“Yet,” Barrett corrects, and something in his voice makes my stomach drop.
Yet. As in she’s not part of the organization yet. Oh fuck. She’s interviewing. She’s not some random doctor who happened to be touring the facility—she’s here for Kellerman’s job. Which means this woman who just manhandled me and called me an overgrown hockey stereotype might be permanent.
Jake appears at my elbow, barely suppressing a grin. “Come on, Cap. Let’s get you checked out before you do something stupid like try to lift weights.”
I catch the exact moment she processes the word. Her wholebody stills, then her eyes snap to the C on my jersey that’s been right fucking there the whole time. I watch her replay the last ten minutes—calling me under-brained, ordering me around, the complete lack of any deference—and for a second she looks like she might throw up before her expression goes carefully blank.
“Captain,” she says, voice perfectly controlled now, but there’s a stiffness that wasn’t there before.
Interesting. So she does care about hierarchy when it suits her.
“Roman,” I correct, not sure why I want to ease whatever panic is happening behind her eyes.
“Right.” She falls into step beside us, and I notice she’s trying not to limp. Those stockings are definitely soaked through, probably freezing against her skin. Professional hazard of stepping onto ice in interview clothes to save idiots from themselves.
Jake starts chattering as we walk, because Jake never met a silence he couldn’t fill. “So, interviewing for Kellerman’s position?”
“I am.”
“Where’d you work before?”
“Eight years in DC, comprehensive rehab, focus on injury prevention.” She’s scanning our facility as we walk, cataloging everything with a gaze that suggests she’s already planning how she’d reorganize it. “Some Olympic work.”
“Olympics? Anyone we’d know?”
“Patient confidentiality.” But there’s a slight smile that says yes, and I find myself wondering which athletes she’s worked with, if any of them gave her this much shit.
The medical room is unnecessarily bright, all white and chrome like someone decided a hockey facility should look like an Apple store. Jake starts pulling out equipment while Dr. Walker cases the space like she’s planning a heist, opening cabinets and checking supplies.
“Decent setup,” she says. “Though your emergency supplies are locked up during practice? That’s asking for trouble.”
Jake pauses mid-reach for the blood pressure cuff. “Never thought about it.”
“Most people don’t until someone’s bleeding out and you’re looking for keys.” She turns to me. “Shirt off.”
It’s an order, not a request. I should be annoyed—I’m the captain, I don’t take orders from medical staff who aren’t even officially hired yet—but instead I’m pulling my base layer over my head before my brain catches up. The movement makes my shoulder scream, and I bite back a curse.
“Jesus.” She’s looking at my shoulder—not at me, at the joint itself—and her expression shifts from professional assessment to something closer to disgust. “This is a disaster. How are you even lifting your arm?”
“Carefully.”
“That’s not funny.” But her mouth twitches slightly, and I file that reaction away for later analysis. “This is legitimately one of the worst chronic instabilities I’ve seen on someone still playing.”
She takes my hand on the injured side, her touch clinical and impersonal. “Squeeze my fingers.”
I do, and immediately regret it. Her hand is small in mine, her fingers cool and steady, and I’m suddenly extremely aware of my own calloused palm against her skin, the faint ink stain on her index finger like she was writing notes in a hurry and didn’t bother washing it off. I squeeze exactly hard enough to demonstrate function and let go.
“Good grip strength.” She presses her thumb against my fingernails, watching them blanch and pink up. Each touch is brief, professional, methodical. So why am I cataloging every point of contact like it matters?
“Any numbness or tingling?”
“No.” The word comes out flat. Controlled.
She palpates around the joint, fingers sure and quick, and I can tell she’s done this assessment so many times she could do it in her sleep. “How many times did you actually complete PT?”
“Definecomplete.”
“Finished. Did all the sessions. Followed protocols for the full recommended timeline.”
