Chapter 36 Marnie
MARNIE
Dex’s house is already loud when we arrive at seven-thirty.
Music playing, voices carrying from the back deck, the smell of grilled food in the air.
Roman’s hand finds the small of my back as we walk through the door.
Dex spots us immediately and grins. “There they are! The triumphant return of Dr. Walker!”
Several people turn, and I feel my face heat.
But then Goldie’s there, pulling me into a hug.
“So glad you’re back,” she says quietly. “Come get food. Dex made way too much as usual.”
The next hour passes in a blur of conversation and congratulations. People asking how I’m doing, telling me they’re glad Winters is gone, making sure I know they have my back.
Dinner is loud and chaotic in the best way. Goldie’s kids are there—Blythe asking a million questions.
I’m pouring wine when I get to Goldie’s glass and she covers it with her hand, giving me a tiny head shake.
Our eyes meet and she grins at me.
I don’t say anything. Just smile back and squeeze her shoulder gently as I move past.
The food is incredible, the conversation loud and easy. Everyone’s chirping each other about games, about Rodriguez’s latest social media disaster.
Rodriguez hobbles over on his crutches, looking pleased with himself.
“Doc, guess who just got cleared for pool work next week?”
“You, apparently. Though I haven’t seen the updated report yet.”
“Jake sent it over this afternoon. Ahead of schedule!” He grins. “Which means I can finally stop doing your boring exercises and move on to something else.”
“My exercises aren’t boring.”
“They’re very boring,” Rodriguez says cheerfully. “But effective, I guess.”
“Who’s been your most difficult patient?” Luca asks from across the table. “Besides Captain Stubborn here.”
“Hey,” Roman says mildly.
“You added thirty pounds to your prescribed exercises,” I remind him.
“Once.”
“Three times.”
“The first time was a test.”
“Of what?”
“Whether you were paying attention.”
The words are delivered completely serious, but there’s something in his eyes that makes me think he might actually be teasing.
“And the other two times?”
“Insurance.”
I laugh. “Insurance against what? Proper healing?”
“Boredom,” he says, still perfectly serious. “Your exercises are boring.”
“Well you never seemed bored, showing up early to every appointment.”
Dex perks up. “Wait, early? How early?”
“Once it was forty-five minutes early,” I confirm. “Except that Friday you came in late, limping, complaining about your IT band.”
Roman goes very still beside me.
“Your left IT band,” I continue, something nagging at my memory. “You were very specific about it being the left.”
“It was tight,” Roman says carefully.
“But you were limping on your right leg.”
Silence. The entire table is watching now.
I turn to look at him fully, pieces finally clicking into place.
“Your IT band wasn’t hurt at all, was it?”
Roman’s mouth quirks slightly but he doesn’t answer.
“Oh my God.” The full picture crystallizes in my mind. “You came in limping on the wrong leg because you wanted—you thought I would—” I stop, face flaming as I realize exactly what treatment an IT band injury requires.
Deep tissue work. On the hip. On the glutes.
My hands on his—
“You faked an injury,” I say slowly, “to get me to massage your—” I can’t even say it. “And instead you got forty minutes in an ice bath with Jake?”
The table has gone completely silent.
Brody is watching with the fascination usually reserved for car crashes. Dex looks like Christmas came early.
“Forty-seven minutes,” Jake calls out from the other end of the table. “He refused to get out until you were free, but then Anderson’s session ran over.”
“Forty-seven minutes,” I repeat faintly. “You sat there freezing rather than admit you weren’t hurt?”
The mental image is too much—Roman, the most intimidating man in professional hockey, sitting in an ice bath for nearly an hour rather than admit he’d faked an injury to get me to touch him.
Roman’s jaw works, and for a moment I think he’s going to try to salvage this with his usual stone-faced authority.
Then he looks at my expression—the complete horror mixed with disbelief—and something cracks.
His mouth twitches. Then again.
And then—
Roman laughs.
Not a huff. Not a snort. An actual, genuine laugh that transforms his entire face.
It’s deep and rich and rusty, like expensive machinery that hasn’t been used in years. His eyes crinkle at the corners, showing lines I’ve never seen before, and his whole body shakes with it.
Everyone freezes.
Forks stop mid-air. Conversations die. Even Blythe goes silent.
We all stare as Roman Varga—Captain Murder Face—laughs at being exposed for the worst fake injury attempt in professional sports history.
“Holy shit,” Dex whispers.
“Language,” Goldie says automatically, but she’s staring at Roman too.
