Like Rodriguez is equipment that needs a damage assessment.
“MCL involvement at minimum. Possible ACL. Won’t know the full extent until we get an MRI.”
“Timeline?”
The urge to scream or sigh at him is overwhelming. I’m so tired. Tired of splitting myself between dying and living, tired of Winters questioning every decision I make, tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m absolutely not.
“It all depends on imaging?—”
“Worst case,” he interrupts. “What’s the worst case timeline?”
I look at Rodriguez—at this kid who makes terrible TikToks and asks me about his love life and just last week brought me coffee without being asked—and something inside me snaps.
“Let’s get diagnostic imaging before we start discussing worst cases.”
“Dr. Walker.” Winters’ voice drops into that patronizing registerthat makes my head ache. “I need realistic timelines for roster planning.”
“Absolutely not.” My voice is flat. Cold. “We image first. Then we know what we’re dealing with.”
Barrett appears in the doorway, looking between us.
Winters continues like I haven’t spoken. “If we tape this right, he could make the Midwest swing in two days?—”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
The room goes silent.
Even Barrett looks shocked.
“That’s—” Barrett starts, then stops. “That seems aggressive even for you, James.”
But Winters isn’t looking at Barrett. He’s looking at me, and I can see the calculation happening behind his eyes. The decision being made about what I just cost myself.
I don’t care.
“What you need,” I say, voice shaking with barely controlled fury, “is diagnostic imaging before making treatment decisions. I’m not giving you timelines based on nothing. We image first, diagnose second, treat third. That’s how medicine works when you give a shit about the patient’s long-term health.”
Rodriguez is staring at me, mouth partially open.
Roman’s frozen against the wall.
Barrett looks like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion.
And Winters—Winters looks like he wants to end my career right here and now.
“I’ve been managing sports injuries for twenty years?—”
“And yet somehow we keep having players with complications from being rushed back.” I stand, positioning myself between Winters and Rodriguez without consciously deciding to. “He gets an MRI tonight. We assess tomorrow. We make a treatment plan based on actual evidence. Not whatever timeline makes your roster convenient.”
“This conversation isn’t over,” Winters says, voice tight.
“You’re right. But it is paused until we have actual data.” I turn back to Rodriguez, dismissing Winters completely. “Come on. I’m driving you.”
Winters stares at my back. I can feel it—the weight of his anger, his wounded pride, the target I just painted on myself.
Then he leaves, and I’m left standing there with shaking hands and the full realization of what I just did crashing over me.
“Doc,” Rodriguez says quietly. “You just told Winters to fuck off.”
