Chapter 6 Roman
ROMAN
The treatment room after a training camp scrimmage is always chaos, but since I couldn’t play, today it feels like torture.
Rodriguez is holding court on one of the treatment tables, wrist elevated dramatically while Marnie examines it. The same wrist that was perfectly fine when he was stick-handling twenty minutes ago.
“Right there, Doc,” he says, wincing theatrically when she palpates the joint. “That’s the spot.”
“Your wrist is fine, Rodriguez.” But she’s being thorough anyway, checking range of motion with patience that I recognize as her refusing to let anyone accuse her of cutting corners.
“Are you sure? Because it really hurts when you do that thing with your thumb—” He jerks his hand back with exaggerated pain, then grins. “See? Agony.”
“I see that you’re wasting my time.” She makes a note on her tablet. “Ice it if it bothers you.”
But Rodriguez isn’t moving. He’s still perched there, leaning slightly into her space in that way he does when he’s trying to flirt with someone.
“You going to Coach’s barbecue next week?” he asks, tone casual.
“Haven’t decided.”
“You should come. Whole team will be there. It’s fun.” He shifts closer. “I could pick you up if you need a ride. I know you’re new to the area, probably don’t know where Barrett’s place is—”
I make a sound, low in my throat. Not a growl, but close.
Several heads turn.
“Cap?” Dex says from where Jake’s re-taping his ankle two tables over. “You okay over there?”
“Fine.”
“You just made a noise.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.” Dex is grinning now, the bastard. “Sounded like something from a nature documentary. You know, when the big predator sees another male encroaching on his—”
“Shut up, Dex.”
“—territory,” he finishes, not shutting up at all.
Across the room, Marnie has stepped back from Rodriguez, putting distance between them. But I catch the moment her eyes flick toward me, assessing, before returning to her tablet.
She knows. Of course she knows.
“Your blood pressure’s spiking, Cap,” Dex observes cheerfully. “I can literally see your pulse from here.”
“My blood pressure is fine.”
“Sure it is. That’s why you look ready to murder Rodriguez for asking Doc to a barbecue.” He tests his ankle, satisfied with Jake’s work. “She’s just doing her job.”
“I know that.”
“Then maybe stop white-knuckling the treatment table.”
I force my hands to relax, focusing on the mostly-melted ice pack on my shoulder.
Across the room, Rodriguez is finally hopping down from the table, but not before saying something else that makes Marnie laugh, reaching out to grasp his forearm for balance.
He shoots me a look on his way out, winks at me like the smug fucker he is, and I have to actively restrain myself from following him into the hallway.
“Easy there, Cap,” Jake murmurs, appearing at my side with fresh ice. “You’re gonna blow a fuse looking at her like that.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re the opposite of fine.” He starts replacing my melted ice pack. “You’re sitting here watching Doc work on other guys like someone’s stealing your favorite stick.”
“She’s my PT. I have a professional interest in—”
“In the way Rodriguez leans into her space? In whether she laughs at his jokes?” Jake’s voice is quiet enough that only I can hear. “Cap. You’re fucked.”
The assessment is so accurate I can’t even argue.
“Noted,” I mutter.
Jake just shakes his head and moves on to help Marnie, who’s now examining Anderson’s shoulder. Then Brody’s ankle, the one he tweaked last week. Then the new rookie whose name I can never remember. She works through every player methodically, taking her time, being thorough.
Not once looking in my direction.
“She’s making you wait,” Dex observes, still lingering near my table for the entertainment value. “On purpose.”
“She’s working through her patients in order.”
“She’s making a point.” He stands, testing his weight. “That you don’t get special treatment just because you’ve been staring at her like a lovesick teenager for three weeks.”
“I haven’t—”
“Cap. You notice when she changes her coffee order. When she’s wearing different shoes. When she’s had a rough morning before she even says a word.” He pauses. “It’s not subtle.”
Before I can formulate a defense, Marnie’s finally making her way over, Jake trailing behind her with supplies.
“Captain,” she says, all business. “How’s the shoulder?”
“Fine.”
“Mm.” She removes my ice pack, and I’m hyperaware of her proximity as she begins testing the joint. Her hands are cool and practiced, movements controlled and professional.
Except there. Her fingers linger slightly on my shoulder blade. Just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
Then it’s gone, and I’m wondering if I imagined it.
“Full range of motion,” she murmurs, more to herself than me. “No catching. Strength is improving.”
“So I’m cleared?”
“For modified work.” She steps back, making notes. “Higher resistance next week. We’ll reassess overhead movements Friday.”
“How long until actual hockey?”
“When your shoulder can handle actual hockey.” She looks up, meets my eyes directly. “Rushing it means sitting out longer later. We’ve discussed this.”
“Multiple times,” I mutter.
“Then stop asking.” She’s smiling slightly as she says it. “Any pain with today’s modified workout?”
“Some tightness. Nothing serious.”
“Good.” She makes a final note. “Ice tonight. Same protocol. See you Friday.”
Jake’s organizing supplies behind her, and I catch him mouth “you’re fucked” at me before turning away.
“That’s it?” I ask Marnie.
Her eyebrow lifts. “Were you expecting more?”
