“The hit. It was clean. Hard, but legal. The refs overreacted with the major.”
Something inside me snaps.
“The hit that could have separated your shoulder? That left you bleeding on the ice? That hit?”
“It’s hockey, Marnie.” He says it like I’m being unreasonable. “Physical contact is part of the game.”
“Physical contact, yes. Deliberately dangerous hits from behind, no.” I can’t keep the edge from my voice. “He targeted you. That’s not hockey, that’s assault.”
“I’ve delivered plenty of hits just like it. It’s the job.”
“Well yourjobis stupid then!” I snap, all the fear from earlier finding an outlet. “Andyou’restupid for defending it.”
He actually has the nerve to look amused. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“You think this is funny?” I’m pacing now. “You were motionless on the ice, Roman. Do you have any idea what that felt like?”
“It wasn’t that bad?—”
“It could have been!” The words come out too loud. “A different angle, a different force—you could have been seriously injured. Career-ending injured. And you’re going to sit here and say ‘oh it wasa clean hit. it’s just hockey.’ as if that makes it better?” I can hear how ridiculous I sound, but I can’t stop myself.
His expression shifts. “You’re scared.”
“Of course I’m scared!” I throw my hands up. “I watched someone I—” I catch myself before the word comes out, before I say something I can’t take back. “Someone important to me get hurt, and you’re acting like it’s no big deal.”
“I didn’t say you were overreacting.”
“You didn’t have to. Your tone said it for you.”
“My tone?” Now he sounds annoyed. “I’m just trying to explain that the guy was doing his job?—”
“His job is to hurt people?”
“His job is physical enforcement. Just like mine.” He stands up, wincing slightly but trying to hide it. “I can’t condemn him for a hit I’ve delivered a hundred times.”
And there it is. The crux of the problem.
He can’t see the danger because he lives in it every single day, because acknowledging how bad it could have been means acknowledging how bad it could be every time he steps on the ice.
“You were reckless,” I say, voice shaking. “Going into that corner when you could see him coming.”
His jaw tightens. “I was playing hockey.”
“No, you were taking an unnecessary risk. You’d already moved the puck—there was no reason to put yourself in that position.”
“So now you’re critiquing my playing strategy?” His voice takes on an edge. “I didn’t realize hockey tactics were part of your PT doctorate.”
The jab lands exactly where he meant it to—right in the blurry line between professional and personal, between what I know as his PT and what I fear as his girlfriend.
“I’m not critiquing as your PT,” I say, hurt bleeding through the anger. “I’m expressing concern as your girlfriend who had to treat your injury while pretending I wasn’tterrified.”
“I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need you to tell me how to play my position.”
“Fine.” I grab my keys, needing to get out before I say something I’ll actually regret. “Then I won’t.”
“Where are you going?”
“Somewhere where you won’t have to listen to my concerns.”
