Chapter 38 Marnie
MARNIE
One week after they’re back from the road trip, I’m settling into my new role which still feels surreal.
My office is bigger now with actual windows, a desk that doesn’t wobble, and space for file cabinets that aren’t overflowing. Barrett moved me up here two days ago with a handshake and a “don’t fuck it up” that I’m choosing to interpret as a vote of confidence.
But today I have a figure skater on my schedule.
Juliette Chastain. Twenty-two years old, stress fracture in her ankle that’s been healing for eight weeks. She trains at the rink downtown, teaches beginner classes to pay for ice time, and according to her file, she’s been religious about following her treatment plan.
“Flex and point,” I instruct, watching her movement carefully. “Any pain?”
“Just tightness,” Juliette replies, posture perfect even sitting on the treatment table. “Not the sharp pain from last week.”
“Good. The inflammation is definitely decreasing.” I test her range of motion, noting the improvement. “How’s it feeling during practice?”
Juliette has the kind of elegance that makes even sitting still look graceful—dark hair in a sleek bun, the focused discipline of someone who’s spent their life perfecting impossible physical feats.
She’s exactly the type of athlete I love working with: dedicated, smart, actually follows instructions.
“I modified the jumps like you suggested,” she says. “No triples, focusing on spins and footwork. It’s frustrating, but better than not skating at all.”
“Smart decision. If we keep progressing like this, we can start reintroducing jumps gradually next month.”
She nods, though disappointment flickers across her face. “The qualifiers are in March. I won’t be ready.”
It’s not a question. She already knows.
“Probably not,” I agree, because lying to athletes helps no one. “But you’ll have other competitions. And if you rush this, you risk chronic issues that could end your career entirely.”
“That’s what my coach says.” She sighs, flexing her ankle carefully. “I’m trying to be patient. It’s just—this was supposed to be my year.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
We sit with that for a moment. Then I shift gears. “You mentioned in your intake form that you just graduated? Kinesiology?”
Her expression brightens immediately. “Yes! University of Washington. I just got accepted into their graduate sports therapy program. It starts in August.”
“That’s fantastic. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. I figured if skating doesn’t—” She stops. “Well, I wanted a backup plan. And I love the science behind athletic performance.”
“It’s a great field. And having the athlete’s perspective makes you a better therapist. That lived experience is invaluable when working with—”
The treatment room door flies open with zero warning and hits the wall with a bang.
Rodriguez—all six-foot-two of frenetic energy and terrible timing—bursts inside, glancing frantically over his shoulder.
“Doc, you gotta help me,” he says in what he probably thinks is a whisper but is actually just slightly quieter than his normal volume. “Roman’s trying to kill me and I’m too young and pretty to die.”
I stare at him. “I’m with a patient, Rodriguez.”
He finally notices Juliette and his entire demeanor changes. The cocky class-clown persona falters. His eyes widen. His shoulders straighten.
“Oh. Hi.” Two syllables, completely devoid of his usual charm.
Juliette’s expression cools several degrees. “Rodriguez.”
The way she says his name—clipped, frosty, a dismissal that could freeze lava—suggests this isn’t their first interaction.
“Hey, JuJu—I mean, Juliette. I didn’t know you—you’re here.” He’s actually stammering. Rodriguez, who trash-talks opposing teams in two languages, is stammering. “For PT. Because of your ankle. Which I heard about. From—around.”
“Clearly,” she says, ice in every syllable.
Before this fascinating train-wreck can continue, thundering footsteps echo down the hallway. Rodriguez’s eyes widen comically.
“He’s coming. Please, Doc. Hide me.”
“What exactly did you do?” I ask, professional curiosity overriding my annoyance at the interrupted session.
Rodriguez peeks toward the door. “I might have convinced him to participate in a TikTok thing? And maybe filmed him? And possibly posted it?”
“You posted a video of Roman without his permission?” I clarify, already mentally calculating the size of the crater Rodriguez’s body will leave.
“It was for team social media engagement!” he defends. “The PR department is always saying we need more personality content!”
