He leaves.
Roman and I stare at each other.
“Tomorrow,” he says again.
But as he finally leaves for the locker room and I face the waiting media questions about his shoulder, I know tomorrow’s conversation will change everything.
And I’m not sure either of us is ready for what comes next.
14
ROMAN
I findher in the training room the next morning, her back to me, doing some kind of stretch with her leg up on the table.
She’s wearing tight leggings and a loose tank top. Not her usual scrubs or the professional polo shirts she wears for games. Just workout gear that leaves absolutely nothing to my imagination, which has been working overtime for the past three days anyway.
Her leg is extended on the treatment table, upper body folded forward in what’s probably a hamstring stretch but from this angle looks like something else entirely. The curve of her ass. The line of her spine. The way her hair falls forward when she leans into it.
I’m painfully hard almost immediately.
This is a problem. A significant one. Because I’m cleared to play now, which means I’m back to being captain, and she’s back to being staff, and I absolutely should not be standing in the doorway of the training room at six in the morning getting hard watching my physical therapist stretch.
“Morning,” I say from the doorway, and my voice comes out as more of a growl than I intended.
She jumps and nearly falls off the table trying to stand upright. “Jesus, Roman. Announce yourself.”
Her face is flushed—from the stretch or from getting caught, I’m not sure. Her tank top has ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin at her waist.
I’m staring. I need to stop staring.
“Didn’t want to interrupt,” I say, which is a lie. I definitely interrupted. On purpose. Because I’ve been up since four thinking about yesterday—about her hands on my shoulder during that final assessment, about her voice as she said “you’re cleared,” about the careful distance she’s been maintaining since Calgary.
About whether clearing me means I’ve lost my excuse to see her every day.
“I was just—” She gestures vaguely at the table, pulling her tank top down. “Warming up. Before the team gets here.”
“At six AM?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Same. For completely different reasons that are probably the same reason.
The room feels too small suddenly. Too quiet. Just us and the treatment table and everything we haven’t talked about since that night in the hallway.
She turns to face me, arms crossing defensively. “Shouldn’t you be at practice?”
“Optional skate. I’m skipping.” I step inside and close the door behind me. “We need to talk.”
“We’re talking right now.”
“Marnie.”
She sighs and leans against the counter. “Fine. Talk.”
This is harder than I expected. On the ice, I know exactly what to say to my team. I can read a defense in seconds and adjust our strategy. But standing here looking at her—hair in that messy bun, team polo, eyes guarded—I don’t know where to start.
“Yesterday,” I say finally. “After thegame.”
