“Everything worth having is complicated.” She pats my hand. “Just... don’t forget to live while you’re busy keeping everyone else alive.”
I don’t have a response that doesn’t sound like a lie.
So I drive us back to her house, walk her inside, make sure Teresa knows to text if anything changes, and head back to the facility for my afternoon sessions.
And try to ignore the way Roman looked at me in the pool, or the fact that Elliot Carter invited me to book club, or how Mom can see something in my face that I’m not ready to acknowledge.
But mostly, I fail at all of those things.
8
ROMAN
Week 7 of Rehabilitation - Early September
We’re almostat preseason and I’m still doing five-pound weights while my team runs full contact drills.
Through the treatment room window, I can see them—Dex leading the power play formation, Rodriguez actually following instructions for once, the new rookies fighting for roster spots. The sound of sticks on ice carries through the glass, muffled but unmistakable. That sharp crack of a one-timer, the scrape of skates cutting hard into a turn.
I should be out there. Leading drills. Setting the pace. Being the captain instead of watching from the sidelines like some washed-up has-been doing pity weights in the corner.
Five pounds. Five fucking pounds.
I could bench press Marnie with one arm—actually, bad example, don’t think about bench pressing Marnie—and here I am doing lateral raises with weights a grandmother probably uses for yoga class.
“This is bullshit,” I tell Marnie during our morning session, not bothering to hide the frustration. “I should be out there.”
“With a shoulder that subluxes when you reach for your phone?” She adjusts my arm position, her hands clinical and efficient. “Sure, that’ll end well.”
The touch is professional. It’s always professional. Which somehow makes it worse—six weeks of her hands on my body and not once has it been anything other than therapeutic. Meanwhile I’m cataloging every point of contact like some kind of depraved physical therapy addict.
“It’s been seven weeks.”
“Of a twelve-week protocol.”
“That you made up.”
The words come out sharper than I intend. I’m frustrated with the injury, with the timeline, with standing here doing baby weights while my team prepares for the season without me. Not with her.
But she steps back anyway, and something in her expression shifts from professional to genuinely pissed.
“I didn’t make anything up. I based it on your injury history, current instability, and the fact that you’ve been compensating so long your scapular mechanics are completely fucked.”
“My mechanics are fine.”
“Your mechanics are why you keep dislocating.” She crosses her arms. “But sure, go ahead. Join practice. And when your shoulder comes out during the first check and you need surgery, remember this conversation.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being realistic. You’re being a child.”
The PT room feels too small. She’s close enough that I could reach out and touch her, and it takes everything I have not to.
“Ten more reps,” she says finally, voice controlled again.
I do twelve, because I’m petty likethat.
After practice,the locker room is chaos. New guys trying to find their place, veterans reestablishing pecking order, Dex holding court by his stall.
