“This is a private meeting,” Winters says.
“About my shoulder.” Roman steps into the room. “Twelve weeks is reasonable. I’ve been pushing too hard for years. That’s on me, not Dr. Walker.”
Winters clearly wants to argue, but Roman’s word carries weight Barrett can’t ignore.
“Then we stick with the protocol,” Barrett says. “Dr. Winters, I think we’re done here.”
Winters leaves, clearly unhappy. Roman straightens from the doorframe and I stand to follow, but the movement is too quick. Lack of food and sleep and stress combine to make me sway slightly, and I have to catch the edge of the desk.
“Careful,” Roman says quietly as I brush past him.
Luca’s meltdowninvolves the training room ice packs being moved two inches to the left.
I spend twenty minutes negotiating ice pack placement like it’s international diplomacy, finally convincing him the new arrangement optimizes his pre-game routine. By the time I handle three more player crises and check my phone, it’s almost time for my appointment with Brody and I haven’t eaten since that expired granola bar.
I can get through this. I have to get through it.
Ten minutes later I’m examining the foot of what has to be the friendliest hockey player I’ve ever met.
“Alright, Brody, let’s see how that ankle is holding up.” I pull up his file on my tablet with one hand while palpating the joint with the other.
Brody leans back on the treatment table, wiggling his foot in dramatic circles. “Feeling good, Doc! Did wind sprints yesterday, no catching, no grinding. I think we fixed it!”
“Let’s confirm that before you declare victory.” I start checking for swelling or instability.
The door opens behind me. I don’t look up, assuming it’s Jake.
“Just a minute?—”
“Here.”
I turn to find Roman setting a foam cup on my desk, one with the logo of the expensive smoothie place down the street.
“Smoothie place brought samples.”
“Oh, nice.” Brody perks up. “They have more? I could use?—”
“No.”
Just that. One word, flat as a pancake. Roman’s not even looking at Brody, just staring at me like he’s waiting for something.
“But if there are extras—” Brody tries again.
“There aren’t.”
“How do you know if you didn’t?—”
Roman finally looks at him. Not a glare exactly, just that empty expression that makes rookies cry. “There. Aren’t. Any. More.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Brody stares at the closed door, then at the smoothie, then at me. “Did... did Cap just bring you lunch and basically tell me to fuck off?”
“He didn’t say that.” I continue the ankle exam, rotating his foot carefully. “Maybe he was in a good mood.”
“Roman doesn’t have good moods. He has hockey moods and slightly less hockey moods.” Brody watches me work. “But apparently he also has ‘buy Doc a ten-dollar smoothie’ moods.”
“He said it was a sample.”
