Chapter 28 Marnie
MARNIE
“Barrett wants to see you,” he says. “His office. Now.”
My stomach drops. “About what?”
“Didn’t say. Just said to send you up when you got in.” He shifts his weight, drops his voice. “Marnie, Winters has been in Barrett’s office since seven. With a folder.”
The world tilts slightly.
A folder means documentation. Documentation means he’s not just complaining.
“Did Barrett sound mad?”
“He sounded careful. You know that voice he uses when he’s choosing his words?” Jake squeezes my shoulder. “Just be prepared for this to be more than a conversation.”
Each step toward Barrett’s office feels like walking toward an execution.
My hands are shaking as I reach the door and knock.
“Come in.”
Barrett’s behind his desk, expression neutral in that careful way that means he’s in official mode. Winters is sitting across from him, and there’s a manila folder on the desk between them.
Thick with papers.
My throat goes completely dry.
“Dr. Walker, have a seat,” Barrett says.
I sit, trying to keep my hands steady in my lap. Professional. Calm. Like I’m not internally spiraling.
“Thank you for coming,” Barrett starts. “Dr. Winters has brought up some concerns about recent events. I thought it would be best to address them directly.”
Winters leans forward and I see the satisfaction in his eyes. He’s been waiting for this moment. Planning it.
“The photograph from earlier this week,” Barrett says. “The one with you and Rodriguez at the restaurant.”
The Rodriguez photo. Not my relationship with Roman.
The relief is so sharp it almost makes me dizzy, immediately followed by guilt because this is still bad.
“The optics are extremely concerning,” Winters says, his voice taking on that lecturing tone I’ve come to hate. “A member of medical staff at a romantic dinner with an injured player she’s actively treating raises obvious questions about professional boundaries and judgment.”
“It wasn’t a romantic dinner.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Rodriguez and I are friends. He was bored, I needed a break. We got food. That’s all it was.”
“The photograph suggests otherwise.” Winters pulls out a printed copy, the one that’s been everywhere.
Me leaning back, mouth open, Rodriguez leaning toward me.
Out of context it does look intimate. “The public perception is that inappropriate relationships are occurring between medical staff and players. This reflects poorly on the organization and calls into question your professional judgment.”
“The public perception is wrong—”
“Nevertheless, perception matters.” He’s not done. He pulls out another document. “And while this particular incident may be innocent, as you claim, it fits into a pattern of behavior I’ve been observing and documenting over the past several months.”
Pattern. That word makes my blood run cold.
“What pattern?” My voice comes out smaller than I intend.
“Extended PT sessions with certain players well beyond standard protocol.” He slides a spreadsheet across the desk and my stomach drops.
Numbers. Dates. Session counts.
“Captain Varga received forty-seven individual PT sessions during his shoulder rehabilitation. The next highest player received nineteen. That’s not standard care—that’s preferential treatment.”
“His injury was more severe,” I say immediately, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “The session count was appropriate for—”
“Or,” Winters interrupts, “it reflects a personal relationship affecting your medical judgment.”
The implication hangs in the air.
He knows. He doesn’t have proof but he knows, and he’s building toward it piece by piece.
“Additionally,” Winters continues, pulling out more papers like he’s presenting evidence at trial, “there have been concerns about your interactions with senior medical staff. On November 8th, during Rodriguez’s knee injury evaluation, you became hostile and insubordinate when I attempted to discuss appropriate treatment timelines. ”
“I was protecting my patient—”
“You told me, and I quote, ‘twenty years of experience getting it wrong.’” His voice is ice. “In front of the patient. Undermining my medical authority.”
The memory crashes back—Rodriguez on the table, Winters trying to rush him back, my grief-fueled rage.
I shouldn’t have said it like that. I know I shouldn’t have.
“The concern was valid,” I manage. “Rodriguez needed imaging before any timeline discussions.”
“The concern may have been valid. The delivery was not.” Winters looks at Barrett.
“This is part of a larger pattern—questionable judgment, inappropriate boundaries with players, conflicts with senior medical staff. Individually, these incidents might be overlooked. Together, they paint a concerning picture.”
Barrett’s been quiet through all of this. Now he leans forward, studies the papers.
The silence stretches so long I start to panic, my heart pounding so loud I’m sure they can hear it.
Finally, he closes the folder.
“Dr. Winters, I appreciate you bringing these concerns through proper channels.” His voice is measured.
“However, I need to be clear about something. Dr. Walker’s medical decisions, when examined in context, have been exemplary.
Our injury rates are down. Player recovery timelines have improved.
By every metric that matters, she’s been an asset. ”
I can breathe again. Slightly.
“The photograph with Rodriguez, taken in isolation, isn’t grounds for disciplinary action. You’re allowed to have dinner with friends, Dr. Walker. Including players.” He pauses. “The optics aren’t ideal, but optics alone don’t constitute policy violations.”
“But the pattern—” Winters starts.
“The pattern you’re describing is based on subjective interpretation.
” Barrett’s voice is firm. “Captain Varga’s sessions were medically appropriate.
The Rodriguez discussion was a professional disagreement.
And a dinner with a player that both parties confirm was innocent is not evidence of anything except Dr. Walker having a life outside this facility. ”
I can see Winters’ jaw tighten. He’s not getting what he wanted.
“However,” Barrett adds, and my brief relief evaporates, “I need you to understand something, Dr. Walker. Dr. Winters has raised these concerns. While I don’t share his interpretation, the fact that they’ve been raised means you’re under scrutiny now.
Fair or not, perception matters in this organization. ”
“I understand.”
