Chapter 23 Marnie
MARNIE
I’ve treated thousands of hockey injuries.
I know the statistics on concussions, separated shoulders, broken bones. I understand intellectually that getting hurt is part of the job, that these men sign up for it willingly, that Roman has been playing this game his entire life and knows the risks better than I do.
None of that prepared me for the sickening crack of him hitting the boards at full speed, Martinez riding him the whole way down.
“Fuck,” Jake breathes beside me as Roman crumples to the ice and doesn’t get up immediately.
Everything slows.
The refs whistling. Medical signaling. Roman still not moving.
And me, frozen, my training short-circuited by the sight of him motionless on the ice.
“Dr. Walker.” Barrett’s voice cuts through the paralysis. “You’re up.”
Right. I’m not his girlfriend watching from the stands. I’m the team’s head PT and I have a job to do.
We’re in his apartment a few hours later, and the team actually pulled off a win despite the chaos.
That should feel good. Should feel like vindication.
But the sound of him hitting the boards is playing on repeat in my brain. The way he didn’t get up right away. The blood.
He’s sitting shirtless on the couch now, the bruising already spectacular across his shoulder and chest, scrolling through his phone looking at game highlights like he didn’t just get his bell rung an hour ago.
“It was a clean hit,” he says without looking up.
I freeze halfway to the kitchen and turn to look at him. “What did you just say?”
“The hit. It was clean. Hard, but legal. The refs overreacted with the major.”
Something inside me snaps.
“The hit that could have separated your shoulder? That left you bleeding on the ice? That hit?”
“It’s hockey, Marnie.” He says it like I’m being unreasonable. “Physical contact is part of the game.”
“Physical contact, yes. Deliberately dangerous hits from behind, no.” I can’t keep the edge from my voice. “He targeted you. That’s not hockey, that’s assault.”
“I’ve delivered plenty of hits just like it. It’s the job.”
“Well your job is stupid then!” I snap, all the fear from earlier finding an outlet. “And you’re stupid for defending it.”
He actually has the nerve to look amused. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“You think this is funny?” I’m pacing now. “You were motionless on the ice, Roman. Do you have any idea what that felt like?”
“It wasn’t that bad—”
“It could have been!” The words come out too loud.
“A different angle, a different force—you could have been seriously injured. Career-ending injured. And you’re going to sit here and say ‘oh it was a clean hit. it’s just hockey.
’ as if that makes it better?” I can hear how ridiculous I sound, but I can’t stop myself.
His expression shifts. “You’re scared.”
“Of course I’m scared!” I throw my hands up. “I watched someone I—” I catch myself before the word comes out, before I say something I can’t take back. “Someone important to me get hurt, and you’re acting like it’s no big deal.”
“I didn’t say you were overreacting.”
“You didn’t have to. Your tone said it for you.”
“My tone?” Now he sounds annoyed. “I’m just trying to explain that the guy was doing his job—”
“His job is to hurt people?”
“His job is physical enforcement. Just like mine.” He stands up, wincing slightly but trying to hide it. “I can’t condemn him for a hit I’ve delivered a hundred times.”
And there it is. The crux of the problem.
He can’t see the danger because he lives in it every single day, because acknowledging how bad it could have been means acknowledging how bad it could be every time he steps on the ice.
“You were reckless,” I say, voice shaking. “Going into that corner when you could see him coming.”
His jaw tightens. “I was playing hockey.”
“No, you were taking an unnecessary risk. You’d already moved the puck—there was no reason to put yourself in that position.”
“So now you’re critiquing my playing strategy?” His voice takes on an edge. “I didn’t realize hockey tactics were part of your PT doctorate.”
The jab lands exactly where he meant it to—right in the blurry line between professional and personal, between what I know as his PT and what I fear as his girlfriend.
“I’m not critiquing as your PT,” I say, hurt bleeding through the anger. “I’m expressing concern as your girlfriend who had to treat your injury while pretending I wasn’t terrified.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need you to tell me how to play my position.”
“Fine.” I grab my keys, needing to get out before I say something I’ll actually regret. “Then I won’t.”
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere where you won’t have to listen to my concerns.”
“Marnie, wait—”
“Ice your shoulder,” I cut him off, already at the door. “Twenty minutes on, twenty off. I’ll be back later.”
I leave before he can respond, before I have to see the confusion and hurt in his expression, before I can examine too closely why watching him get hurt feels like losing someone I love.
Love.
That’s what this is. This terrifying, overwhelming feeling that makes my chest ache and my hands shake and my professional judgment disappear.
I’m in love with Roman Varga.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it.
