Chapter 5 Marnie
MARNIE
I’m doing seventy in a fifty-five and I still might be late.
The hospital’s in my rearview, Mom settled with Teresa for the afternoon, bloodwork done and another appointment scheduled for next week.
The routine of it should be comforting. Same parking garage, same waiting room, same phlebotomist who knows to use the smaller needle on Mom’s left arm because the veins in her right are shot from months of treatment.
But routine just means we’re on a treadmill. Moving without actually going anywhere except closer to the end.
I hit every red light between the hospital and the facility. Check my phone at each one. No texts from Teresa, which is good, but also twelve minutes past when the staff development meeting was supposed to start, which is very bad.
The parking lot is full when I arrive. I grab my bag, my tablet with the presentation I’ve been working on all week, and sprint for the staff entrance in heels that were not designed for running.
The conference room goes silent when I slip through the door.
“Dr. Walker.” Winters’ voice could cut glass. “How kind of you to finally grace us with your presence.”
Barrett’s at the head of the table, Rodriguez and Dex lounging in their chairs, Anderson checking his phone in the back corner, Roman leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
The nutritionist. Half the training staff.
All staring at me like I’ve just proven every doubt Winters has been seeding since I started.
“My apologies.” I move to the empty seat, setting down my things with hands that want to shake. “I had a personal matter that ran longer than expected.”
“Personal matters shouldn’t interfere with professional obligations.” Winters leans back in his chair with the satisfaction of someone who’s just scored a point. “Especially during mandatory continuing education sessions.”
The jab lands exactly as intended. I’m new. I’m unproven. I’m already on thin ice with half the medical staff because I have the audacity to suggest their protocols might need updating.
“It won’t happen again,” I say, voice level.
“See that it doesn’t.” He gestures to the screen where someone else’s presentation is still up. “We’ve covered nutrition protocols and supplementation schedules. You’re up next with your injury prevention analysis.”
I pull up my presentation, hyperaware of every eye in the room. Of Rodriguez whispering something to Dex. Of Barrett’s neutral expression that could mean anything. Of Roman’s gray eyes tracking my movement from across the room.
“I’ve been reviewing the team’s injury documentation from the past three seasons.” My voice steadies as I fall into the material I know cold. “There’s a consistent pattern of hip flexor tightness and groin strains, particularly in the first two months of the season.”
I click through data charts, injury timelines, games missed. The numbers tell the story clearly. Preventable injuries costing them games, costing them players.
“The root cause appears to be inadequate dynamic warm-up protocols. Your current routine focuses primarily on static stretching, which research shows is actually counterproductive for explosive movements like skating.”
“Our warm-up has been the same for ten years,” Winters interrupts. “Are you suggesting it’s inadequate?”
“I’m suggesting it could be optimized based on current sports medicine research.” I keep my tone professional, but there’s steel underneath. “The injury data supports this conclusion.”
Barrett leans forward. “What are you proposing?”
“A new dynamic warm-up sequence targeting the posterior chain and hip flexors specifically. Fifteen minutes before every practice and game. I’ve designed a routine that addresses the biomechanical demands of hockey while preparing the body for explosive movement.”
I click to the next slide showing the exercises. “But it’s easier to demonstrate than explain. I’ll need a volunteer.”
My eyes find Roman without meaning to. He’s still against the back wall, watching me with that intensity that makes my pulse stutter.
He’d be perfect for this. He knows his body, follows instructions precisely, and even in summer with half the team scattered, the handful of players here would pay attention if their captain demonstrated.
“Oh! Me! Pick me!” Rodriguez’s hand shoots up like he’s in grade school. He’s already half out of his chair, grinning. “Doc needs to put her hands on someone, I volunteer as tribute.”
Dex snorts. Anderson doesn’t look up from his phone.
“Rodriguez,” Barrett starts.
“Come on, Doc. You know you want to.” He’s fully standing now, stretching dramatically. “Plus I’m way more fun than Cap over there. He’s all serious and murder-faced. I’ll make this entertaining.”
“This is a professional development session,” Winters says icily. “Not entertainment.”
“Then it’s good I’m a pro.” Rodriguez is already moving toward the front of the room. “What am I doing here?”
