MARNIE
Week 3 of Rehabilitation - Early August
I’m doingseventy in a fifty-five and I still might be late.
The hospital’s in my rearview, Mom settled with Teresa for the afternoon, bloodwork done and another appointment scheduled for next week. The routine of it should be comforting. Same parking garage, same waiting room, same phlebotomist who knows to use the smaller needle on Mom’s left arm because the veins in her right are shot from months of treatment.
But routine just means we’re on a treadmill. Moving without actually going anywhere except closer to the end.
I hit every red light between the hospital and the facility. Check my phone at each one. No texts from Teresa, which is good, but also twelve minutes past when the staff development meeting was supposed to start, which is very bad.
The parking lot is full when I arrive. I grab my bag, my tablet with the presentation I’ve been working on all week, and sprint for the staff entrance in heels that were not designed for running.
The conference room goes silent when I slip through the door.
“Dr. Walker.” Winters’ voice could cut glass. “How kind of you to finally grace us with your presence.”
Barrett’s at the head of the table, Rodriguez and Dex lounging in their chairs, Anderson checking his phone in the back corner, Roman leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The nutritionist. Half the training staff. All staring at me like I’ve just proven every doubt Winters has been seeding since I started.
“My apologies.” I move to the empty seat, setting down my things with hands that want to shake. “I had a personal matter that ran longer than expected.”
“Personal matters shouldn’t interfere with professional obligations.” Winters leans back in his chair with the satisfaction of someone who’s just scored a point. “Especially during mandatory continuing education sessions.”
The jab lands exactly as intended. I’m new. I’m unproven. I’m already on thin ice with half the medical staff because I have the audacity to suggest their protocols might need updating.
“It won’t happen again,” I say, voice level.
“See that it doesn’t.” He gestures to the screen where someone else’s presentation is still up. “We’ve covered nutrition protocols and supplementation schedules. You’re up next with your injury prevention analysis.”
I pull up my presentation, hyperaware of every eye in the room. Of Rodriguez whispering something to Dex. Of Barrett’s neutral expression that could mean anything. Of Roman’s gray eyes tracking my movement from across the room.
“I’ve been reviewing the team’s injury documentation from the past three seasons.” My voice steadies as I fall into the material I know cold. “There’s a consistent pattern of hip flexor tightness and groin strains, particularly in the first two months of the season.”
I click through data charts, injury timelines, games missed. The numbers tell the story clearly. Preventable injuries costing them games, costing them players.
“The root cause appears to be inadequate dynamic warm-upprotocols. Your current routine focuses primarily on static stretching, which research shows is actually counterproductive for explosive movements like skating.”
“Our warm-up has been the same for ten years,” Winters interrupts. “Are you suggesting it’s inadequate?”
“I’m suggesting it could be optimized based on current sports medicine research.” I keep my tone professional, but there’s steel underneath. “The injury data supports this conclusion.”
Barrett leans forward. “What are you proposing?”
“A new dynamic warm-up sequence targeting the posterior chain and hip flexors specifically. Fifteen minutes before every practice and game. I’ve designed a routine that addresses the biomechanical demands of hockey while preparing the body for explosive movement.”
I click to the next slide showing the exercises. “But it’s easier to demonstrate than explain. I’ll need a volunteer.”
My eyes find Roman without meaning to. He’s still against the back wall, watching me with that intensity that makes my pulse stutter. He’d be perfect for this. He knows his body, follows instructions precisely, and even in summer with half the team scattered, the handful of players here would pay attention if their captain demonstrated.
“Oh! Me! Pick me!” Rodriguez’s hand shoots up like he’s in grade school. He’s already half out of his chair, grinning. “Doc needs to put her hands on someone, I volunteer as tribute.”
Dex snorts. Anderson doesn’t look up from his phone.
“Rodriguez,” Barrett starts.
“Come on, Doc. You know you want to.” He’s fully standing now, stretching dramatically. “Plus I’m way more fun than Cap over there. He’s all serious and murder-faced. I’ll make this entertaining.”
“This is a professional development session,” Winters says icily. “Not entertainment.”
