Chapter 9 Marnie
MARNIE
I’m hiding in the supply closet eating a granola bar that expired in May when Jake finds me.
My office has windows. Anyone can see in. Anyone can knock. Anyone can ask me how I’m doing or if I’ve heard back from the oncologist about Mom’s latest scan or whether I think Roman’s shoulder is progressing on schedule.
In here, nobody asks me anything.
The granola bar tastes like cardboard but I keep eating because I forgot breakfast again.
Forgot lunch too. Forgot to call Mom back after her appointment yesterday because I was too busy thinking about how Roman’s face does that thing when he’s concentrating—the tiny furrow between his eyebrows, the way his jaw sets.
I’m a terrible daughter and a worse physical therapist because I can’t stop thinking about my patient’s jaw.
The door swings open and light floods in.
“Doc, we need you in—whoa, are you okay?”
Jake’s staring at me like I’ve lost it. Which, fair. I’m sitting on an overturned bucket eating expired food in a closet.
“Fine.” I shove the last bite of the bar in my mouth. “What’s the emergency?”
“Luca’s having a meltdown about his pre-season routine being disrupted. Also, Winters wants to see you in Coach Barrett’s office.”
My stomach drops.
Of course he does. It’s Tuesday, which means it’s time for his bi-weekly attempt to undermine my treatment protocols.
“Tell Luca I’ll be there in ten.”
Winters is already in Coach Barrett’s office when I arrive, standing with his arms crossed like he’s auditioning for disappointed father of the year.
“Dr. Walker,” Barrett says, gesturing to a chair. “Dr. Winters has some concerns about recovery timelines.”
“Specifically Captain Varga’s,” Winters jumps in. “Twelve weeks is excessive for a dislocation.”
“It’s his fifth dislocation,” I say, staying seated while Winters looms. “The capsule integrity is severely compromised.”
“Our previous PT had him back in six weeks.”
“Hence the repetitive dislocations.”
Barrett holds up a hand before Winters can respond. “What’s the risk if we accelerate?”
“Surgery. Possibly career-ending.” I meet his eyes directly. “I can get him back faster, but he’ll be back in six months with number six. Or I can do it right.”
“The team needs their captain—” Winters starts.
“The team needs their captain for more than one season,” I interrupt.
There’s a pause. Footsteps slow in the hallway, then Roman’s voice from the doorway.
“She’s right.”
We all turn. He’s leaning against the doorframe, expression neutral.
“This is a private meeting,” Winters says.
“About my shoulder.” Roman steps into the room. “Twelve weeks is reasonable. I’ve been pushing too hard for years. That’s on me, not Dr. Walker.”
Winters clearly wants to argue, but Roman’s word carries weight Barrett can’t ignore.
“Then we stick with the protocol,” Barrett says. “Dr. Winters, I think we’re done here.”
Winters leaves, clearly unhappy. Roman straightens from the doorframe and I stand to follow, but the movement is too quick. Lack of food and sleep and stress combine to make me sway slightly, and I have to catch the edge of the desk.
“Careful,” Roman says quietly as I brush past him.
Luca’s meltdown involves the training room ice packs being moved two inches to the left.
I spend twenty minutes negotiating ice pack placement like it’s international diplomacy, finally convincing him the new arrangement optimizes his pre-game routine.
By the time I handle three more player crises and check my phone, it’s almost time for my appointment with Brody and I haven’t eaten since that expired granola bar.
I can get through this. I have to get through it.
Ten minutes later I’m examining the foot of what has to be the friendliest hockey player I’ve ever met.
“Alright, Brody, let’s see how that ankle is holding up.” I pull up his file on my tablet with one hand while palpating the joint with the other.
Brody leans back on the treatment table, wiggling his foot in dramatic circles. “Feeling good, Doc! Did wind sprints yesterday, no catching, no grinding. I think we fixed it!”
“Let’s confirm that before you declare victory.” I start checking for swelling or instability.
The door opens behind me. I don’t look up, assuming it’s Jake.
“Just a minute—”
“Here.”
I turn to find Roman setting a foam cup on my desk, one with the logo of the expensive smoothie place down the street.
“Smoothie place brought samples.”
“Oh, nice.” Brody perks up. “They have more? I could use—”
“No.”
Just that. One word, flat as a pancake. Roman’s not even looking at Brody, just staring at me like he’s waiting for something.
“But if there are extras—” Brody tries again.
“There aren’t.”
“How do you know if you didn’t—”
Roman finally looks at him. Not a glare exactly, just that empty expression that makes rookies cry. “There. Aren’t. Any. More.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Brody stares at the closed door, then at the smoothie, then at me. “Did... did Cap just bring you lunch and basically tell me to fuck off?”
“He didn’t say that.” I continue the ankle exam, rotating his foot carefully. “Maybe he was in a good mood.”
