“Morning, Doc,” he says, voice carefully neutral. “Jake.”
“I’ll just...” Jake gestures vaguely toward the door. “Be literally anywhere else.”
He leaves. The door clicks shut.
Suddenly all I can hear is Roman’s breathing.
“Shirt off,” I say, pulling on my professional mask. “Final assessment.”
He complies without comment, and I try not to notice the way his muscles shift. Try not to remember how those muscles felt under my hands when we weren’t in this room, when I wasn’t his PT and he wasn’t my patient.
“On the table.”
He sits, watching me with those pale gray eyes that see too much.
I wash my hands, dry them, anything to delay touching him because once I start, I’m not sure I’ll maintain the clinical detachment this requires.
“Marnie.”
“Lie back.”
“Marnie, look at me.”
I do, and immediately regret it. He’s studying my face like I’m film he’s analyzing, looking for weaknesses.
“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” he says quietly. “Just do the assessment.”
Right. The assessment.
I position his arm, testing internal rotation. His breathing stays even, controlled.
“Any pain?”
“No.”
External rotation. “Here?”
“No.”
I move through the rest mechanically, documenting everything. His shoulder is perfect. Functionally, structurally, everything has healed exactly how it should when a patient actually follows protocol.
He sits up and now we’re close, my hands still on his shoulder, his eyes locked on mine.
“Well?” he asks.
“You’re cleared. Full contact, no restrictions.” The words taste like victory and loss at the same time. “Tomorrow night against Nashville, you can play.”
Relief crosses his face, then excitement, then something I can’t name.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” I step back, needing space. “Your shoulder’s stronger than it was before the injury. If you maintain your PT schedule and don’t do anything stupid?—”
“When do I do stupid things?”
“Do you want a chronological list or alphabetical?”
He almost smiles. Almost.