The hospice facility is quiet this late, just the soft beeping of monitors and hushed voices of night staff.
Mom’s room is at the end of the hall, light on under the door.
She’s awake when I slip inside, propped up slightly in bed, looking small and tired but her eyes are clear. Lucid. Thank God.
“Marnie?” She smiles, surprised. “It’s late, sweetheart.”
“I know. I just...” I sink into the chair beside her bed. “Needed to see you.”
Her expression sharpens with that mom-radar that apparently doesn’t fade even when your body’s shutting down. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” I press my palms against my eyes. “Roman got hurt tonight. During the game. He’s fine—just a bad hit—but watching it happen...”
“Scared you,” she finishes.
“Terrified me. And then we fought about it because he doesn’t understand why I’m so upset, and I couldn’t explain it without...” I trail off.
“Without admitting you’re in love with him?”
I glance up at her, startled.
“Marnie. I’m dying, not blind.” She reaches for my hand, her grip weaker than it used to be but still steady. “You’ve been in love with him for weeks. Maybe longer.”
“I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Why do you have to do anything?” She shifts slightly, wincing. “You love him. He clearly loves you—I’ve seen how he looks at you. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is I’m terrified.” My voice cracks. “I’m already losing you. What if I lose him too?”
Mom closes her eyes slowly before opening them to study my face with that look she gets when she’s choosing her words carefully.
“Baby, you can’t live your life scared of losing people. That’s not living at all.”
“But—”
“Listen to me.” Her hand squeezes mine. “I know it’s hard right now. I know you’re grieving me even while I’m still here. But you can’t let that fear stop you from loving someone who’s right in front of you.”
“What if something happens to him? His job is dangerous, Mom. Tonight proved that.”
“Life is dangerous, sweetheart. You could lose him in a car accident. A freak illness. Hell, he could choke on a piece of food.” She manages a small smile. “You can’t control any of that. All you can control is whether you’re brave enough to love him anyway.”
The simple truth of it sits heavy.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I know. But you’re also one of the strongest people I know.” Her eyes are starting to droop, exhaustion pulling at her. “Don’t push him away, Marnie.”
She’s asleep within minutes, her hand going slack in mine, breathing evening out into the rhythm I’ve become too familiar with lately.
I sit there for a while longer, watching her sleep, letting her words settle into the scared, angry parts of me.
Don’t push him away.
I’m pulling out my phone to text Roman when I hear footsteps in the hallway.
The door opens quietly and he’s there, still in his team sweats, hair disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it.
“Hey,” he says softly, hovering in the doorway. “Thought you might be here.”
“You should be icing your shoulder.”
“Already did. Twenty on, twenty off, just like my PT ordered.” He steps inside, glancing at Mom sleeping peacefully. “How is she?”
“Lucid for a bit. Gave me some mom advice.” I stand, suddenly exhausted. “Now she’s sleeping.”
“And you?” He’s watching me carefully. “How are you?”
“Tired. Scared. Sorry for walking out.”
“I’m sorry for being an insensitive ass about the hit.” He moves closer, mindful to keep his voice low. “You were right. I was defensive because I didn’t want to admit that it was a bad hit. Didn’t want to think about what that must have felt like for you to watch.”
“It felt like losing everything,” I admit quietly. “Which is ridiculous because you’re fine, but in that moment when you weren’t getting up, all I could think was that I’m already losing someone I love and I’m not sure I can handle losing someone else.”
The word slips out unplanned, hanging in the quiet room between us.
Roman’s eyes widen slightly, his breath catching.
“You don’t have to say anything,” I interrupt quickly, cheeks burning. “I didn’t mean to just blurt it out like that—”
“I love you too,” he says, cutting through my embarrassed backpedaling.
I stare at him. “What?”
“I love you.” He says it more certainly this time, like he’s been waiting to say it. “Have for a while now. Wasn’t sure how to tell you, or if it was too soon, or if you felt the same way.”
“Oh.” It’s all I can manage, my brain struggling to process this shift in the middle of a hospice room at midnight.
His good hand comes up to cup my face. “So when your mom says you need to stop being scared and just love me anyway? I’m completely on board with that plan.”
I laugh and lean into him. “My mom’s a smart woman.”
“She is.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “And she’s right. Life’s too short to waste time being scared.”
I glance back at her sleeping form. “I should probably go. Let her rest.”
“Come home with me?” he asks. “I’ll even let you check my shoulder again. Make sure I iced it properly.”
“Such a hardship.”
“I’m very brave about it.”
I grab my coat and we slip out quietly, his good arm coming around my waist in the hallway, solid and warm and alive.
And for the first time since watching him hit those boards, I can finally breathe properly again.