She nods slowly. “Okay. I’ll tell him today.”
“Good.” I kiss her forehead. “Now I really need to go or I’m going to miss the flight.”
She walks me to the door, helps me with my bags. “Text me when you land?”
“Always.”
“And when you get to the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“And after the game?”
“Marnie.” I kiss her gently, then harder, wanting to show her how much I’ll miss her. “I’ll text you every chance I get. I promise.”
“Okay.” She brushes her hands over my shoulder, worried even now. “Go win some games.”
“Yes ma’am.”
One more kiss and then I’m out the door, heading for my truck, already counting down the hours until I’m back.
Four and a half days. I can do four and a half days.
Probably.
38
MARNIE
One weekafter they’re back from the road trip, I’m settling into my new role which still feels surreal.
My office is bigger now with actual windows, a desk that doesn’t wobble, and space for file cabinets that aren’t overflowing. Barrett moved me up here two days ago with a handshake and a “don’t fuck it up” that I’m choosing to interpret as a vote of confidence.
But today I have a figure skater on my schedule.
Juliette Chastain. Twenty-two years old, stress fracture in her ankle that’s been healing for eight weeks. She trains at the rink downtown, teaches beginner classes to pay for ice time, and according to her file, she’s been religious about following her treatment plan.
“Flex and point,” I instruct, watching her movement carefully. “Any pain?”
“Just tightness,” Juliette replies, posture perfect even sitting on the treatment table. “Not the sharp pain from last week.”
“Good. The inflammation is definitely decreasing.” I test her range of motion, noting the improvement. “How’s it feeling during practice?”
Juliette has the kind of elegance that makes even sitting still look graceful—dark hair in a sleek bun, the focused discipline of someone who’s spent their life perfecting impossible physical feats. She’s exactly the type of athlete I love working with: dedicated, smart, actually follows instructions.
“I modified the jumps like you suggested,” she says. “No triples, focusing on spins and footwork. It’s frustrating, but better than not skating at all.”
“Smart decision. If we keep progressing like this, we can start reintroducing jumps gradually next month.”
She nods, though disappointment flickers across her face. “The qualifiers are in March. I won’t be ready.”
It’s not a question. She already knows.
“Probably not,” I agree, because lying to athletes helps no one. “But you’ll have other competitions. And if you rush this, you risk chronic issues that could end your career entirely.”
“That’s what my coach says.” She sighs, flexing her ankle carefully. “I’m trying to be patient. It’s just—this was supposed to be my year.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
