Chapter 26 Marnie
MARNIE
The team’s wheels-up is at noon for a quick Midwest swing—St. Louis tonight, Dallas tomorrow, back Thursday.
I watch from the medical office window as buses load, trying not to feel pathetic about how empty Roman’s text from twenty minutes ago made me feel.
Roman
Wish you were coming. Hate leaving you right now.
I’ll be fine. Win some games.
Roman
Call me if you need anything. I mean it.
I won’t call. We both know I won’t call.
I’ll sit in hospice rooms or stare at my apartment walls or work extra hours and pretend I’m fine until he’s back.
Rodriguez is leaning against the facility wall on crutches, watching the last bus pull away with the expression of someone watching their friends leave for a party they can’t attend.
“This sucks,” he announces when I approach.
“Your knee will thank you.”
“My knee is ungrateful.” He shifts his weight. “What’s your excuse? You’re cleared for travel.”
The truth is I can’t stomach the thought of being on a plane, in a hotel, pretending to be normal while Mom’s here dying. Can’t be that far away when the call comes.
Because it’s coming. The hospice nurses have made that clear.
“Just need to be here right now,” I say instead.
“Yeah. That makes sense.” We stand there watching the empty parking lot.
“Hey. I’ve been trapped in my apartment for two days and I’m losing my mind.
You look like you could use a break from staring at hospice walls.
Want to hang out tonight? We can do exercises, order food, watch bad TV, not think about sad shit for a few hours? ”
I should say no. Should go to hospice, sit with Mom even though she won’t know I’m there, be the dutiful daughter instead of the exhausted one running on fumes.
But the thought of another night in that room, holding her hand while she sleeps, waiting for something I can’t stop—
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “But we’re doing your exercises first.”
“Deal. Six o’clock?”
I spend the afternoon at hospice anyway because guilt is more powerful than exhaustion.
Mom’s sleeping, breathing steady but shallow. The nurse tells me she had a “good morning”—which apparently means she ate half her breakfast and knew what year it was.
I missed it. Was at the arena watching buses leave while Mom was lucid.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her sleeping form, even though she can’t hear me. “I’m trying to be everywhere and failing at all of it.”
My phone buzzes.
Rodriguez
Still good for tonight?
See you at six.
Rodriguez’s apartment is cleaner than expected for a barely-adult hockey player.
He answers the door on crutches wearing sweats and that crooked grin that probably gets him out of most trouble.
“You came! I half thought you’d bail.”
“Considered it.” I step inside. “How’s the knee?”
“Bored. Lonely. Ready to be useful.” But he’s already on the couch, pulling up his pant leg. “Been doing everything you said. Ice, elevation. Being annoyingly perfect about it.”
I check his progress. The swelling’s down significantly. “This looks really good. You’ve been keeping it stabilized.”
“Told you. I’m not trying to end my career before I’m thirty.” He stretches. “Though everyone’s in St. Louis and I’m stuck here. It’s depressing.”
“You’re healing. That’s what matters.”
“I know.” He can’t hold still, constantly shifting. “How was hospice?”
“She was sleeping.”
“Yeah, you look exhausted.” He’s already reaching for his phone. “We’re getting actual food. Not whatever sad thing you were planning to call dinner.”
“Rodriguez—”
“I’m starving, you definitely haven’t eaten today, and I need to test my mobility.” He’s pulling on a hoodie. “We’re going out.”
“You’re on crutches—”
“Which means I need practice navigating real environments. Very important for recovery.” He grins. “Come on, Doc. Let me buy you dinner. Consider it payment for saving me from another night alone with my thoughts.”
And maybe it’s exhaustion or loneliness or the fact that Roman’s in St. Louis and Mom’s sleeping and I can’t sit in my empty apartment for one more night—but I agree.
The restaurant is nice. Really nice.
With actual tablecloths, dim lighting, the kind of place people go for anniversaries or proposals.
The hostess takes one look at Rodriguez on his crutches and her expression shifts to something sympathetic and halfway flirty.
“Table for two?” she asks, and there’s a quality to her voice that makes me want to clarify we’re not on a date, that this is purely medical.
“Yeah, and we need lots of bread,” Rodriguez says before I can correct her. “My PT here forgot to eat today and I’m staging an intervention.”
