“Noise that makes my life harder.”
“Yeah. But still just noise.”
We fall quiet again. My hands work through the last section of his shoulder, feeling the improvement already. He’s healing despite his stupidity with the pull-ups. Faster than he has in years, according to his file.
“Done,” I say finally, stepping back. “Ice tonight. And no more pull-ups.”
“What about push-ups?”
“Roman.”
He sits up, rolling his shoulder experimentally. “It feels better.”
“Good. That’s the point.”
“You’re good at this.”
The compliment lands awkwardly. I’m good at lots of things. Maintaining boundaries, staying professional, not getting involved with patients who make my pulse race. Except I’m failing at all of those lately.
“It’s my job,” I say, turning to clean up.
“Marnie.”
His voice makes me pause.
“Go home early if you need to. We can make up the time.”
“Your protocol?—”
“Will survive me missing twenty minutes.” He’s pulling on his shirt now, careful of his shoulder. “Family matters more than my PT.”
The echo of earlier makes my throat tight. “I’ll see you Friday.”
“Friday,” he agrees.
He leaves, and I’m alone in the treatment room with Beethoven still playing and the knowledge that Roman Varga keeps offering me permission to be human. That he sees me struggling and doesn’t make me explain why. That the distance I’m trying to maintain between us is shrinking every session, every conversation, every moment he notices things I’m trying to hide.
I pack up slowly. Change the sheets on the table. Queue up tomorrow’s schedule. All the routine tasks that keep me functional,keep me moving, keep me from thinking too hard about how much harder this job has gotten since I met a captain who refuses to let me carry everything alone.
When I get to Mom’s house at 5:15, forty-five minutes early, she doesn’t remember asking for me. Doesn’t remember being confused. Just smiles from the couch where Teresa has her settled with tea and says, “You’re home early. Bad day?”
“Just wanted to see you,” I say, and it’s not a lie.
But it’s not the whole truth either.
6
ROMAN
Week 5 of Rehabilitation - Mid August
The treatment roomafter a training camp scrimmage is always chaos, but since I couldn’t play, today it feels like torture.
Rodriguez is holding court on one of the treatment tables, wrist elevated dramatically while Marnie examines it. The same wrist that was perfectly fine when he was stick-handling twenty minutes ago.
“Right there, Doc,” he says, wincing theatrically when she palpates the joint. “That’s the spot.”
“Your wrist is fine, Rodriguez.” But she’s being thorough anyway, checking range of motion with patience that I recognize as her refusing to let anyone accuse her of cutting corners.
