Chapter 3 - Marnie
MARNIE
My phone buzzes.
Mom
Shit. I did say that.
Be there by 8:30. Promise.
Which gives me exactly one hour to assess the captain’s shoulder, design a twelve-week protocol, and pretend I didn’t notice the way his breathing changed when I held his hand to test nerve function during his eval.
The main door slams open at 7:02.
“You’re late,” I call out, not looking up from my paperwork.
“You said seven.”
“I said seven sharp. That was two minutes ago.”
Roman appears in the doorway of the treatment room, and I make the mistake of looking up.
He’s in athletic shorts and a Puckaneers t-shirt that’s probably a size too small, hair still messy from sleep, looking annoyed and unfairly attractive for someone who just rolled out of bed.
Which is an observation I have no business making about a patient, but my brain apparently didn’t get that memo.
“It’s not even preseason,” he says, moving into the room which feels significantly smaller with him in it. “There’s no one here.”
“I’m here. And if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.” I gesture to the treatment table. “Shirt off.”
He pauses for just a second, and I catch something flicker across his face before his usual stoic expression returns. Then he’s pulling the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, and I’m reminded why I needed the early morning appointment with no one else around.
The man is built like a classical statue if classical statues had access to modern strength training and tattoo artists.
There’s a constellation design that starts just above his right knee, disappearing under the hem of his shorts.
His right forearm is covered in geometric patterns that look vaguely Nordic, and there’s text in what looks like Cyrillic wrapping around his ribs.
Another design on his left shoulder blade that I can’t quite make out from this angle.
All the things that I didn’t stop to appreciate two weeks ago.
“See something interesting?” His voice is flat, but there’s something underneath it. A challenge, maybe.
“Scar tissue from a prior dislocation.” I move closer, keeping my voice clinical even though my pulse is doing things it has no business doing. “You can see where it healed incorrectly.”
It’s not a lie. There is scar tissue, visible and raised against his skin.
But I’m also noticing the way his obliques cut down toward his shorts, and how his skin still holds warmth from his bed, and that he smells like body wash that smells so good I almost lean closer to figure out exactly what brand it is.
I don’t.
“Range of motion first.” I position myself behind him, one hand on his shoulder blade to stabilize, the other guiding his arm through the movement. “Tell me when it hurts.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
I ignore the blatant lie and move his arm through abduction, feeling the catch at about 110 degrees. “There. That’s where the impingement starts.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. It’s compensated. You’ve trained your body to work around the damage instead of fixing it.
” I move to face him, which was a tactical error because now we’re close enough that I can see the darker blue ring around his pale gray irises, can count the faint freckles across his collarbone.
“Twelve weeks minimum. We rebuild from scratch.”
“The season starts in three months.”
“The season starts October 9th. If we start today and you follow every protocol exactly, I can have you cleared by October third. That’s six days before the opener.”
He’s doing the math in his head, jaw tight with tension that suggests he’s calculating every possible risk. “That’s cutting it close.”
“That’s what happens when you let a shoulder dislocate five times.” I step back, needing space to think clearly because proximity to this man is apparently hazardous to my professional judgment. “Unless you’d prefer to rush it and make this number six?”
The air conditioning kicks on, raising goosebumps on my arms. Or maybe that’s from the way he’s looking at me, wondering if I’m a challenge or an ally.
“Fine,” he says finally. “Your protocol.”
“My protocol. Which means when I say stop, you stop. When I say rest, you rest. No extra work, no pushing through, no tough guy bullshit.”
“You enjoy ordering me around?”
“I enjoy keeping athletes healthy.” I turn to grab my measurement tools, mostly to break the eye contact that’s lasting about three seconds too long. “Lie back. I need to check the joint stability.”
He lies back on the table, and I try not to notice how his abs contract with the movement or the way the morning light from the window highlights the darker ink on his ribs.
This is my job. I’ve worked on hundreds of athletes over the years.
There’s nothing special about Roman Varga except that he’s my most high-profile patient and I need him healthy to prove Winters wrong about my methods.
I position my hands on his shoulder, one stabilizing the joint, the other testing the laxity with careful pressure in multiple directions.
“Anterior instability is significant,” I murmur, mostly to myself, falling into the familiar rhythm of assessment and documentation. “Posterior is better but still compromised.” I adjust my grip to test inferior laxity, and his breath catches audibly.
“Does that hurt?”
“No.” But his voice is rougher now, and when I glance at his face, his eyes are fixed on the ceiling with an intensity that suggests he’s thinking about something very specific. Or trying very hard not to think at all.
“Almost done.” I finish the rest of the assessment quickly, professionally, ignoring the way my pulse picks up every time my hands make contact with his skin. “The good news is the nerve function seems intact. The bad news is you’ve got about 40% more laxity than you should.”
“In English?”
“Your shoulder is held together by hope and athletic tape.” I step back, putting the treatment table between us like it might help create actual professional distance. “Twelve weeks. Non-negotiable.”
He sits up, and I absolutely don’t watch the way his back muscles move as he does it. “What’s the protocol?”
