She picks up a five-pound weight—the same ones I’ve been complaining about—and demonstrates a slow external rotation. The movement is controlled, precise, and when she holds it at end range, I can see every small muscle in her shoulder and back engaging.
“Your turn.”
I copy her movement, and she watches with an intensity that makes me aware of every micro-adjustment.
“Slower,” she says, moving closer. “Feel here.” She places her hand on my shoulder blade. “This should fire before your deltoid. The movement starts from your back, not your arm.”
Her hand is warm against my skin. She’s close enough that if Ileaned forward slightly I could touch my lips to her throat. Not that I’ve been thinking about that constantly.
“Better,” she murmurs, her hand still on my back. “Now hold at end range. Feel that burn? That’s what we’re building. Not strength—you have plenty of that. Control.”
We go through five more reps, her hand guiding the movement, and I have to focus on the burn in my muscles so I don’t do something stupid like admit how much I want her.
“Yo Doc, what’s that say?” Rodriguez’s voice breaks the moment.
We both turn to find half the team mysteriously needing something from the treatment room.
“What?” Marnie asks.
“Your ink. Is that... lyrics?”
She looks down, realizes her shirt has ridden up during the demonstration, exposing script along her ribs. I crane around to get a better look just as she yanks the hem down quickly, face flushing.
“It’s nothing.”
But I already saw it. Words curling along her ribs in delicate script.
“Yeah, what does it say?” Dex asks, because of course he’s closer and got a better look.
“Can you all please—” She’s completely flustered now, nothing like the woman who usually gives as good as she gets.
“Out,” I say, using my captain voice. “Everyone out.”
They file out slowly. Rodriguez definitely filming. Brody stage-whispering about “Cap trying to read her ribs.” Jake trying to herd them like cats.
When they’re gone, Marnie’s still holding her shirt down, looking anywhere but at me.
“We should finish the session,” she says, professional mask sliding back on. “You still need to do internal rotations.”
But something’s shifted. She’s shown me something she didn’t mean to, a little crack in her armor of her finallyletting me in.
The rest of the session is charged with a different tension. Not frustration or attraction, but something deeper. Connection, maybe.
As I’m leaving, she says, “Don’t do extra core work without telling me.”
“Don’t have mysterious tattoos if you don’t want people asking about them.”
“It’s not mysterious. It’s just... private.”
“Song lyrics are private?”
She tries not to smile. “Get out of here.”
“Monday at seven?”
“Seven sharp.”
I pause at the door. “If it makes you feel better, I only saw part of it. Something about waiting and hearts.”