“Is Uncle Ro broken?” Blythe asks loudly. “His face is doing something weird.”
“He’s laughing, baby,” Goldie manages, though she sounds like she doesn’t quite believe it herself.
“I didn’t know he could do that,” Blythe says with perfect nine-year-old honesty. “Is it new?”
The innocent question makes Roman laugh harder, and the sound is so foreign, so unexpected, that I find myself laughing too.
Because this is ridiculous. This enormous, intimidating man faked an injury—badly—just to get my attention, suffered through nearly an hour of ice bath torture rather than admit it, and is now laughing at himself for getting caught.
“Your face,” Roman finally manages, still grinning. “You look so horrified.”
“You faked an injury to get me to touch your butt!” I protest, which sets off a round of laughter from the table.
“Technically,” Roman says, “I faked an injury to receive appropriate therapeutic treatment for a very real muscle tension issue.”
“You limped on the wrong leg!”
“I was committed to the performance.”
“You could have just asked for a massage like a normal person!”
Roman raises an eyebrow, heat in his eyes despite the lingering laughter. “Where’s the fun in that?”
The entire room explodes.
Dex is pounding the table. Anderson looks like he’s witnessing a miracle. Brody can barely breathe through his laughter.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Brody manages. “Our captain, the guy who makes rookies cry just by existing, faked a limp to get a massage?”
“The wrong limp!” Luca adds, delighted.
“Forty-seven minutes in an ice bath,” Anderson marvels. “That’s commitment.”
“Why did Uncle Ro want Dr. Marnie to touch his butt?” Blythe asks loudly, with the perfect timing only a nine-year-old can manage.
The table goes silent for exactly one second before Dex completely loses it, wheezing with laughter.
“Ooookay,” Goldie says quickly, standing up with the experience of someone who’s managed way too many inappropriate dinner conversations. “Bedtime. Right now.”
“But I want to know about the butt touching!” Blythe protests as Goldie herds her toward the door.
After they leave, the laughter continues.
Roman’s arm is around my shoulders now, no longer hiding, no longer careful about who sees.
“For the record,” he says, looking down at me, “it wasn’t just about getting you to touch me. Though that was definitely a motivating factor.”
“Then what was it about?”
“Getting you to touch me without you immediately analyzing whether it was appropriate or professional.” His thumb traces patterns on my shoulder. “You were so careful. I wanted to see what you’d be like if you stopped thinking so much.”
“That’s possibly the worst strategy I’ve ever heard.”
“It worked though. Eventually.”
“After you nearly got frostbite.”
“Worth it.”
The conversation shifts, the energy still high.
Rodriguez is shaking his head, grinning. “Cap faked an injury for a woman. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“At least Doc said yes to him eventually,” Brody points out. “Unlike your ice queen situation.”
Rodriguez’s face falls. “Don’t.”
“Oh, this should be good,” Dex says, leaning forward. “What happened this time?”
“Nothing happened—”
“He tried talking to her again yesterday,” Anderson supplies helpfully. “Outside the rink. She told him to stop following her.”
“I wasn’t following her—”
“You drove to the rink on your day off,” Brody says. “That’s following.”
“I was checking on my recovery timeline—”
“The rink you’re rehabbing at is here, not downtown,” I point out gently.
Rodriguez slumps in his chair. “Fine. I drove to the coffee shop. Maybe I walked to the rink after. Maybe I saw her leaving.”
“And maybe she told you to leave her alone?” Roman asks, voice flat.
“She said she wasn’t interested in being bothered while she was working,” Rodriguez mumbles.
“So stop bothering her,” several voices say at once.
“But what if she’s just—”
“She’s not,” I interrupt. “Rodriguez, if a woman tells you she’s not interested, she’s not interested. Showing up at her workplace repeatedly isn’t romantic. It’s—”
“Much ado about nothing?” Dex offers, grinning.
Rodriguez flips him off but there’s no heat in it. “Fine. I get it. I’ll leave her alone.”
The apartment is quiet after the noise of the party.
I kick off my shoes and sink onto the couch with a sigh.
“That was good,” I say. “Overwhelming, but good.”
“You did great.” Roman sits beside me, pulling me against his side. “Though I’m never living down the IT band thing.”
“You shouldn’t. That was possibly the worst plan I’ve ever heard.”
“It worked.”
“After forty-seven minutes of ice torture.”
“Still counts.”
I laugh, settling against him.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while. Then Roman shifts, reaching into his pocket.
“I have something for you,” he says.
