake starts chattering as we walk, because Jake never met a silence he couldn’t fill. “So, interviewing for Kellerman’s position?”
“I am.”
“Where’d you work before?”
“Eight years in DC, comprehensive rehab, focus on injury prevention.” She’s scanning our facility as we walk, cataloging everything with a gaze that suggests she’s already planning how she’d reorganize it. “Some Olympic work.”
“Olympics? Anyone we’d know?”
“Patient confidentiality.” But there’s a slight smile that says yes, and I find myself wondering which athletes she’s worked with, if any of them gave her this much shit.
The medical room is unnecessarily bright, all white and chrome like someone decided a hockey facility should look like an Apple store. Jake starts pulling out equipment while Dr. Walker cases the space like she’s planning a heist, opening cabinets and checking supplies.
“Decent setup,” she says. “Though your emergency supplies are locked up during practice? That’s asking for trouble.”
Jake pauses mid-reach for the blood pressure cuff. “Never thought about it.”
“Most people don’t until someone’s bleeding out and you’re looking for keys.” She turns to me. “Shirt off.”
It’s an order, not a request. I should be annoyed—I’m the captain, I don’t take orders from medical staff who aren’t even officially hired yet—but instead I’m pulling my base layer over my head before my brain catches up. The movement makes my shoulder scream, and I bite back a curse.
“Jesus.” She’s looking at my shoulder—not at me, at the joint itself—and her expression shifts from professional assessment to something closer to disgust. “This is a disaster. How are you even lifting your arm?”
“Carefully.”
“That’s not funny.” But her mouth twitches slightly, and I file that reaction away for later analysis. “This is legitimately one of the worst chronic instabilities I’ve seen on someone still playing.”
She takes my hand on the injured side, her touch clinical and impersonal. “Squeeze my fingers.”
I do, and immediately regret it. Her hand is small in mine, her fingers cool and steady, and I’m suddenly extremely aware of my own calloused palm against her skin, the faint ink stain on her index finger like she was writing notes in a hurry and didn’t bother washing it off.
I squeeze exactly hard enough to demonstrate function and let go.
“Good grip strength.” She presses her thumb against my fingernails, watching them blanch and pink up. Each touch is brief, professional, methodical. So why am I cataloging every point of contact like it matters?
“Any numbness or tingling?”
“No.” The word comes out flat. Controlled.
She palpates around the joint, fingers sure and quick, and I can tell she’s done this assessment so many times she could do it in her sleep. “How many times did you actually complete PT?”
“Define complete.”
“Finished. Did all the sessions. Followed protocols for the full recommended timeline.”
Silence.
“Christ.” She steps back, crossing her arms. “Not once? Not even after the first one?”
“I did some—”
“Some doesn’t count. Some is why you’re at five dislocations instead of one.” She’s looking at me like I’m a particularly disappointing patient, and it’s more effective than any lecture. “When was your last dislocation?”
“Eight months.”
“Before that?”
“Year and a half.”
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just looks at me like I’m either the stupidest person she’s ever met or actively suicidal. “Let me guess—your medical staff has been telling you that you need surgery.”
“I need to play.”
“How’s that working out for you? Fifth dislocation suggests not great.”
The sarcasm lands exactly as intended. “I’ve managed.”