“Roman doesn’t have good moods. He has hockey moods and slightly less hockey moods.” Brody watches me work. “But apparently he also has ‘buy Doc a ten-dollar smoothie’ moods.”
“He said it was a sample.”
“That place doesn’t do samples.”
“Maybe they started.”
“That’s a custom cup. See the label? It has your name on it. And a little smiley face.” He’s trying not to grin as he points at the cup that very clearly has my name written on it. “Roman ‘I eat the same three meals every day’ Varga went out of his way to buy you lunch.”
“You’re reading too much into it.”
“Am I? Because last season Rodriguez asked Roman if he could have one of his recovery bars—you know, the ones the team literally gives us for free—and Roman said he’d rather eat glass.”
I focus on the ankle examination, trying not to read meaning into the smoothie.
“Maybe he’s just protective of his food.”
“But not protective enough to keep him from giving it to you.” Brody’s voice is delighted. “Roman likes you. Like, likes you likes you.”
“Your ankle’s clear,” I say, making final notes. “Full contact, no restrictions.”
“This is the most exciting thing that’s happened all season!” He sits up. “Wait until I tell the guys—”
He hops down, then pauses. “Doc? The team’s been noticing. He’s different around you. Less...”
“Murder-faced?”
“I was going to say rigid, but yeah, that too.” He pauses at the door. “Enjoy your definitely-not-a-sample smoothie.”
I wait until he’s gone before taking a sip.
It’s perfect. And definitely not a sample.
My phone buzzes.
Mom
Bad day. Don’t come by tonight. Teresa’s here and I’m just going to sleep.
The text hits hard. Bad days are becoming more frequent.
Another text comes through.
Elliot
WAGs night tonight! Wine and book club. You’re coming. That wasn’t a question. I heard about Smoothie Gate. We need details.
“Smoothie Gate?” I say aloud.
“That’s what the group chat’s calling it,” Jake says cheerfully, walking into the suite. “Cap’s Great Smoothie Romance.”
“There’s no romance. Also how did Brody tell her that quickly?”
“Sure. He just randomly brings you lunch because you’re buddies.”
“We’re not—”
My phone buzzes again.
Elliot
See you at 7. No excuses.
I arrive at Elliot and Brody’s house fifteen minutes late because I changed outfits three times and I’m definitely still underdressed.
“Finally!” Elliot yanks me inside before I can knock. “We were about to send a search party.”
“I got lost,” I lie.
“GPS exists.” She hands me a very full glass of wine. “You know Goldie, that’s Sarah, my best friend visiting from Phoenix—”
“My husband plays for them,” Sarah interrupts, already topping off the single sip I took. “Tommy Harrington. He played with Brody before he got traded.”
“And I’m Chloe,” the blonde on the couch waves. “Anderson’s better half. Though that’s a low bar. I was just explaining why cowboys are superior to hockey players.”
“They are!” Sarah insists. “Chaps!”
“Hockey players have those thick thighs though,” Goldie counters, sprawled on the couch. “Dex can crack a walnut with his.”
“That’s disturbing,” Chloe says, then pauses. “Anderson probably could too.”
“We tested it,” Goldie admits. “He can.”
“LADIES!” Brody’s head appears from the basement doorway. “Quick question about the wine—”
“No,” Elliot says without looking. “Whatever it is, no.”
“But I just wanted to—”
“Basement. Now. Or I tell them about Porkocalypse.”
He disappears immediately.
“Pork...what?” I ask.
“He tried to grind an entire pork shoulder in the kitchen disposal and flooded the first floor,” Sarah supplies. “The fire department was called.”
“Anyway,” Elliot says loudly, “we’re discussing this month’s selection: ‘Star Crossed Skates.’”
“The one where he’s a hockey player and she’s a figure skater who hates hockey players?” Chloe holds up the book. “Literary excellence.”
“I have questions about chapter thirty-five,” Sarah announces. “The bathroom counter scene. Is the height difference really that convenient? Because Tommy’s six-two and I still need a step-stool for that angle.”
“Maybe fictional hockey players are proportioned differently,” Goldie suggests.
“How would that affect logistics?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Everyone turns to stare at me.
“From a medical perspective,” I add weakly.
“Right, medical.” Sarah grins. “Marnie, you work with shirtless hockey players. Have you noticed any... unique proportions?”
“I’ve noticed that Roman has a tattoo on his thigh,” I blurt out, then immediately want to die.
The room explodes.
“His THIGH?” Chloe shrieks.
“Upper thigh or lower thigh?” Goldie demands.
“How much of his thigh have you seen?” Sarah’s leaning forward like this is the most important information she’ll ever receive.
“It’s for PT—”
“Physical therapy or personal thirst?” Elliot asks.
“LADIES!” Brody’s back. “Someone’s at the door.”