“The kind where I give you actual responsibility instead of just having you watch me work.” She leans back in her chair. “My promotion means I need help managing recovery schedules, coordinatingwith the PT team, updating athlete files. Admin work, mostly, but it’s the foundation of everything we do here. Nothing happens without it.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“I want you to learn the systems first. How we track injuries, how we communicate with coaches, how we balance player health with team needs. It’s not glamorous, but it’s essential.” She pauses. “And it pays. With a flexible schedule around your teaching.”
I blink at her because it means more money that I could use for rent instead of watching my savings account drain every month.
“You’re offering me a real job.”
“I’m offering you a position that will look incredible on future applications and actually pay you for your time. You’d still shadow me for the hands-on stuff, but you’d also be doing meaningful work that keeps this operation running.” Marnie tilts her head. “You’re smart, you’re organized, and you understand athletic injury from personal experience. You’re exactly what I need.”
“When would I start?”
“Today, if you want. I can show you the database, introduce you to the full PT staff, get you set up with access to the scheduling software.”
I should think about this, should consider whether I can handle more responsibility on top of my teaching schedule and my own rehab, should be practical and measured.
“Yes. I want to do it.”
“Good.” Marnie stands up. “Let’s get started.”
An hour later,I’m drowning in scheduling software and injury reports and medical terminology I thought I understood but apparently don’t.
My eyes burn slightly from staring at the computer screen, but Marnie is patient, walking me through each system, each protocol,explaining how the organization tracks and manages player health. It’s both overwhelming and fascinating, exactly the kind of challenge I need to keep my brain occupied with something other than my own mess.
“This is the recovery schedule,” Marnie explains, pulling up a color-coded spreadsheet. “Green means cleared for full practice. Yellow means modified training. Red means no contact, rehab only.”
I scan the names. Most are green. A few yellows scattered throughout. One red: Rodriguez.
“What actually happened to Rodriguez? He’s been limping around with a brace for a while.” I ask before I can stop myself.
“MCL sprain. Grade 2. He’s been out for a while now.” Marnie clicks on his name, pulling up detailed notes. “Should be cleared for full contact in another week or so, but he’s been pushing hard. Showed up to practice yesterday and tried to convince Barrett he was ready.”
“Was he?”
“Not even close. Jake had to physically stop him from getting on the ice.” She closes the file. “He’s a terrible patient. Won’t follow instructions, thinks he knows better than medical professionals, constantly tries to flirt his way out of doing his rehab exercises properly.”
It makes complete sense with everything I’ve seen. Rodriguez seems like exactly the type to think rules don’t apply to him.
“Anyway.” Marnie moves to the next screen. “Part of your job will be tracking these schedules and flagging anyone who’s trying to rush their recovery. We have final say on medical clearance, not the coaches and definitely not the players.”
“Got it.”
We spend another hour going through protocols before Marnie’s phone buzzes on the desk. She checks it and sighs.
“I have to deal with something. Can you finish entering these updates into the system? Just follow the template I showed you.”
“Sure.”
She leaves, and suddenly I’m alone in her office with a computer full of information about professional hockey players and their injuries. It feels slightly wrong, like I’m being given access to protected information that the general public shouldn’t be privy to.
I work through the updates methodically, focusing on the repetitive task. It’s soothing, in a way. Data entry requires just enough concentration to keep everything else out of my mind. Thoughts like the fact that Garrett has been radio silent since I blocked him. Like the fact that Olivia keeps texting me about wedding details and I have to pretend everything is fine. Like the fact that I’m going to have to see Garrett in February and smile through the whole thing.
I’m halfway through the list when someone knocks on the open door.
“Hey, Doc, you got a second—oh.”
Rodriguez. Of course it’s Rodriguez.
