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MARNIE
July 8
The Seattle Puckaneers’practice arena smells exactly like every hockey rink I’ve ever worked in—ice sharp enough to sting your nostrils, sweat that’s somehow both fresh and ancient, industrial-strength disinfectant failing to mask the funk of forty guys’ worth of equipment trapped in an enclosed space. It’s a smell that’s probably tattooed itself onto my olfactory nerve by now, considering I’ve spent the better part of ten years in places like this. But the state-of-the-art equipment visible through every doorway and the juice bar next to the weight room remind me this isn’t the minor leagues anymore. This is NHL money. The Show.
Dr. Winters has been walking me through his kingdom for three hours now, and I’ve been nodding like a good interview candidate while my phone sits in my bag like a live grenade. Five buzzes since noon. Mom’s oncologist said he’d call with the PET scan results today, and it’s 12:53, which means he’s either calling with stable results or he’s spent the morning figuring out how totell me the tumors have spread. Every vibration makes my ribs feel tighter, makes it harder to focus on Winters droning about recovery protocols from 2010.
“Our cryotherapy chamber cost two hundred thousand dollars,” Winters announces, gesturing at the chamber like he personally installed every bolt. He’s been doing this for the entire tour—quoting equipment prices like I should be writing thank-you notes for the privilege of seeing them. “I assume you’re familiar with the latest protocols? Though I imagine the teams in D.C. operate on more... modest budgets.”
There it is. The dig he’s been working up to all morning, trying to figure out why someone would leave a head PT position in Washington for a lateral move to Seattle. The real answer—my mother is dying and I moved back to watch it happen—isn’t his business, and I’m not about to hand him that kind of ammunition during an interview where he’s clearly already decided I’m not qualified.
“Different markets, different priorities.” Interview speak for ‘I’m not taking your bait.’ “I’m more interested in your return-to-play timelines. Your injury reports last season showed some aggressive recovery schedules.”
His mouth tightens, and I watch him recalculate his approach. Good. I did my homework, tracked down three months of injury reports through a PT friend who works for the Canucks, and he knows it.
“We pride ourselves on efficiency here. Not coddling. Players want to play, and we facilitate that.”
Facilitate. Not ensure they’re ready. Not protect their long-term health. Facilitate, like he’s running a drive-through window instead of managing human bodies worth millions of dollars each. I file that word choice away with the other red flags I’ve been collecting all morning—the outdated protocols, the emphasis on “toughness” over science, the way he dismisses every question about long-term outcomes. This is exactly why they need a new head of PT, andexactly why Winters is going to fight me at every turn if I take this job.
My phone buzzes again. Six times now. I slide it out of my bag before I can stop myself, just to see if it’s the call, if I need to?—
“Am I keeping you from something?” Winters’ voice could frost glass.
“No, I?—”
“Dr. Walker.” A new voice cuts through Winters’ disapproval, male and authoritative with that particular rasp that comes from years of yelling over arena noise. “Sorry to interrupt, but do you have a minute?”
I turn to find a man in his forties approaching, moving like an athlete who never quite left the ice—controlled energy, weight balanced on the balls of his feet, a team polo stretching across shoulders that suggest he still spends quality time in the weight room.
“Coach Barrett,” Winters says, and his voice does this thing where it tries to sound respectful but lands somewhere closer to condescending. “We’re in the middle of the facility tour.”
“Perfect timing then.” Barrett extends a hand to me. His handshake is testing without trying to crush my fingers, checking if I’ll fold. I don’t. “Dean Barrett. Heard good things about your work in D.C.”
“Marnie Walker. Heard good things about your penalty minutes from last season.”
He barks out a laugh. “You sound like an actual fan. Walk with me, Doc. Got something to discuss.”
Winters makes a noise like a cat getting stepped on. “We haven’t covered the nutrition center?—”
“I’m sure Dr. Walker can figure out where you keep the protein shakes.” Barrett’s already walking, clearly expecting me to follow. “Five minutes, Winters. Try not to stroke out.”
I follow Barrett down a corridor lined with team photos spanning decades. He doesn’t speak until we’re well out of Winters’ earshot, then glances at me sideways.
“So. What’s your actual read on this position?”
I study his face, trying to gauge if he wants honesty or diplomacy. This feels like a test, but I’m not sure what answer he’s looking for. “Your equipment is excellent, your budget appears substantial, and your current protocols are probably adequate for short-term results.” I pause. “But I haven’t seen much evidence of long-term planning or comprehensive rehabilitation approaches.”
He stops walking, turns to face me. “Winters is old school. Tape it up, take a Toradol, play through it. We’ve had three careers end in two years from injuries that should’ve been manageable.”
“And you want someone who’ll actually say no when a player needs to sit.”
“I want someone who gives a damn about these guys having careers past thirty-five.” His eyes are measuring me, calculating. “But who also understands the realities of professional sports. It’s a balance.”
“It’s not that complicated. You protect the asset. A player at 80% for a full season is worth more than one at 100% for six weeks before something tears.”
“Even if that player is your captain and it’s Game 7?”