“Roman, you don’t have to—”
“I know. But I want to.” He holds out a small box. “Was going to wait for the right moment, but I don’t think there is a right moment with grief.”
I take the box and open it slowly.
Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a small wind chime pendant—three tiny tubes that actually move when I lift it.
“Wind chimes,” I whisper.
“Your mom had them. On her porch.” His voice is quiet. “You said they reminded you of summer, of good days. Thought maybe you’d want to carry that with you.”
My throat closes.
I can picture them perfectly—the wind chimes on Mom’s back porch, the way they sounded on warm afternoons, how she’d sit outside and listen to them while doing crossword puzzles.
“Here.” Roman takes the necklace and fastens it around my neck. His fingers are gentle against my skin.
I touch the pendant and the tears come. Not the harsh, broken sobs from weeks ago. These are softer. Bittersweet.
“Thank you,” I manage. “It’s perfect.”
“She’d want you to remember the good stuff. Not just the end.”
“I know.” I wipe my eyes. “Some days it’s hard to remember anything except her dying.”
“Then I’ll remind you.” He pulls me closer. “About the crossword puzzles. About how she told me I’d better be good to you. About how she threatened to haunt me if I broke your heart.”
I laugh through tears. “She did say that.”
“She did. And she meant it.” His voice is serious. “So I’m not breaking your heart. Because I’m not being haunted by your mom. That woman was terrifying.”
“She liked you though.”
“I know. Still not risking it.”
I settle against his chest, fingers playing with the pendant. It makes a tiny sound when I move it, barely audible but there.
“The team’s gone most of next week,” Roman says eventually. “Four games in six days. I hate the timing.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m going back to work Monday.”
“I know. But—” He stops. “I don’t like the idea of you being alone that much. Not yet.”
He pulls me between his knees, hands settling on my hips.
“Goldie offered to check on you while we’re gone,” he says. “And Jake has opinions about your eating schedule.”
“You told them?”
“I didn’t have to. Goldie cornered me at dinner.” He pulls back to meet my eyes. “Said she recognized the look.”
“What look?”
“The look of someone who wants to be in two places at once.”
Something in my chest warms. “What did you tell her?”
“The truth. That I don’t want to leave you.” His thumb traces my hip bone. “She said the wives have a whole system for this. Taking care of each other when the team’s gone.”
“I’m not a wife.”
“Not yet,” he says quietly, then seems to catch himself. “I mean—”
“Roman.”
“Yeah?”
“Ask me again in a year.”
His hands tighten on my hips. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I touch the necklace. “Right now everything’s too raw. Too fresh. We’re both still figuring out how to function with our grief. But in a year—ask me in a year.”
He studies my face, then finally nods, as if cementing this conversation in his head.
“Okay. A year. I’m going to remember this conversation. And in a year, I’m asking.”
“I’m counting on it.”
He kisses me then, his tongue sliding across mine before I feel him pull back, laughing slightly.
“So,” he says, backing me toward the bedroom. “About that massage.”
“You’re not getting a massage. Your IT band is fine.”
“But what if it wasn’t? Hypothetically.” His hands find my hips. “How would that treatment go?”
“Hypothetically,” I say, playing along, “I’d have you lie face down and work the hip flexor and glute.”
“Face down?”
“That’s where the IT band is. On the side and back of the leg.”
“Hmm.” He sits on the bed, pulls me between his knees. “And would this hypothetical treatment involve direct contact?”
“It’s deep tissue work. So yes.”
“With your hands?”
“Obviously.”
“On my ass.”
“On your glutes. There’s a difference.”
“Is there though?” His hands slide up my thighs. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’d have your hands on my ass. For medical purposes.”
“For therapeutic purposes.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
He stands, turns me around so my back is to his chest, and leans down to murmur in my ear.
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you liked the idea. Back then. Of having a legitimate reason to touch me.”
My face burns. “That’s—I was being professional—”
“You were being professional. But you also blushed when I suggested it.” His hands trace up my sides. “I noticed. You always blush when you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t be thinking about.”
“I don’t—”
“You do. Like right now.” He turns me back around, grinning. “You’re blushing.”
“That’s because you’re—this is—” I stop, laughing. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m thorough,” he corrects, pulling me closer. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there though?”
He kisses me, and I feel him smiling through it.
My mom is gone. Winters is gone. The investigation is over.
Roman’s here. I’m going back to work. We have a year to figure ourselves out.
It’s not perfect. It’s not fixed.
But right now, with Roman’s hands on my waist and his laughter in my ear—
It’s enough.