“Let me determine that.” Her hands are on my shoulder, gentle but thorough, and I flinch when she finds the worst spot. “Can you skate off or do we need the stretcher?”
“I canskate.”
“With help.” It’s not a question.
Rodriguez and Dex get me up, help me off the ice while the crowd claps and sticks tap against the boards, but I barely register any of it.
Just focused on getting to the tunnel without falling over.
In the exam room,Marnie’s all business—cleaning the cut above my eye, examining my shoulder with careful, methodical touches that still make me grit my teeth.
“Rotate for me,” she instructs, and I do even though it hurts like hell.
But it moves. Full range of motion.
“We need imaging to be sure, but I think you avoided a separation. Significant contusion. Deep bruising.” Her voice is tight, controlled in a way that tells me she’s barely holding it together. “You’ll be sore for weeks.”
“So I can go back out.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Marnie—”
“No.” She steps in front of me and her eyes are fierce. “You just got driven headfirst into the boards. You’re bleeding. Your shoulder’s already swelling. You’re done for tonight.”
“The game’s not over. We’re up by one with three minutes left?—”
“I don’t care.”
“Well I do?—”
“Roman.” Her voice cracks, just for a second, just enough for me to see past the professional mask. “You’re not going back out there.”
I look at her and realize she’s scared.
Trying to hide it behind clinical detachment, but I can see her hands shake slightly when she reaches for the ice pack, in the tightness around her eyes, in the way she won’t quite meet my gaze.
“I’m okay,” I say quietly.
“You’re not.” She presses the ice pack to my shoulder way harder than necessary. “You could have separated it. Could have broken your collarbone. Could have—” She stops and takes a deep breath. “You’re not going back.”
Through the walls we can hear the crowd roaring, the game still going, my team out there without me.
And Marnie’s looking at me like I might disappear if she takes her eyes off me for even a second.
“They’ll lose without me,” I say.
“They might.” She shakes her head. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps the ice pressed to my shoulder and won’t meet my eyes.
The crowd erupts. Final buzzer.
We won. 4-3.
Without me on the ice for the final three minutes, my team held on and won.