Yes. No. Something more than the five minutes she just gave me after spending fifteen with Rodriguez’s fake wrist injury.
“Just seems quick,” I say.
“Your shoulder’s progressing well. Doesn’t need extensive intervention today.” She’s already turning to leave. “Unless there’s something else?”
There are about a hundred something elses. None I can say in front of Jake and Dex and the stragglers still hanging around.
“No. We’re good.”
“Good.”
She heads toward her office, and I’m left with a shoulder that feels fine and everything else feeling worse.
Dex waits exactly three seconds after she’s out of earshot before making kissing noises at me.
“Shut up.”
“Never. This is too good.” He’s fully grinning now. “The mighty Captain Varga, brought to his knees by a PT who won’t give him special treatment. Just ask her out, Cap.”
“Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s my PT. Because Winters would love an excuse to fire her. Because I’m probably a complication she doesn’t need.”
“Or maybe she wants the complication.” Dex claps my shoulder, the good one, before sauntering out of the room.
That evening I’m home, shoulder properly iced, staring at my phone like it holds answers to questions I’m not sure I should be asking.
Her name sits in my contacts. Our previous texts are all professional. PT schedules, protocol adjustments, reminders not to do extra reps.
I should leave it alone. Should maintain the boundaries she’s clearly reinforcing by making me wait, by keeping things clinical, by not giving me anything more than necessary.
Before I can decide what to send, my phone chimes. She texted me first.
Marnie
Good job today. Jake says you actually listened for once.
I always listen.
Marnie
Ha. Your shoulder says otherwise.
My shoulder’s getting mixed messages. You keep touching it then telling it to behave.
Fuck. Too honest. I’m about to text something to walk it back when she responds.
Marnie
That’s literally my job.
Doesn’t make it easier.
Marnie
The exercises will get harder next week. Less boring.
Promise?
Marnie
You might regret asking for harder.
I never regret hard.
She starts to type, then stops. Then nothing for five minutes.
I’m mentally kicking myself when finally:
Marnie
Friday at 7. Don’t be late.
Yes ma’am.
Marnie
I’m not a ma’am. I’m like one year older than you.
How do you know how old I am?
Marnie
Your medical files. I know everything. Height, weight, blood type.
She’s definitely flirting now. Has to be.
So you’re admitting you’ve been studying my file.
Marnie
I study all my patients’ files.
Which means you know you’re robbing the cradle. Thirty-one preying on poor innocent twenty-nine year old me.
Marnie
Two years isn’t cradle robbing.
Depends on the context.
There’s a long pause.
Marnie
What context would that be?
The context where you keep touching me professionally while looking unprofessional.
Marnie
I always look professional.
Your hair was in a messy bun this morning. You had ink on your cheek.
‘Professional’ is questionable.
Marnie
Your tattoos are questionable.
My tattoos are art.
Marnie
Your thigh tattoo is constellation coordinates. I googled it.
She googled my tattoo. Dr. Marnie Walker spent time thinking about my thigh enough to research it. The realization makes something warm settle in my chest.
It’s where my family’s from.
Marnie
I figured. The script on your ribs gave it away.
You read Russian?
Marnie
No, but I have the internet and too much curiosity.
What’s it say?
I hesitate, even though she probably knows.
Marnie
Something about strength through adversity. Very tough guy.
Are you making fun of my ink?
Marnie
Would I do that?
Yes.
Marnie
...Fair.
Got it for my brother. After.
Marnie
After what?
After he died. Five years ago this December.
Marnie
I’m sorry, Roman.
Yeah. Me too.
Anyway. Rodriguez asked you to Barrett’s barbecue.
Marnie
He did.
And?
Marnie
And I told him I’d think about it.
Are you going to go?
Marnie
I don’t know. Are you?
Depends.
Marnie
On what?
On whether Rodriguez is your type.
Marnie
He’s not.
Good to know.
Not that it matters.
Marnie
Doesn’t it?
Do you have any?
Marnie
Any what?
Tattoos.
Marnie
Why?
You’ve seen mine. Fair’s fair.
Marnie
Maybe.
Maybe. Fucking maybe. Now I’m going to spend all night wondering where Dr. Walker has ink hidden on her body and all my brain can focus on now is finding it.
That’s not an answer.
Marnie
It’s the only answer you’re getting tonight. Goodnight, Roman.
Goodnight, Doc.
Marnie
Not Doc. Just Marnie.
Goodnight, Just Marnie.
Marnie
You’re ridiculous.
But I can practically see her trying not to smile when she types it.
I set down my phone and stare at the ceiling.
She texted me first tonight. Made the first move. Admitted Rodriguez isn’t her type. Told me she googled my tattoos.
And somewhere in that conversation, we crossed a line we’ve been dancing around for three weeks.
Friday can’t come fast enough, which is a problem. Because I’m starting to look forward to our sessions for all the wrong reasons. The pain is almost secondary to the excuse to be near her, to watch her work, to learn all the things she’s not telling me.
Like where she has a tattoo.
And what makes her laugh instead of just trying not to smile.
And how someone so small can make me feel both desperate and calm at the same time.
Jake’s right.
I’m completely fucked.