I glance at Roman one more time. His expression hasn’t changed, but something in his eyes says he knows exactly what just happened. That I looked at him first. That Rodriguez intercepted before I could make that choice.
“Fine.” I turn my attention to Rodriguez, who’s bouncing on his toes like he’s about to take the ice. “Stand here.”
I walk him through the sequence. Dynamic lunges, leg swings, hip openers. He’s surprisingly focused once we start, the class clown act dropping away enough to reveal the athlete underneath. His form needs correction, but he’s flexible and picks up the movements quickly.
“See how the movement opens through the hip?” I demonstrate on him, hands guiding his leg through the proper range of motion. “This activates the muscles you’ll use in your stride while preparing the joint capsule for impact.”
“Oh damn, that actually feels good.” Rodriguez holds the position, then grins over his shoulder at the room. “You guys seeing this? Doc’s a miracle worker.”
“Your hip flexors are tight,” I say. “Most of yours probably are. That’s what this routine addresses.”
“My hips are tight as hell,” Rodriguez agrees cheerfully. “Among other things.”
“Rodriguez,” Barrett warns.
“What? I’m being anatomically accurate.”
I suppress a smile and walk him through the rest of the sequence. By the end, even Winters can’t argue with the visible improvement in Rodriguez’s range of motion.
“Fifteen minutes before every practice and game,” I repeat to the room. “I’ll train the full team when everyone’s back from summer break, but I wanted medical and coaching approval first.”
Barrett nods. “Makes sense to me. Winters?”
The pause stretches long enough to be pointed. “I’d like to review the research you’re basing this on.”
“Of course.” I pull up the final slide. Twenty peer-reviewed studies, current best practices from three Olympic teams, injury prevention data from the last five years. “I can send you the full literature review.”
“Please do.” But his tone says he’ll find something to criticize no matter how solid the research.
The meeting wraps shortly after. Rodriguez claps me on the shoulder as he passes. “That was actually cool, Doc. My hips feel like a million bucks.”
“Good. Keep doing the stretches I showed you.”
“Yes ma’am.” He mock-salutes and leaves with Dex, already arguing about lunch plans.
Anderson files out without a word. The training staff disperses. Soon it’s just me packing up my tablet, Barrett reviewing notes, and Roman still leaning against that wall.
“Good presentation,” Barrett says, standing. “Send me the full protocol breakdown and we’ll implement it in training camp.”
“Will do.”
He leaves, and then it’s just Roman and me in the conference room.
I should leave. Should follow everyone else out. Should maintain the professional distance that’s already eroding faster than I can rebuild it.
“You wanted to pick me,” he says.
I fumble with my tablet case. “Rodriguez volunteered.”
“After you looked at me first.”
My fingers still on the zipper. “You’re reading into things.”
“Am I?” He pushes off the wall, moving closer. Not crowding, just eliminating the distance. “Because I’m pretty sure you spent about three seconds deciding whether to ask me before Rodriguez jumped in.”
“He’s more enthusiastic. Better for team morale during a dry presentation.”
“Bullshit.”
The word is quiet but certain.
I force myself to meet his eyes. “Fine. You would’ve been better. You follow instructions and the guys who are here respect you.” I shove my tablet into my bag. “But I didn’t want to give Winters another reason to document concerns about my judgment.”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “That’s your concern? That demonstrating stretches would look inappropriate?”
“Your shoulder’s still healing. Having you do hip mobility work in front of Winters felt like asking for trouble.”
“From Winters or from you?”
There’s something underneath the question. Not accusation, but curiosity. Maybe amusement.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure you don’t.” But he’s almost smiling now. “I would’ve followed your instructions. Professional and everything.”
“Rodriguez did fine.”
“Rodriguez made it into a comedy routine.”
“That’s his personality. You know that.”
“Yeah.” He picks up his water bottle from where he’d set it by the wall. “But you still wanted to pick me first.”
He walks out of the room and I’m standing alone in an empty conference room realizing that Roman Varga noticed exactly what I tried to hide. That he’s paying attention to things I don’t want him to notice. That the boundaries I’m trying to maintain are full of holes neither of us is acknowledging.
An hour later I’m setting up the treatment room for his session. Fresh sheets on the table, bands organized by resistance, my tablet queued to the patient portal. And Beethoven playing through the speakers instead of my usual rotation.