The door swings open. Roman appears, murder face fully activated.
“Rodriguez is hiding behind the treatment table,” I say immediately.
“Traitor!” Rodriguez gasps, popping up with wounded dignity.
“Clinical space,” I remind him sweetly. “Not a playground.”
Roman enters with the calm deliberation of someone who knows their prey is cornered. “You have exactly five seconds to delete that video before I make you eat your phone.”
“But it’s going viral!” Rodriguez protests. “Your grumpy cat face is internet gold, Cap!”
“One.”
“Think of the fans!”
“Two.”
“Okay, okay!” Rodriguez pulls out his phone, makes an exaggerated show of tapping buttons. “There. Gone. Erased from the internet forever.”
“And the backup I know you saved?”
Rodriguez’s face falls. “You’re no fun at all.”
“Three.”
“Fine! Deleted! Both copies!” He actually does it this time, showing Roman the phone. “See? Gone.”
Roman’s expression doesn’t change. “Good. Now get out.”
As Rodriguez slinks toward the door, he pauses beside Juliette. Some of his usual confidence returns, though it’s more restrained. “I, uh, see you at the rink sometimes. Your skating is incredible.”
Juliette looks genuinely surprised by the compliment. “Thank you.”
“She teaches beginner classes at four,” I supply helpfully, unable to resist.
The look Juliette shoots me could cut glass. Rodriguez’s expression brightens.
“Four? That’s—good to know. For scheduling purposes. Rink stuff.”
“Go,” Roman says flatly.
Rodriguez goes.
Roman glances at Juliette, his expression softening slightly. “Sorry for the interruption.”
“No problem, Captain,” she replies with perfect composure.
He nods once, then looks at me. “Dinner tonight?”
“Your place. Seven.”
“Good.” He kisses my forehead—brief, professional enough for the setting but still claiming—then follows Rodriguez out.
The door closes. Silence settles.
“I do not need you playing matchmaker,” Juliette says immediately, voice sharp.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, all innocent professionalism. “Now, back to your ankle. Let’s test some weight-bearing exercises.”
We work through the last half of the session, but I can see her mind is elsewhere. When we finish, I make a decision.
“So. Graduate program starting in August.”
“Yes.”
“That’s seven months away. What are you doing until then?”
She blinks. “Teaching. Training, carefully. Trying not to go broke paying for ice time.”
“What if I offered you a position here? Shadowing me, learning the practical side of sports therapy. Paid internship, flexible hours around your skating schedule.”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“You’re smart, dedicated, and you understand athlete psychology because you are one. You’d be an asset. And frankly, I could use the help—this promotion means I’m managing a bigger staff and I need someone who can learn the systems.” I pause. “Plus it would look great on your future applications.”
“I—yes. Absolutely yes.” She’s actually smiling now, the ice-queen facade cracking. “When would I start?”
“Next week? We can work out a schedule that doesn’t interfere with your training.”
“Thank you. Really. This is—thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Just one condition.”
“What?”
“You keep following your treatment plan exactly. No pushing the ankle before it’s ready. If you’re going to work here, you have to model good recovery practices.”
“Deal.” She stands, tests her weight on the ankle, nods satisfied. “I’ll see you next week then.”
“Next week.”
She leaves, and I’m updating her file when my phone chimes.
Roman
Rodriguez is an idiot.
What did he do now?
Roman
Asked Jake if figure skaters are “usually that hot or is it just her.”
And Jake said?
Roman
That Rodriguez should probably stop asking people about the woman who told him to stop following her around.
Sound advice.
Roman
He’s not going to take it.
Probably not.
I set my phone down and look around my new office. Director of Sports Medicine and Recovery. Juliette starting as an intern next week. The team healthy, Winters gone, my mom’s wind chime pendant warm against my chest.
It’s not perfect. It’s not fixed. I still miss my mom every day. Roman still has therapy every Thursday. We’re both still learning how to carry our grief.
But we’re doing it together.
And somehow, that makes all the difference.