Ah. There’s the real question, hidden under all this careful dancing around. “Especially then. Your best players set the example. If they take care of their bodies, the culture shifts.”
Barrett nods slowly, like I’ve passed some test I didn’t know I was taking. “Winters won’t like it. He’s been here twelve years.”
“Then Winters can adapt or find someone who shares his philosophy about facilitating injuries.”
My phone vibrates again in my bag. Seven times. Barrett notices my reflex glance toward it and nods.
“Take it. I know that look.”
I answer before I can second-guess myself. “This is Marnie.”
“Ms. Walker, do you have a moment to discuss your mother’s scan results?”
I turn slightly away, though Barrett’s tactfully studying his phone. “Yes.”
“The tumors haven’t progressed. They’re stable. We’re looking at maintaining current treatment protocols.”
Stable. Not shrinking, not cured, but not worse. In pancreatic cancer, stable is the best news you can get without venturing into miracle territory. I’m suddenly aware that I’ve been holding my breath, that my free hand is gripping the strap of my bag hard enough to hurt.
“Thank you,” I manage, ending the call before my voice does something embarrassing.
“Good news?” Barrett asks quietly.
“Not bad news.” I pocket my phone, force my shoulders back into professional territory. “My mother has pancreatic cancer. The scans were stable.”
“Hell.” He says it simply, but there’s understanding underneath. “That’s why you’re relocating.”
“I grew up here, but I’ve already moved back to help her, and this job would be a bonus. Doing what I love with my hometown team.” I pause. “If I get it.”
“When.” He corrects. “When you get it. I’ve already decided. Just need to navigate the politics.”
We’ve reached the tunnel that leads rinkside, and I’m still mentally processing the casual job offer when he pivots back to interview mode.
“How do you handle difficult personalities? Players who think they know better than medical staff?”
The question is pointed. “Depends on whether they’re being difficult because they’re genuinely concerned or because they don’t like being told what to do.”
“And if it’s the latter?”
I think about some of the athletes I’ve worked with over the years, the ones who fought every protocol until their bodies forced them to listen. “Most resistance comes from fear—of losing playing time, oflooking weak, of career implications. Address the underlying concern and the resistance usually disappears.”
“Usually?”
“Sometimes you just have to be more stubborn than they are.” I glance at him. “Most athletes respond to confidence and competence. Show them you know what you’re doing and genuinely care about their long-term health, they’ll typically come around.”
Barrett actually laughs. “Excellent. Because we have a few players who might test that theory.”
Before I can ask what he means, there’s a commotion from the direction of the rink. Shouting, the distinctive sound of bodies colliding with ice, then cursing creative enough to make me mentally catalog which Eastern European player it probably came from.
“For the love of—” Barrett mutters, already moving. “Ten bucks says someone’s done something stupid.”
We head toward the noise. I can hear Winters’ voice now, sharp with irritation, mixed with what sounds like several players talking over each other.
“MEDIC!”
The shout carries real urgency. Barrett breaks into a jog and I follow, my heels clicking against the tunnel floor, already running through injury assessment protocols in my head.
We push through the doors to the bench area and I immediately shift into clinical mode. There’s a cluster of players on the ice, someone down in the center. Even from here I can see the unnatural angle of a shoulder, the way the injured player’s holding his arm away from his body.