“Going forward, I need you to be extremely mindful of optics. Document every medical decision thoroughly. Treatment plans, session notes, every conversation about patient care. All of it.” He looks at me directly.
“Maintain clear professional boundaries in public settings where your actions could be misconstrued.”
“I will.”
Barrett turns away from me. “Dr. Winters, thank you for bringing these concerns through proper channels. For now, I’m satisfied that Dr. Walker’s medical decisions have been appropriate.
If you have specific incidents that concern you going forward, please document them and bring them to my attention. ”
Winters stands, clearly unsatisfied. “Of course.” His eyes cut to me. “I’ll continue to observe.”
It’s a threat. Clear and direct.
After he leaves, Barrett levels me with a look. “You understand what just happened?”
“He’s building a case against me.”
“Yes. And I shut it down today because his evidence doesn’t hold up.
But Marnie—” He leans forward. “He’s actively watching you.
Looking for anything to twist into unprofessional behavior.
One more incident that looks questionable, even if it’s innocent, and he’ll be back with more ammunition.
And next time I might not be able to help. ”
The weight of it crashes over me.
“I haven’t done anything unprofessional—”
“I know. But optics matter more than truth in situations like this.” He taps the closed folder. “That photo looked bad. Your defense of Rodriguez—which was medically correct—came across as emotional. Winters is framing everything as evidence of compromised judgment.”
“So what do I do?”
“Document everything. Every decision, every interaction with players. Especially with Dr. Winters.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “And be careful, Marnie. Very careful. He’s looking for patterns. Don’t give him any.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“How are you holding up? With your mother?”
“I’m managing.”
“That’s not an answer.” He studies me. “You’re dealing with a lot. Maybe too much to handle alone.”
I think about Roman. About how this conversation would go if Barrett knew. About those forty-seven PT sessions and what they’d look like if Winters had proof of why.
“I’ll be okay,” I say.
Barrett doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. “Take care of yourself. The team needs you.”
I make it to my car before the panic fully hits.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely turn on the engine. I sit there in the parking lot, trying to breathe, trying to process what just happened.
Winters has a folder. With documentation. Session counts and dates and quotes and evidence that he’s been watching, calculating, building a case piece by piece.
And he knows. Maybe not specifically about Roman, but he suspects. The forty-seven sessions. The “certain players” comment. He’s looking for proof, and if he finds it—
My phone buzzes.
Roman
How’d it go with Barrett?
How does he know about the meeting? Did Jake tell him? Does everyone know?
Fine. Just a conversation about optics.
Roman
That’s bullshit and we both know it. Come over tonight. We’ll talk.
Can’t. Have to see Mom.
Roman
After?
I can’t.
I can’t go to his apartment and pretend everything’s fine when Winters is watching, documenting, building his case. Can’t risk anyone seeing my car there. Can’t risk anything that looks like preferential treatment or inappropriate boundaries or any of the things Winters is already accusing me of.
Not tonight.
Roman
Don’t shut me out Marnie.
I’m fine. I promise. Talk tomorrow.
I silence my phone before he can respond.
That night I sit in Mom’s hospice room and she doesn’t recognize me.
Calls me by her sister’s name. Asks when I’m going back to Portland.
I hold her hand and don’t correct her because what’s the point?
“I’m in trouble,” I tell her sleeping form hours later. “Winters is coming after me and I don’t know how to stop it. And Roman wants to help but if Winters finds out about us, that’s it. That’s proof of everything he’s been implying.”
She doesn’t answer. Just breathes steadily, peacefully, while I fall apart in the chair beside her.
I reach for my phone that’s been buzzing in my purse for the past half hour.
Roman
Winters doesn’t have anything on you. Let me help.
But he can’t help. That’s the problem.
His help looks like forty-seven PT sessions. Looks like preferential treatment. Looks like exactly what Winters is building his case around.
I need some space. Just for a few days. To figure this out.
Roman
No.
Please.
He doesn’t respond for a long time. Long enough that I think maybe he’s done, maybe he’s finally tired of my panic and my pulling away and my inability to just handle things like a functional adult.
Roman
Okay. Space. But Marnie? This doesn’t solve anything. You know that, right?
I do know that.
But I don’t know what else to do.
Three days.
Three days of maintaining perfect professional distance. Of documenting every interaction. Of avoiding Roman in hallways and training rooms and anywhere someone might see and add it to Winters’ folder.
Three days of Jake asking if I’m okay and me lying. Of Rodriguez looking concerned during his PT sessions. Of the team dinner invitation from Dex that I can’t accept because what if Winters finds out, what if someone takes a photo, what if it’s more ammunition.
Three days of going to hospice after work and sitting with Mom who doesn’t know me more often than she does. Of falling asleep in that chair because at least there no one’s watching, documenting, building cases.
Three days of Roman respecting the space I asked for, even though I can see it’s killing him. Can see it in the careful way he doesn’t approach me. The way he stopped texting. The way he looks at me across the training room like I’m something fragile that might shatter if he gets too close.
He’s giving me what I asked for.
And it’s destroying us both.
On the third night, I’m sitting in the dark staring at unanswered texts from Roman. At the team dinner invitation I declined. At the calendar reminder that Mom’s been in hospice for weeks and the nurse keeps using words like “any day now.”
I’m trying to protect my career. Trying to protect Roman from being dragged into Winters’ case. Trying to protect something.
But all I’m actually doing is sitting alone, watching everything I care about slip away while I document it in meticulous detail.
My phone chimes and I almost don’t check it. I can’t stand to read Roman’s messages and it’s breaking my heart to ignore them.
Barrett
Team dinner next Saturday. Spouses and significant others invited. Hope to see you there.
I stare at the message for a long time.