“I didn’t forget—”
“You definitely did. It’s a medical emergency.” He turns to the hostess with his most charming smile. “Can we get bread immediately? Like, before we even sit down? She’s a flight risk and I need to trap her with carbs.”
The hostess laughs and leads us to a corner booth.
Rodriguez maneuvers himself in with surprising grace, then immediately pulls out his phone.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Documenting my recovery journey.” He’s already filming. “Day three post-injury. Out in public. Testing mobility and social interaction skills.” He angles the phone toward me. “Say hi to my followers, Doc.”
“I’m not saying hi to your followers.”
“She’s camera shy,” Rodriguez tells his phone conspiratorially. “But she’s the reason I’m going to come back better than ever. Best PT in the league. Also she looks exhausted because she’s a workaholic who forgets basic human needs like food and sleep.”
“Rodriguez—”
“It’s for content. People love recovery content. Very inspirational.” He sets his phone against the wall, angled to capture both of us. “Plus this way my followers can see I’m actually following protocol.”
“You can’t just film me without asking.”
“I’m asking now. Can I film dinner for my recovery journey content? I promise to make you look good.”
“Two extra sets of resistance bands tomorrow.”
“Deal.” He’s grinning. “This’ll be great. People eat up the behind-the-scenes medical stuff.”
The waiter arrives with bread—warm, crusty, smells like heaven—and Rodriguez orders for both of us without consulting the menu. Appetizers, entrees, enough food to feed a small army.
When the waiter leaves, I stare at him. “I can order my own food.”
“You were going to order a salad and call it a meal. I’m intervening.” He tears off a piece of bread, offers it to me. “Trust me. The food here is life-changing.”
He’s not wrong.
When the food arrives, it’s incredible, rich and perfectly seasoned and exactly what I didn’t know I needed. I’m halfway through my pasta when I realize I’m actually starving, that I can’t remember my last real meal.
“Better?” Rodriguez asks, watching me eat.
“Yeah. This is really good. I hate that you were right.”
“I’m right about most things. People just don’t listen.” He’s filming again, this time just the food. “Okay, recovery tip number seven: eat actual food. Not protein bars. Real food with actual flavor.”
“Are you seriously making videos right now?”
“Educational content.” He sets down his phone. “Also, my followers keep asking when I’m coming back. This way they can see the process.”
He grabs another piece of bread and his expression shifts to something mischievous. “Watch this.”
Before I can ask what he’s doing, he tosses the bread in the air and catches it in his mouth.
“Did you see that? Perfect catch. Hand-eye coordination still elite.” He’s way too proud of himself. “Knee might be broken but the reflexes are fine.”
“That’s not a hockey skill. That’s a party trick.”
“It’s a coordination skill. Very important for recovery.” He tears off another piece, holds it up. “Your turn.”
“I’m not catching bread in my mouth.”
“Why not? It’s fun. When’s the last time you did something just for fun?”
I try to remember but can’t. Everything lately has been work or Mom or stress or lying awake at 3 AM cataloging everything that could go wrong.
Nothing has been just fun. Uncomplicated. Stupid in a good way.
“Fine. But if I choke, I’m revealing your real name to your followers.”
He clutches his chest in mock outrage. “You would never!” He holds up the bread. “Okay, lean back. Open your mouth. I’m going to toss it and you’re going to catch it like the competent professional you are.”
“This is so dumb.”
“That’s what makes it fun. Ready?”
I lean back, open my mouth, feeling absolutely absurd.
He tosses the bread. It hits my nose.
“Okay, that was my bad. Terrible throw.” He’s laughing now. “Again.”
“Rodriguez—”
“Come on, we’re getting the perfect catch. For content. For posterity.”
He tears off another piece and I’m laughing now too, protests dying because this is absurd and fun and exactly what I needed. Something that isn’t heavy.
This time the bread goes wide left, hitting the wall behind me.
“Okay, I’m terrible at this,” he announces to his phone. “Third time’s the charm though.”
“Three tries and then I’m done.”
“Deal. Ready?”
I lean back again, mouth open, and I’m aware this probably looks crazy but I don’t care.
Rodriguez winds up like he’s throwing a pitch and—
A flash goes off.
We both freeze.
“Did someone just take our picture?” I ask, bread falling onto the table.
Rodriguez looks toward the restaurant entrance where a guy with a professional camera is already walking away quickly.
“I need to text Cap,” Rodriguez says, already typing. “Before this hits social media.”
