A ripple of surprised laughter from the watching players.
“Ready?”
He looks up at me with those strange gray eyes, intense and evaluating.
“Do your worst.”
2
ROMAN
“Do your worst.”
I say it like I’m daring her, because I am. Most medical staff handle me with kid gloves—intimidated by the C on my jersey, worried about pissing off the largest man on the team, generally treating me like I might shatter if they apply actual pressure. This woman in her soaked stockings and interview suit just called me an over-built, under-brained hockey stereotype, and instead of being pissed, I want to see what she does next.
She doesn’t count down or telegraph the movement. Just grips my arm with surprisingly strong hands for someone her size and pops my shoulder back in with one smooth motion that makes my vision white out for a second. The joint slides home with a wet sound that echoes off the glass, and my only reaction is a sharp inhale, quickly controlled. No point giving the boys more ammunition for their group chat.
Christ, that was clean. Better than our last PT, better than the specialist who took three tries last season and left me nauseated on the exam table. This woman knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Better?” Her fingers are already moving, pressing specificpoints around the joint, checking for nerve damage with the kind of knowledge that comes from doing this a hundred times.
“Yeah.” The word comes out surprised. My shoulder actually does feel better—not just relocated, but stable in a way it hasn’t been in months.
“Good. Ice, immobilization, imaging within twenty-four hours.” She helps me sit up, still supporting the joint like she doesn’t trust me not to immediately do something stupid. She’s not wrong. “And I mean actual rest, not whatever passes for it in your vocabulary.”
“It’s fine now.” I start to push myself up with my good arm. “Feels normal.”
She looks at me like I just told her the earth is flat. “It feels normal because endorphins are masking the damage. You’ve probably got capsule damage, labral tearing, and definite ligament strain.”
“You can’t know that without imaging.”
“Fifth dislocation? I absolutely can.” She stands, ice crystals falling off her skirt, and I’m abruptly aware that she just reset my shoulder in stockings on ice without hesitating. “Are you actively trying to end your career, or is this just recreational stupidity?”
The boys are loving this. I can hear Brody trying not to laugh, Dex making some comment to Rodriguez about getting this for social media. But I’m focused on this woman who clearly doesn’t give a shit that I’m six-six and could bench press her, who’s lecturing me like I’m a rookie instead of a seven-year veteran.
The lecture stings because she’s not wrong. But I don’t like being called out by someone who’s never taken a hit, never had to choose between playing hurt or watching your team fall apart without you.
“Dr. Walker.” Winters appears at her elbow, looking like he’s swallowed something unpleasant. “That was quite the... unconventional approach.”
“But effective,” Barrett interjects before she can respond. He’s been watching from the bench, and there’s something calculating in his expression that I recognize from contract negotiations. “Clean work, quick thinking. Exactly what we need.”
“I was just doing my job,” she says, but there’s steel underneath the diplomatic response. “Though I’d recommend having medical staff closer to the ice during full contact practice.”
The direct hit lands exactly as intended. Winters’ face goes red, and I find myself fighting a smirk despite the throbbing in my shoulder. She’s not wrong—our response time was shit, and everyone knows it.
“Varga,” Barrett cuts in. “Medical room. Full eval. Now.”
It’s not really a request, but I try anyway. “Coach, I’m fine?—”
“No.” Dr. Walker is stepping back into her heels, and even that movement is efficient, purposeful. “You’re not fine. You’re functional. There’s a difference, and if you don’t learn it, you’ll be retired by thirty-two.”
It’s like being doused in ice water. Nobody talks to me like that. Not anymore. Not since I became captain and definitely not since Matty?—
I cut off that thought before it can form.
“She’s right,” Barrett says, and his tone makes it clear the discussion is over. “Jake, get us set up in medical. Dr. Walker, if you don’t mind accompanying them? I’d like your assessment.”
“Of course.” She picks up her bag and turns to look at me. “Though I should be clear, I’m not technically authorized to provide official medical opinions for your organization.”
