Chapter 25 Marnie
MARNIE
Three places I’m supposed to be, all at once.
Arena. Hospice. Roman’s bed.
I’m failing at all of them equally, which feels like an achievement in its own terrible way.
Mom’s having more bad days than good ones now. The hospice nurse keeps using phrases like “making her comfortable” and “when the time comes” and I want to scream at her that the time isn’t coming, it’s already here, it’s been here for weeks and I’m just pretending I don’t see it.
But I’m at the arena tonight because sitting beside Mom’s bed watching her not recognize me doesn’t help anyone.
At least here I can do something. Fix something. Save someone.
The universe apparently disagrees.
We’re up 3-1 going into the third when I hear it—that wet, sharp pop that every sports medicine professional dreads.
Not the usual thud of body against boards. Something breaking inside.
Rodriguez goes down and doesn’t get up.
“Fuck,” Jake mutters, already moving.
I’m onto the ice before I fully process what I’m doing, medical kit in hand, and by the time I reach him Rodriguez is white-faced and clutching his knee like he can physically hold it together.
“Something popped.” His voice is high, panicked. “Doc, something popped bad.”
I drop to my knees beside him, hands moving over his gear even though I can’t see anything through the shin guard and sock. Can’t assess until we get him off the ice, but the way he’s clenching his teeth is answer enough.
“Don’t move it,” I say, keeping my voice steady even though my hands want to shake. “Tell me where it hurts.”
“Inside. The knee.” He’s breathing too fast. “I felt it tear, Doc. I felt it.”
Roman appears, crouching on Rodriguez’s other side, and I’m grateful for his presence even as I focus on the kid in front of me who might have just ended his career at twenty-four.
“You’re okay,” Roman says. “Doc’s got you.”
“Cap, I heard it—”
“We don’t know anything yet,” I interrupt, because I can’t let him spiral. Can’t let him convince himself it’s over before I’ve even examined it. “Jake, we need to get him to medical.”
The crowd is silent in that awful way that means they know. That means they’re already mourning this kid’s season, maybe his career, and we haven’t even gotten him off the ice yet.
Between Roman and Jake we get Rodriguez onto the stretcher. I keep one hand on his shoulder as we move, trying to project calm I don’t feel.
The applause follows us into the tunnel—supportive and pitying in equal measure.
In the medical room I grab scissors immediately.
“Okay, I need to cut the tape and sock so I can actually see what we’re dealing with.”
My hands are steady as I cut through the sock and remove the shin guard underneath. When I finally expose the knee, it’s already angry and swollen.
Shit.
“Scale of one to ten,” I say, palpating carefully around the joint.
Rodriguez hisses. “Eight. Nine. Doc, I felt it pop—”
“Some injuries sound worse than they are.” It hurts to lie to him. “We won’t know until we image it.”
I’m trying to brace it as best I can when the door opens and Winters strolls in.
He doesn’t look at Rodriguez. Doesn’t acknowledge the terrified kid on my table. Just looks at me with that expression I’ve come to hate—the one that says players are inconvenient obstacles to his perfect season plan.
“How bad?” he asks.
Not “Is he okay?” Not “What can we do?” Just “How bad?”
Like Rodriguez is equipment that needs a damage assessment.
“MCL involvement at minimum. Possible ACL. Won’t know the full extent until we get an MRI.”
“Timeline?”
The urge to scream or sigh at him is overwhelming. I’m so tired. Tired of splitting myself between dying and living, tired of Winters questioning every decision I make, tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m absolutely not.
“It all depends on imaging—”
“Worst case,” he interrupts. “What’s the worst case timeline?”
I look at Rodriguez—at this kid who makes terrible TikToks and asks me about his love life and just last week brought me coffee without being asked—and something inside me snaps.
“Let’s get diagnostic imaging before we start discussing worst cases.”
“Dr. Walker.” Winters’ voice drops into that patronizing register that makes my head ache. “I need realistic timelines for roster planning.”
“Absolutely not.” My voice is flat. Cold. “We image first. Then we know what we’re dealing with.”
Barrett appears in the doorway, looking between us.
Winters continues like I haven’t spoken. “If we tape this right, he could make the Midwest swing in two days—”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
The room goes silent.
Even Barrett looks shocked.
“That’s—” Barrett starts, then stops. “That seems aggressive even for you, James.”
But Winters isn’t looking at Barrett. He’s looking at me, and I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. The decision being made about what I just cost myself.
I don’t care.
“What you need,” I say, voice shaking with barely controlled fury, “is diagnostic imaging before making treatment decisions. I’m not giving you timelines based on nothing.
We image first, diagnose second, treat third.
That’s how medicine works when you give a shit about the patient’s long-term health. ”
Rodriguez is staring at me, mouth partially open.
Roman’s frozen against the wall.
Barrett looks like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion.
And Winters—Winters looks like he wants to end my career right here and now.
“I’ve been managing sports injuries for twenty years—”
“And yet somehow we keep having players with complications from being rushed back.” I stand, positioning myself between Winters and Rodriguez without consciously deciding to.
“He gets an MRI tonight. We assess tomorrow. We make a treatment plan based on actual evidence. Not whatever timeline makes your roster convenient.”