My stomach drops. “Roman.”
“Yeah. He needs to hear it from me, not see it online.” His fingers are flying. “Don’t worry. He’ll understand. We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
But wrong doesn’t matter. Appearance matters. Context matters.
And that photo is going to look like something it absolutely wasn’t.
We’re both aware now of being watched, of phones potentially pointed at us, of every laugh being documented by people who don’t know us.
Rodriguez pays, waving off my protests and we leave quickly.
Outside, he pauses on his crutches. “Hey Doc, just s—tonight was fun. You needed it. I could see it on your face when you showed up.”
“Yeah. I did. Thank you.”
“And don’t worry about the photo. Cap knows you. He trusts you. Anyone who matters knows we were just being idiots.”
“It’s not the people who matter I’m worried about.”
“Fair. But screw them. You’re brilliant at your job and you deserve to eat dinner without it being a scandal.”
I drive home with my stomach in knots, phone mercifully silent for now.
Maybe Rodriguez is wrong. Maybe no one cares. Maybe that photographer wasn’t even—
My phone explodes.
Twelve texts. Six missed calls. Notifications I definitely didn’t ask for.
Roman
Rodriguez told me about the photos. You okay?
Jake
Doc. IG is having a moment. Don’t look at the comments.
Elliot
Ignore the internet. We all know it’s bullshit.
I pull over before opening apps because I need to see how bad it is.
The photo is everywhere.
Me leaning back, mouth open, eyes on Rodriguez. Him leaning toward me with his hand raised, both of us laughing.
Out of context it looks intimate. Romantic. Like he’s feeding me something seductively instead of throwing bread like a dumbass.
The comments make my stomach turn.
Another puck bunny going after players smh
Isn’t she supposed to be TREATING him? So unprofessional
This is why women shouldn’t work in male sports
Rodriguez can do better tbh
She’s pretty but this screams conflict of interest
Bet she’s sleeping with half the team
That last one makes my hands shake. Makes me want to throw my phone into traffic and scream until my throat bleeds.
I stop scrolling because it only gets worse. Because strangers who’ve never met me, never seen me work, never watched me fight for these players’ health—they’ve decided I’m unprofessional. A distraction. A problem.
And Winters is going to see this.
Is probably already seeing this. Already planning exactly how to use it against me.
My phone rings. Roman.
“I can explain—”
“Are you okay?” His voice is tight, barely controlled. “Rodriguez texted but I saw the comments before he could warn me. They’re tearing you apart.”
“We were just—it was bread. He was throwing bread and I was catching it and—” I sound insane. “It looks bad but it wasn’t anything.”
“I know it wasn’t anything. I know you.” His certainty cuts through the panic slightly. “I’m not calling because I’m jealous. I’m calling because you’re getting destroyed online and I’m in St. Louis and I can’t fix it.”
The frustration in his voice does something to me.
“Have you read the comments?”
“Some.”
“Don’t read any more. Promise me.”
“Is this what people actually think of me?”
“Marnie.” His voice softens. “They’re brutal and you don’t need that on top of everything else. Promise me you’ll stop looking.”
“Okay. I promise.” My voice cracks. “Are you sure you’re not mad?”
“About Rodriguez? No. He’s no Romeo.” There’s humor in his voice. “I’m just sorry I’m not there.”
“One more day.”
“Feels like too long.” He pauses. “You know none of this matters, right? The photos, the comments, what strangers think. I know what happened. The team knows. That’s what matters.”
“What if Winters sees it?”
He’s quiet. Long enough that I know he’s thinking the same thing I am.
That this is ammunition. That Winters has been waiting for something exactly like this.
“Then we deal with it,” Roman says finally.
“He’s going to use this against me.”
“Probably.” His voice is careful. “But I don’t want you to worry about that right now.”
“Roman, what are you—”
“Get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“What are you planning?”
“Just trust me. Okay?” His voice gentles. “And Marnie? Rodriguez said you were actually laughing tonight. Really laughing, not polite laughing. I’m glad. Even if someone ruined it.”
After we hang up, I sit in my parked car staring at my phone.
At the photo that’s everywhere now.
At the comments calling me unprofessional, a distraction, all the things Winters has been implying since I started.
And I know—with absolute certainty—that this isn’t over.
This is just giving Winters exactly what he needs to destroy me.