Chapter 2 - Roman #2
“You’ve been lucky. One bad hit and that shoulder’s done.
Not injured—done. As in career-ending, never play again, spend the rest of your life unable to lift your arm above your head.
” She meets my eyes directly, and there’s no sympathy there, just clinical assessment.
“But you already know that, don’t you? Your orthopedic surgeon probably has a surgical slot reserved for you already. ”
“They mentioned something about penciling me in for the off-season,” I mutter.
“Of course they did.” She shakes her head, and I catch frustration underneath the professional mask. “Twelve weeks of actual rehab. Not the bullshit you’ve been doing. Real rehab where you actually let it heal. That’s your alternative to surgery.”
“Twelve weeks is—”
“A quarter of the season versus your entire career. Math seems pretty simple.”
“Most doctors—”
“Most doctors are apparently scared of you.” She doesn’t look scared. She looks irritated, like I’m wasting her time with excuses she’s heard a thousand times before. “I’m not. If I get this job, you don’t play until that shoulder is actually fixed. Not taped together, not good enough—fixed.”
There’s a challenge in her voice that I want to argue with, but also something else. She’s telling me the truth even though it could cost her the job, even though I could tank her interview with one word to Barrett.
“You know I’m the captain, right? My opinion carries weight.”
“So I’ve just learned.” Her voice is dry. “Should I start kissing your ass now, or wait until I’m officially hired?”
Jake makes a choking sound from where he’s pretending not to listen.
“I’m asking if you want the job,” I clarify. “Given that you’d be dealing with me.”
“I want to do my job properly. If that means dealing with stubborn players who think they’re invincible, so be it.” She pauses, and there’s something almost amused in her expression now. “Even the over-built, under-brained ones.”
She’s throwing her words back at me, and I find myself almost smiling at her. “Noted.”
Barrett returns then, and I realize he probably heard most of that exchange. “Well?”
“Chronic instability that would require either surgery or intensive PT,” she reports, shifting seamlessly back into professional mode. “He’s been playing on borrowed time.”
“Recommendations?”
“Twelve weeks minimum of actual rehabilitation. No shortcuts.”
“The season—” I start.
“Will be a lot longer if you blow out that shoulder completely,” she finishes. “Your choice, Captain.”
The way she says my title is slightly mocking, like she’s testing whether I’ll pull rank now that Barrett’s back. I don’t.
Barrett looks between us, and I see him make some decision. “Dr. Walker, can you start Monday?”
“I—yes.”
“Good. Roman, you’re following whatever protocol she sets. Non-negotiable.”
He leaves before I can argue, and Dr. Walker starts gathering her things, professional mask sliding back into place like nothing happened.
“Monday then,” she says, turning to leave, then pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, you took that reduction well. Most guys scream.”
“Most guys haven’t had five.”
“Most guys learn after two.”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me with Jake, who’s grinning like an idiot.
“Holy shit,” he says. “She just handled you.”
“She’s competent.” I correct, though heat is crawling up my neck. “Professional.”
“She called you under-brained. To your face. On the ice. In front of everyone.” Jake sounds amazed. “You’re going to do the twelve weeks, aren’t you? You’re actually going to follow medical advice because the hot new PT told you to.”
“I think she knows what she’s doing medically,” I say firmly, standing up from the table. “That’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” Jake starts cleaning up the examination supplies, still grinning. “And the fact that she’s gorgeous has nothing to do with it.”
“She made valid medical arguments—”
“She made you shut up and lie down, and you did it. In front of the entire team.” Jake’s practically bouncing. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Rodriguez is going to lose his mind.”
“Don’t—”
“Too late, already texting the group chat.” Jake’s typing frantically. “New PT made Cap her bitch, details to follow.”
I should pull rank, demand he not start team drama, but instead I’m thinking about ink-stained fingers and the way she said my title like a challenge.
And as I head back toward the locker room, carefully cradling my shoulder, I can’t shake the memory of her hands on the joint, clinical and sure and completely unimpressed by anything except the injury itself.
Or the way she’d looked at me like my reputation meant nothing compared to my long-term health. Like maybe, for the first time in years, someone was more concerned with taking care of me than managing me.
The thought sits in my chest, uncomfortable and unfamiliar, refusing to be filed away with all the other medical assessments I’ve ignored over the years.
And somewhere underneath that, quieter but persistent: she called me under-brained and I’m already looking forward to Monday.