“First three weeks: no overhead movement, basic stabilization exercises only. Weeks four through six: controlled range of motion work, starting resistance training. Weeks seven through nine: sport-specific movements, progressive strength building. Final three weeks: full contact preparation, return to play protocols.”
“That’s extremely conservative.”
“It’s safe. And it’s what’s happening.” I check my phone. 7:43. I need to wrap this up to get Mom to chemo on time. “Monday, Wednesday, Friday at 7 AM. Tuesdays and Thursdays you’ll do guided exercises with Jake.”
“Seven in the morning all summer?”
“Is that a problem?”
He’s pulling his shirt back on, and I catch him wince slightly at the movement, a micro-expression he probably thinks I didn’t see. “No problem. Your protocol, right?”
“Right.” I start gathering my papers, trying to look busy and professional instead of flustered and attracted. “And Roman? No extracurriculars. No golf, no tubing, no showing off at the gym, no proving anything to anyone. You follow the plan or you don’t play.”
“Or you’ll bench me.” He stands, and suddenly the treatment room feels about half its actual size. “You made that clear.”
“Good.” I grab my bag, needing to leave before this tension turns into something I can’t control or explain away as professional concern. “Friday. Seven AM. Don’t be late.”
I’m almost to the door when his voice stops me.
“Why so early?”
I turn back. He’s leaning against the treatment table, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression that probably makes opposing teams nervous.
“Because the arena’s empty,” I say honestly. “No distractions. No teammates. Just the work.”
Something shifts in his face. Understanding, maybe. “No witnesses.”
The way he phrases it makes heat crawl up my neck, because he’s right and we both know it. Like he knows exactly why I don’t want witnesses to our sessions. Like he’s been thinking the same things I’ve been desperately not thinking about for two weeks.
“Friday,” I repeat, and leave before he can see the flush spreading across my cheeks.
My phone buzzes as I’m getting into my car.
Mom
Can you bring coffee? The cafe by the arena has the best flavors.
I sit in the driver’s seat for a moment, forehead against the steering wheel, trying to switch gears from PT who just spent forty minutes touching Roman Varga to daughter taking Mom to chemo.
The two worlds can’t overlap. They can’t be allowed to touch each other, to contaminate each other with their completely different kinds of anxiety and need.
Mom’s text sits on my screen, casual and normal, like she’s asking me to pick up groceries instead of asking for coffee before they pump poison into her veins in the hopes it might buy her a few more months.
I start the car.
The cafe is busy with the morning rush, and I wait in line thinking about anterior capsule laxity and the way Roman’s breathing changed under my hands. Clinical observations. Professional concerns. Nothing more.
Except it is more, and pretending otherwise is just another kind of lie I’m getting good at telling.
Mom gets a vanilla latte with an extra shot. I get nothing because my stomach is already twisted into knots that have nothing to do with caffeine and everything to do with the fact that I’m attracted to my patient and my mother is dying and I don’t know which problem I’m less equipped to handle.
When I pull up to Mom’s house, she’s waiting on the porch in the wig she hates but wears anyway because “looking sick makes people treat you like you’re already dead.
” She’s thinner than she was two weeks ago.
I can see it in her wrists, in the way her jeans don’t quite fit anymore even with a belt.
“You brought the good coffee,” she says, sliding into the passenger seat with the careful movements of someone whose bones hurt. “You’re my favorite daughter.”
“I’m your only daughter.”
“Which is why the bar is so low.” She takes a sip and closes her eyes. “God, that’s good. How was your morning?”
“Fine. First session with the captain.”
“The one you popped back together during your interview?”
“That’s him.”
“And?” She’s watching me now, with that mom-radar that can detect bullshit from three counties away.
“And nothing. He’s a patient. I’m his PT.”
“Marnie.”
“What?”
“You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re thinking about something you think you shouldn’t be thinking about.” She pauses. “Is he attractive?”
“Mom.”
“I’m dying, not dead. I can still appreciate that you’re attracted to someone.” She says it matter-of-factly, like she’s commenting on the weather instead of discussing her own mortality. “It’s been three years since David. You’re allowed to notice when men are attractive.”
“It’s not appropriate,” I say finally. “He’s my patient.”
“Is it against the rules?”
“It’s... complicated.”
“Everything’s complicated.” She takes another sip of coffee. “But you’re already lying to yourself about it, which means it matters.”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I drive, and Mom lets it drop because she’s too tired to push.
The cancer center is the same as always.
Too bright, too clean, too full of people trying not to look at each other because acknowledging someone else’s illness means acknowledging your own.
Mom checks in at the desk while I find seats in the waiting area, and I pull out my tablet to start documenting Roman’s assessment.
Except all I can think about is the way his skin felt under my hands. The way his breathing changed. The way he looked at me when he said “no witnesses.”
I’m still thinking about it two hours later when they finally call Mom back, when I hold her hand while they insert the IV, when the poison starts dripping into her veins and she closes her eyes and pretends to sleep so I won’t see her cry.
Two worlds that can’t be allowed to touch.
But they already are.