Seven weeks ago, I thought she was competent and attractive and way too good at calling me on my bullshit. Now I’m lying awake thinking about the vulnerability in her voice when she said “when you’re alone,” and the way she turned away before I could see her face.
9
MARNIE
Week 9 of Rehabilitation - Late September
I’m hidingin the supply closet eating a granola bar that expired in May when Jake finds me.
My office has windows. Anyone can see in. Anyone can knock. Anyone can ask me how I’m doing or if I’ve heard back from the oncologist about Mom’s latest scan or whether I think Roman’s shoulder is progressing on schedule.
In here, nobody asks me anything.
The granola bar tastes like cardboard but I keep eating because I forgot breakfast again. Forgot lunch too. Forgot to call Mom back after her appointment yesterday because I was too busy thinking about how Roman’s face does that thing when he’s concentrating—the tiny furrow between his eyebrows, the way his jaw sets.
I’m a terrible daughter and a worse physical therapist because I can’t stop thinking about my patient’s jaw.
The door swings open and light floods in.
“Doc, we need you in—whoa, are youokay?”
Jake’s staring at me like I’ve lost it. Which, fair. I’m sitting on an overturned bucket eating expired food in a closet.
“Fine.” I shove the last bite of the bar in my mouth. “What’s the emergency?”
“Luca’s having a meltdown about his pre-season routine being disrupted. Also, Winters wants to see you in Coach Barrett’s office.”
My stomach drops.
Of course he does. It’s Tuesday, which means it’s time for his bi-weekly attempt to undermine my treatment protocols.
“Tell Luca I’ll be there in ten.”
Winters is already in Coach Barrett’s office when I arrive, standing with his arms crossed like he’s auditioning for disappointed father of the year.
“Dr. Walker,” Barrett says, gesturing to a chair. “Dr. Winters has some concerns about recovery timelines.”
“Specifically Captain Varga’s,” Winters jumps in. “Twelve weeks is excessive for a dislocation.”
“It’s his fifth dislocation,” I say, staying seated while Winters looms. “The capsule integrity is severely compromised.”
“Our previous PT had him back in six weeks.”
“Hence the repetitive dislocations.”
Barrett holds up a hand before Winters can respond. “What’s the risk if we accelerate?”
“Surgery. Possibly career-ending.” I meet his eyes directly. “I can get him back faster, but he’ll be back in six months with number six. Or I can do it right.”
“The team needs their captain—” Winters starts.
“The team needs their captain for more than one season,” I interrupt.
There’s a pause. Footsteps slow in the hallway, then Roman’s voice from the doorway.
“She’s right.”
We all turn. He’s leaning against the doorframe, expression neutral.