“This conversation isn’t over,” Winters says, voice tight.
“You’re right. But it is paused until we have actual data.” I turn back to Rodriguez, dismissing Winters completely. “Come on. I’m driving you.”
Winters stares at my back. I can feel it—the weight of his anger, his wounded pride, the target I just painted on myself.
Then he leaves, and I’m left standing there with shaking hands and the full realization of what I just did crashing over me.
“Doc,” Rodriguez says quietly. “You just told Winters to fuck off.”
“I told him to wait for evidence.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “If he interpreted that as ‘fuck off,’ that’s his problem.”
“Marnie—” Barrett starts.
“Save it.” I grab my keys, suddenly desperate to get out of this room, away from the concern in everyone’s eyes. “I need to get him to imaging. We’ll deal with whatever fallout later.”
Roman catches my arm as I pass. “Let me come with you.”
“You have a game to finish.”
“I don’t care—”
“I do.” I pull away gently. “I need to do this. Just—win the game, okay?”
The imaging takes two hours.
Two hours of Rodriguez asking scared questions while I try to project confidence I don’t have. Two hours of my phone staying mercifully silent—no calls from the hospice facility, which means Mom’s stable, which is the best I can hope for these days.
The MRI shows Grade 2 MCL sprain. No ACL involvement.
“That’s good, right?” Rodriguez asks when I explain. “No surgery?”
“Very good. You got lucky.” I help him back to the car. “But you’re still out minimum six weeks. Possibly longer depending on healing.”
“Winters is going to lose his shit.”
“Winters can lose whatever he wants. Your career matters more than his convenience.”
I drop Rodriguez at his apartment with ice and elevation instructions, then sit in my car in his parking lot and let myself fall apart.
What did I just do?
I called out a man with years of seniority in front of the captain, coach, and an injured player. Told him he’s been doing his job wrong. Made myself his enemy when I’m already stretched too thin, when Mom is dying, when I can barely hold myself together on a good day.
I pull out my phone to call Roman and see he’s already texted me.
Roman
How are you?
How am I? I’m exhausted. I’m terrified. I just torpedoed my career and I don’t even regret it because Rodriguez deserves better than being taped up and shoved on a plane two days after a knee injury.
Exhausted. But okay.
Roman
You were incredible tonight.
I was stupid. Winters is going to make me pay for that.
Roman
Let him try.
I wish I could have the same certainty Roman has, thinking he can protect me from this. Thinking he can fix it with his captaincy and his connections and his stubborn refusal to let anyone he loves get hurt.
Roman
You did the right thing. Rodriguez’s career vs Winters’ ego? Not even a choice.
I know. Still scared.
Roman
Go home and get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.
But I don’t go home.
I drive to the hospice facility because suddenly I need to see my mom, need to sit beside her and remember what actually matters when everything else is falling apart.
She’s sleeping when I arrive, breathing steady and even.
I sink into the chair I’ve worn smooth over the past weeks and just watch her.
“I think I just ruined my career,” I tell her. “Told off the team doctor. It was the right thing but probably really stupid.”
She doesn’t answer. She hasn’t really been lucid in two days.
But talking to her helps anyway, even if it’s just me talking to myself.
“Roman thinks he can fix it. He’s probably already planning something overprotective and well-meaning.” I reach for her hand, careful of the IV. “You’d tell me that standing up for what’s right is always worth it. That a player’s well-being matters more than someone’s feelings.”
Her hand is cool in mine. Fragile.
Every time I hold it I’m aware that these moments are numbered, that soon I’ll be sitting beside an empty bed remembering the weight of her hand in mine.
“I love you,” I whisper. “And I’m going to be okay. Even when you’re gone. Even when Winters comes after me. I’m going to figure out how to be okay.”
I stay another hour before exhaustion drives me to Roman’s apartment.
He opens the door before I can knock, like he’s been waiting.
He pulls me inside, wrapping me in his arms. “How’s your mom?”
“Sleeping.” I lean into him, suddenly so tired I can barely stand. “How was the rest of the game?”
“We won. I got an assist.” His arms tighten. “But I was thinking about you.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You went to war with Winters, drove an injured player to the hospital, then went to see your dying mother.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You’re allowed to not be fine.”
And just like that I’m crying.
Real, ugly crying into his chest while he holds me and doesn’t try to fix it or tell me it’ll be okay or offer empty platitudes.
“I’m so tired,” I admit between sobs. “Of all of it. Mom dying. Winters. Trying to be good at my job when I can barely function. I’m so fucking tired, Roman.”
“I know.” His hand rubs circles on my back. “But we’re going to handle it.”
“You can’t fix this one.”
“Watch me.”
The way he says it makes me pull back to look at him. “What are you planning?”
“Nothing you need to worry about right now.” He kisses my forehead. “Come on. Shower. Bed. We’ll deal with everything else tomorrow.”
“I smell like hospital.”
“I don’t care.”
But he runs me a shower anyway, and when I’m clean and wearing his shirt he pulls me into bed and holds me until exhaustion finally drags me under.
I dream about Mom. About Rodriguez. About Winters’ face when I told him off.
About all the ways this could go wrong.