Because the thing is, I do like her. I liked her from the first moment she stepped onto the ice in her interview clothes, looked at my dislocated shoulder with zero fear, and proceeded to lecture me about my own body like I was a rookie who didn’t know better. I liked that she called me under-brained in front of the entire team and meant it. I liked that when I tried to intimidate her with size and silence, she just rolled her eyes and told me to lie down.
I’ve been fighting it for weeks now. Telling myself it’s just respect for her competence. Appreciation for her refusal to coddle me. Professional admiration for someone who actually knows what they’re doing.
Except respect doesn’t explain why I notice the way her fingers linger on my shoulder an extra beat when she’s checking range of motion. Appreciation doesn’t explain why I showed up ten minutes last week just to hear what music she’d be playing. And professional admiration definitely doesn’t explain why the thought of Brody flirting with her makes me want to put him through the boards.
The treatment room door is closed, but I can hear music drifting through. Fall Out Boy again, played at a volume just loud enough to hear but not overwhelm conversation. She plays it during every session, along with other songs from that same era. All guitars and angst and lyrics about wanting things you can’t have.
I should walk past. Should head to the locker room, kill time until our actual appointment. Should do literally anything other than stand here in the hallway like some kind of stalker.
Instead, I watch through the window as she sets up for the day. She moves with the grace of someone completely comfortable in theirown expertise, organizing resistance bands by tension level, checking measurements on her tablet. Her hair’s in that messy knot again, the one that makes my fingers itch to reach out and tuck back the strands falling loose. She’s wearing athletic leggings and a team tank top, nothing special, nothing that should make my pulse pick up.
But it does.
She glances toward the door, and I step back before she can catch me watching. My reflection in the glass across the hallway shows exactly what Brody was talking about. The expression I usually reserve for opponents who’ve crossed a line. The look that makes rookies stutter and keeps the team in line.
Except I’m not thinking about protecting anyone right now. I’m thinking about how she looked at me during our last session when I asked if she was okay, and she said “fine” in a voice that meant anything but. I’m thinking about the way her phone keeps buzzing with messages she won’t answer during our appointments, and how her hands shake slightly when she checks them afterward. I’m thinking about the exhaustion in her eyes that has nothing to do with work and everything to do with whatever she’s carrying alone.
I’m thinking about things that aren’t my business. Things I have no right to notice.
The weight room is fuller when I return, Rodriguez and Dex arriving with the usual morning crowd. I go through my modified routine, the one Marnie designed that works around my shoulder instead of through it, and try not to think about the appointment in ten minutes.
“Cap.” Dex drops onto the bench next to mine, not even pretending to work out. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The brooding thing. The captain-with-a-problem thing.” He studies me with the same intensity he uses to read plays. “It’s the new PT, isn’t it?”
“It’s my shoulder.”
“Your shoulder that’s healing faster than it has in years?” He’s not buying it. “Try again.”
I focus on my form, on controlling the movement exactly as Marnie demonstrated. “Drop it, Dex.”
“Can’t drop what’s already been picked up by the entire team.” He leans back, watching me with that knowing expression. “You like her, Cap.”
“I don’t like anyone.”
“Please. You looked ready to murder Rodriguez when he made that joke about her yoga pants yesterday.”
I had not been ready to murder anyone. I’d simply pointed out that Rodriguez should focus on his own exercises instead of commenting on staff members’ clothing choices. I was demonstrating appropriate captain behavior. Protective of team culture.
“That was inappropriate workplace conduct,” I say.
“It was a harmless comment that you took as a personal offense.” Dex grins. “Face it, Cap. You’re into her.”
I set down the weights, wiping sweat from my face to buy time. To figure out how to deny what’s apparently obvious to everyone who knows me.
“Even if I was,” I say carefully, “which I’m not confirming, it would be complicated.”
“Why? Because she works for the team?”
“Because she’s got enough on her plate without dealing with players who can’t keep it professional.”
“Ah.” Something shifts in Dex’s expression. “You’ve noticed the phone thing too.”
I don’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Jake mentioned her mom’s sick,” Dex says quietly. “Really sick. That’s why she moved back to Seattle.”
