Chapter 3
JULIETTE
Mid-January
The Puckaneers’ practice and medical facility is way nicer than the training rink downtown.
That’s usually my first thought every morning as I badge through security and walk across the giant team logo etched into the polished concrete floor and stand face-to-face with the glass wall that opens into a massive stadium arena with padded seats rising up on either side.
It’s one of three rinks in this facility and it’s usually full of spectators on the occasional days that the team allows the public to watch their practices.
I turn and head toward the back of the facility, past the team shop, the snack bar, and the massive staircase that leads to the second floor viewing area.
My path toward the medical offices usually triggers my second thought of the day which is whether I’ll run into Rodriguez, and whether I’ll have the energy to deal with him if I do.
Today the answer is no. Definitely no.
I got maybe four hours of sleep last night, chugged a double espresso in my car this morning, and my ankle is still pissed about last month’s unauthorized skating session when I had a partial breakdown on the ice the morning after Garrett broke up with me.
The joint throbs with each step, a reminder of Jake’s lecture about setting back my recovery timeline.
He was right. I know he was right. But I needed the ice more than I needed to follow doctor’s orders that day.
Marnie’s office is down a hallway lined with photos of the team.
Championship wins, action shots, candid moments from practice.
I walk past a photo of Rodriguez mid-celebration after a goal, his arms above his head, stick raised in triumph, with the widest grin on his face.
He looks like he’s never had a serious thought in his entire life.
I took that stupid peppermint coffee last month. Sat in my car after he walked away and drank the whole thing and I’m still mad at myself for it.
Marnie glances up at me as I walk in, already smiling.
“Juliette. Come in, sit down. How’s the ankle?”
“Healing.” I sit in the chair across from her desk. “Jake says another three weeks before I can start attempting doubles again.”
“That’s good progress.”
“It feels slow.”
“Recovery always does.” She closes her laptop and gives me her full attention, which is slightly intimidating. “But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. I have a proposition.”
My stomach does a nervous flip. Marnie hired me to shadow her until grad school starts in August, months of watching her work with the team, learning the practical side of sports medicine that textbooks don’t teach.
It was supposed to be experience I could use on future applications.
Between that and teaching beginner skating classes three times a week, I’ve been scraping by on my savings from competition prize money and what my parents send when I let them.
It’s not sustainable, but it’s only until August. I can make it work.
“What kind of proposition?”
“The kind where I give you actual responsibility instead of just having you watch me work.” She leans back in her chair.
“My promotion means I need help managing recovery schedules, coordinating with the PT team, updating athlete files. Admin work, mostly, but it’s the foundation of everything we do here. Nothing happens without it.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“I want you to learn the systems first. How we track injuries, how we communicate with coaches, how we balance player health with team needs. It’s not glamorous, but it’s essential.” She pauses. “And it pays. With a flexible schedule around your teaching.”
I blink at her because it means more money that I could use for rent instead of watching my savings account drain every month.
“You’re offering me a real job.”
“I’m offering you a position that will look incredible on future applications and actually pay you for your time.
You’d still shadow me for the hands-on stuff, but you’d also be doing meaningful work that keeps this operation running.
” Marnie tilts her head. “You’re smart, you’re organized, and you understand athletic injury from personal experience. You’re exactly what I need.”
“When would I start?”
“Today, if you want. I can show you the database, introduce you to the full PT staff, get you set up with access to the scheduling software.”
I should think about this, should consider whether I can handle more responsibility on top of my teaching schedule and my own rehab, should be practical and measured.
“Yes. I want to do it.”
“Good.” Marnie stands up. “Let’s get started.”
An hour later, I’m drowning in scheduling software and injury reports and medical terminology I thought I understood but apparently don’t.
My eyes burn slightly from staring at the computer screen, but Marnie is patient, walking me through each system, each protocol, explaining how the organization tracks and manages player health.
It’s both overwhelming and fascinating, exactly the kind of challenge I need to keep my brain occupied with something other than my own mess.
