Chapter 8 Roman
ROMAN
We’re almost at preseason and I’m still doing five-pound weights while my team runs full contact drills.
Through the treatment room window, I can see them—Dex leading the power play formation, Rodriguez actually following instructions for once, the new rookies fighting for roster spots.
The sound of sticks on ice carries through the glass, muffled but unmistakable.
That sharp crack of a one-timer, the scrape of skates cutting hard into a turn.
I should be out there. Leading drills. Setting the pace. Being the captain instead of watching from the sidelines like some washed-up has-been doing pity weights in the corner.
Five pounds. Five fucking pounds.
I could bench press Marnie with one arm—actually, bad example, don’t think about bench pressing Marnie—and here I am doing lateral raises with weights a grandmother probably uses for yoga class.
“This is bullshit,” I tell Marnie during our morning session, not bothering to hide the frustration. “I should be out there.”
“With a shoulder that subluxes when you reach for your phone?” She adjusts my arm position, her hands clinical and efficient. “Sure, that’ll end well.”
The touch is professional. It’s always professional. Which somehow makes it worse—six weeks of her hands on my body and not once has it been anything other than therapeutic. Meanwhile I’m cataloging every point of contact like some kind of depraved physical therapy addict.
“It’s been seven weeks.”
“Of a twelve-week protocol.”
“That you made up.”
The words come out sharper than I intend. I’m frustrated with the injury, with the timeline, with standing here doing baby weights while my team prepares for the season without me. Not with her.
But she steps back anyway, and something in her expression shifts from professional to genuinely pissed.
“I didn’t make anything up. I based it on your injury history, current instability, and the fact that you’ve been compensating so long your scapular mechanics are completely fucked.”
“My mechanics are fine.”
“Your mechanics are why you keep dislocating.” She crosses her arms. “But sure, go ahead. Join practice. And when your shoulder comes out during the first check and you need surgery, remember this conversation.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being realistic. You’re being a child.”
The PT room feels too small. She’s close enough that I could reach out and touch her, and it takes everything I have not to.
“Ten more reps,” she says finally, voice controlled again.
I do twelve, because I’m petty like that.
After practice, the locker room is chaos. New guys trying to find their place, veterans reestablishing pecking order, Dex holding court by his stall.
“—swear to God, she was like five-foot-nothing—”
“You’re telling this story wrong,” Brody interrupts.
“She’s five-two,” I say, because there’s no point in denying that everyone knows I know exactly how tall she is.
Everyone turns to look at me.
“Cap would know,” Rodriguez says with a grin that means trouble. “He spends quality time with her almost every morning.”
“Medical treatment,” I correct.
“Right.” Dex turns back to his audience. “So there’s Cap, shoulder completely fucked, pointing the wrong direction, and this woman in interview clothes just kicks off her heels and steps onto the ice barefoot—”
“In stockings,” Brody corrects. “She was wearing stockings. On the ice.”
“Whatever man,” Dex continues. “She walks up and goes ‘Anterior dislocation, needs immediate reduction.’ Winters starts stuttering about protocol, and she just ignores him—”
“Gets right in Cap’s face,” Brody adds, “and says—”
“’You’re an over-built, under-brained hockey stereotype,’” half the room choruses.
I should be annoyed, but the memory of Marnie’s fierce certainty that day makes me bite back a smile.
“Then she just pops it back in, smooth as butter.” Dex demonstrates poorly on Rodriguez. “One motion. Cap only shed one tear.”
“I didn’t cry.”
“You definitely grunted though,” Jake says from the doorway. “Doc wants you in treatment room two when you’re done here.”
I find her setting up resistance bands, wearing leggings and an athletic tank top. Her hair is in a messy bun with what looks like a pen stuck through it.
“Shirt off,” she says without looking up.
“No foreplay?”
That makes her pause. “You’d have to buy me dinner first.”
“What counts as dinner in your world?”
“More than a protein bar stolen from the team stash.”
“Those are strategically acquired, not stolen.”
“Sure they are.” But she’s fighting a smile. “Shirt. Off. Now.”
I pull off my shirt, and she turns with the resistance band, then stops. Studies me with that look that’s half clinical assessment, half something else.
“You’ve been doing extra core work.”
It’s not a question.
“How can you tell?”
