“Will be a lot longer if you blow out that shoulder completely,” she finishes. “Your choice, Captain.”
The way she says my title is slightly mocking, like she’s testing whether I’ll pull rank now that Barrett’s back. I don’t.
Barrett looks between us, and I see him make some decision. “Dr. Walker, can you start Monday?”
“I—yes.”
“Good. Roman, you’re following whatever protocol she sets. Non-negotiable.”
He leaves before I can argue, and Dr. Walker starts gathering her things, professional mask sliding back into place like nothing happened.
“Monday then,” she says, turning to leave, then pauses at the door. “For what it’s worth, you took that reduction well. Most guys scream.”
“Most guys haven’t had five.”
“Most guys learn after two.”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me with Jake, who’s grinning like an idiot.
“Holy shit,” he says. “She just handled you.”
“She’s competent.” I correct, though heat is crawling up my neck. “Professional.”
“She called you under-brained. To your face. On the ice. In front of everyone.” Jake sounds amazed. “You’re going to do the twelve weeks, aren’t you? You’re actually going to follow medical advice because the hot new PT told you to.”
“I think she knows what she’s doing medically,” I say firmly, standing up from the table. “That’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” Jake starts cleaning up the examination supplies, still grinning. “And the fact that she’s gorgeous has nothing to do with it.”
“She made valid medical arguments?—”
“She made you shut up and lie down, and you did it. In front of the entire team.” Jake’s practically bouncing. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Rodriguez is going to lose his mind.”
“Don’t—”
“Too late, already texting the group chat.” Jake’s typing frantically. “New PT made Cap her bitch, details to follow.”
I should pull rank, demand he not start team drama, but instead I’m thinking about ink-stained fingers and the way she said my title like a challenge. And as I head back toward the locker room, carefully cradling my shoulder, I can’t shake the memory of her hands on the joint, clinical and sure and completely unimpressed by anything except the injury itself.
Or the way she’d looked at me like my reputation meant nothing compared to my long-term health. Like maybe, for the first time in years, someone was more concerned with taking care of me than managing me.
The thought sits in my chest, uncomfortable and unfamiliar, refusing to be filed away with all the other medical assessments I’ve ignored over the years.
And somewhere underneath that, quieter but persistent: she called me under-brained and I’m already looking forward to Monday.
3
MARNIE
July 19
It actually tookeleven days to start after my interview because of endless paperwork and some bureaucratic approval process that required signatures from people I’ll never meet. But almost two weeks later I’m finally at the Puckaneers’ practice facility, and at 7 AM it’s a different world than the one I interviewed in. No reporters, no management wandering the halls, no sound except the hum of the ice plant and my footsteps echoing off concrete. Just how I wanted it for Roman Varga’s first official PT session.
I’ve been here since 5:30, setting up the treatment room exactly how I need it. Resistance bands organized by tension level, measurement tools laid out in order of use, assessment charts clipped to my tablet. Everything organized and professional because I need this to go perfectly. Not for him. For me. To prove to myself that I can handle having my hands on the man who’s been invading my thoughts since I popped his shoulder back in place two weeks ago.
My phone buzzes.
Mom
