“He sounded careful. You know that voice he uses when he’s choosing his words?” Jake squeezes my shoulder. “Just be prepared for this to be more than a conversation.”
Each steptoward Barrett’s office feels like walking toward an execution.
My hands are shaking as I reach the door and knock.
“Come in.”
Barrett’s behind his desk, expression neutral in that careful way that means he’s in official mode. Winters is sitting across from him, and there’s a manila folder on the desk between them.
Thick with papers.
My throat goes completely dry.
“Dr. Walker, have a seat,” Barrett says.
I sit, trying to keep my hands steady in my lap. Professional. Calm. Like I’m not internally spiraling.
“Thank you for coming,” Barrett starts. “Dr. Winters has brought up some concerns about recent events. I thought it would be best to address them directly.”
Winters leans forward and I see the satisfaction in his eyes. He’s been waiting for this moment. Planning it.
“The photograph from earlier this week,” Barrett says. “The one with you and Rodriguez at the restaurant.”
The Rodriguez photo. Not my relationship with Roman.
The relief is so sharp it almost makes me dizzy, immediately followed by guilt because this is still bad.
“The optics are extremely concerning,” Winters says, his voice taking on that lecturing tone I’ve come to hate. “A member of medical staff at a romantic dinner with an injured player she’s actively treating raises obvious questions about professional boundaries and judgment.”
“It wasn’t a romantic dinner.” I try to keep my voice steady. “Rodriguez and I are friends. He was bored, I needed a break. We got food. That’s all it was.”
“The photograph suggests otherwise.” Winters pulls out a printed copy, the one that’s been everywhere. Me leaning back, mouth open, Rodriguez leaning toward me. Out of context it does look intimate. “The public perception is that inappropriate relationshipsare occurring between medical staff and players. This reflects poorly on the organization and calls into question your professional judgment.”
“The public perception is wrong?—”
“Nevertheless, perception matters.” He’s not done. He pulls out another document. “And while this particular incident may be innocent, as you claim, it fits into a pattern of behavior I’ve been observing and documenting over the past several months.”
Pattern. That word makes my blood run cold.
“What pattern?” My voice comes out smaller than I intend.
“Extended PT sessions with certain players well beyond standard protocol.” He slides a spreadsheet across the desk and my stomach drops.
Numbers. Dates. Session counts.
“Captain Varga received forty-seven individual PT sessions during his shoulder rehabilitation. The next highest player received nineteen. That’s not standard care—that’s preferential treatment.”
“His injury was more severe,” I say immediately, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. “The session count was appropriate for?—”
“Or,” Winters interrupts, “it reflects a personal relationship affecting your medical judgment.”
The implication hangs in the air.
He knows. He doesn’t have proof but he knows, and he’s building toward it piece by piece.
“Additionally,” Winters continues, pulling out more papers like he’s presenting evidence at trial, “there have been concerns about your interactions with senior medical staff. On November 8th, during Rodriguez’s knee injury evaluation, you became hostile and insubordinate when I attempted to discuss appropriate treatment timelines.”
“I was protecting my patient?—”