“You’re more defined than two weeks ago. Here.” She gestures vaguely at my torso. “Everything’s sharper. You’re compensating for the shoulder by strengthening everything around it.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s smart, actually. Annoying that you didn’t tell me, but smart.” She hands me the band. “I want to show you something. Mirror my movement exactly.”
She picks up a five-pound weight—the same ones I’ve been complaining about—and demonstrates a slow external rotation. The movement is controlled, precise, and when she holds it at end range, I can see every small muscle in her shoulder and back engaging.
“Your turn.”
I copy her movement, and she watches with an intensity that makes me aware of every micro-adjustment.
“Slower,” she says, moving closer. “Feel here.” She places her hand on my shoulder blade. “This should fire before your deltoid. The movement starts from your back, not your arm.”
Her hand is warm against my skin. She’s close enough that if I leaned forward slightly I could touch my lips to her throat. Not that I’ve been thinking about that constantly.
“Better,” she murmurs, her hand still on my back. “Now hold at end range. Feel that burn? That’s what we’re building. Not strength—you have plenty of that. Control.”
We go through five more reps, her hand guiding the movement, and I have to focus on the burn in my muscles so I don’t do something stupid like admit how much I want her.
“Yo Doc, what’s that say?” Rodriguez’s voice breaks the moment.
We both turn to find half the team mysteriously needing something from the treatment room.
“What?” Marnie asks.
“Your ink. Is that... lyrics?”
She looks down, realizes her shirt has ridden up during the demonstration, exposing script along her ribs. I crane around to get a better look just as she yanks the hem down quickly, face flushing.
“It’s nothing.”
But I already saw it. Words curling along her ribs in delicate script.
“Yeah, what does it say?” Dex asks, because of course he’s closer and got a better look.
“Can you all please—” She’s completely flustered now, nothing like the woman who usually gives as good as she gets.
“Out,” I say, using my captain voice. “Everyone out.”
They file out slowly. Rodriguez definitely filming. Brody stage-whispering about “Cap trying to read her ribs.” Jake trying to herd them like cats.
When they’re gone, Marnie’s still holding her shirt down, looking anywhere but at me.
“We should finish the session,” she says, professional mask sliding back on. “You still need to do internal rotations.”
But something’s shifted. She’s shown me something she didn’t mean to, a little crack in her armor of her finally letting me in.
The rest of the session is charged with a different tension. Not frustration or attraction, but something deeper. Connection, maybe.
As I’m leaving, she says, “Don’t do extra core work without telling me.”
“Don’t have mysterious tattoos if you don’t want people asking about them.”
“It’s not mysterious. It’s just... private.”
“Song lyrics are private?”
She tries not to smile. “Get out of here.”
“Monday at seven?”
“Seven sharp.”
I pause at the door. “If it makes you feel better, I only saw part of it. Something about waiting and hearts.”
Her expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across her face. “It’s about... keeping going. When you’re alone.”
The weight of that admission hangs between us. She’s been alone with this. Her mom, the move, everything.
“You’re not alone here,” I say, and mean it.
She turns away, busying herself with something on the table. “See you Monday, Roman.”
I leave before I say something else stupid, but the image of that tattoo and the fragments of words stays with me all day.
The group chat blows up within minutes.
Pucks
Rodriguez
CAP SAW HER TATTOO AND FORGOT HOW TO FUNCTION
Bro literally stopped breathing
Dex
His brain shut down. Full system failure.
Brody
In his defense, Doc’s ribs are... educational
Jake
You’re all children
I hate all of you
Rodriguez
That’s not a denial
Dex
He’s thinking about those ribs right now. Guaranteed.
Brody
Probably googling song lyrics trying to figure out what it says
I close the chat without responding, because Dex is right and I’m not giving them the satisfaction.
But later that night, I’m sitting in my kitchen with my phone, typing fragments of what I remember into a search engine like some kind of stalker.
“Waiting” and “heart” and “alone.”
Nothing comes up that feels right.
I try different combinations. Still nothing.
Which means it’s either obscure, or she had it custom written, or I’m a fucking creep for trying to decode her body art like it’s some kind of puzzle meant for me to solve.
I stare up at my ceiling.
Seven weeks ago, I thought she was competent and attractive and way too good at calling me on my bullshit. Now I’m lying awake thinking about the vulnerability in her voice when she said “when you’re alone,” and the way she turned away before I could see her face.