“This is the recovery schedule,” Marnie explains, pulling up a color-coded spreadsheet. “Green means cleared for full practice. Yellow means modified training. Red means no contact, rehab only.”
I scan the names. Most are green. A few yellows scattered throughout. One red: Rodriguez.
“What actually happened to Rodriguez? He’s been limping around with a brace for a while.” I ask before I can stop myself.
“MCL sprain. Grade 2. He’s been out for a while now.” Marnie clicks on his name, pulling up detailed notes. “Should be cleared for full contact in another week or so, but he’s been pushing hard. Showed up to practice yesterday and tried to convince Barrett he was ready.”
“Was he?”
“Not even close. Jake had to physically stop him from getting on the ice.” She closes the file. “He’s a terrible patient. Won’t follow instructions, thinks he knows better than medical professionals, constantly tries to flirt his way out of doing his rehab exercises properly.”
It makes complete sense with everything I’ve seen. Rodriguez seems like exactly the type to think rules don’t apply to him.
“Anyway.” Marnie moves to the next screen. “Part of your job will be tracking these schedules and flagging anyone who’s trying to rush their recovery. We have final say on medical clearance, not the coaches and definitely not the players.”
“Got it.”
We spend another hour going through protocols before Marnie’s phone buzzes on the desk. She checks it and sighs.
“I have to deal with something. Can you finish entering these updates into the system? Just follow the template I showed you.”
“Sure.”
She leaves, and suddenly I’m alone in her office with a computer full of information about professional hockey players and their injuries. It feels slightly wrong, like I’m being given access to protected information that the general public shouldn’t be privy to.
I work through the updates methodically, focusing on the repetitive task.
It’s soothing, in a way. Data entry requires just enough concentration to keep everything else out of my mind.
Thoughts like the fact that Garrett has been radio silent since I blocked him.
Like the fact that Olivia keeps texting me about wedding details and I have to pretend everything is fine.
Like the fact that I’m going to have to see Garrett in February and smile through the whole thing.
I’m halfway through the list when someone knocks on the open door.
“Hey, Doc, you got a second—oh.”
Rodriguez. Of course it’s Rodriguez.
He’s in workout gear, and looks genuinely surprised to see me sitting at Marnie’s desk. Like this wasn’t one of his another attempts to ‘bump into me’ in the facility.
“She’s not here,” I say without looking up from the computer.
“I can see that.” He doesn’t leave. Just stands there, filling the doorway. “What are you doing in her office?”
“Working.”
“Working on what?”
I almost tell him. The words are right there because the problem is that he’s so open and easy to talk to, but I catch myself.
“None of your business.”
“Wow. Okay.” He leans against the doorframe. “You know, most people answer simple questions without making it sound like a personal attack.”
I save my work and close the laptop. “Most people take a hint when someone clearly doesn’t want to talk to them.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Hinting?”
“No, I’m being pretty obvious about it.”
“Right. Obviously hostile for no reason I can figure out.”
“I have reasons.”
“Care to share them?”
“Not particularly.” I stand up and gather my things. “If you need Marnie, she’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
I move toward the door, but he’s blocking it. I don’t think it’s intentional, but he’s just standing there, all six-foot-two of him taking up space like he has every right to be exactly where he is.
“Excuse me,” I say, my pulse hammering in my throat like I’ve been running. Which is stupid. He’s just standing there.
He doesn’t move. “You know, JuJu, if I did something to piss you off, you could just tell me what it was instead of doing this whole ice queen thing.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Then why do you look at me like you can’t stand to be in the same room as me?”
Because I don’t trust myself around you. Because you were kind to me when I was falling apart and I don’t know what to do with that.
Because you’re not like Garrett at all, and that scares me. You’re chaos. You’re genuine in a way that feels dangerous. You look at me like you actually see something worth knowing, and I can’t afford to believe that’s real.
I don’t say any of that.
“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I say instead. “Or my time. Or my attention. Can you just move?”
He looks at me with his brow slightly furrowed, and I can’t quite read his expression. Hurt maybe, or frustration, but it’s gone before I can figure it out.