“Doing well, nurse,” the doctor says, as I hand him another instrument, so he can finish suturing up the patient.
“Thank you,” I reply. He’s an older man, somewhat gruff, and the other nurses had warned me about his mannerisms, but I’ve had no problems with working beside him.
Maybe because he reminds me of Branch? I don’t know, and won’t look at it, or over-analyze it too closely. I watch him tie off the stitching, then snap off his gloves, and toss them into the hazardous trash bin since they had a trace of blood on them.
“Go ahead and clean it thoroughly with saline, then get him bandaged up while I get his aftercare instructions and discharge paperwork taken care of.” To the patient, he gives him the verbal instructions by saying, “Keep it clean and dry, change the bandages daily, and make sure you finish the whole round of antibiotics I’m prescribing.”
“Yes, sir,” the patient confirms. Once the doctor has left the room, he looks at me with wide eyes. “How is it you have no issues with Dr. Crane? Nobody likes working with him.”
I smile as I reply, “He reminds me a lot of my commanding officer. The man was brusque, and to the point in everything he said, and did. It’s almost like being with him without the sand, and sweltering weather, of course.”
By the time I’m finished with the patient, Dr. Crane has returned, handed him a prescription to keep infections at bay, and his discharge paperwork, then left once again without a single word uttered.
“You have a good night, Sunday,” the patient says, looking at my lanyard which has my name prominently displayed. “Hopefully, it won’t be too crazy.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear,” I tease, removing my own gloves, and tossing them. “On to the next one,” I state. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I hope I don’t see you again any time soon.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Cross, I need you in here,” Dr. Crane calls out, as I pass one of the rooms on my way to the nurse’s station to complete his chart with what services I provided.
“Coming, sir,” I reply.
Looks like charting will be done when I can get to it. Probably about the time the next shift nurse clocks in to take over.
“I swear I’ve never been more tired than I am right now,” Moira, one of the other nurses on duty, complains as we grab our purses from our lockers.
“The shift was definitely hopping,” I reply, slipping off my Crocs, and replacing them with my tennis shoes.
“You did really well. Dr. Crane was impressed,” she states, complimenting me as we walk out to the employee parking lot.
“Just did my job, Moira,” I rebut. “You guys were doing the same.”
“Yeah, but he’s never requested any of us to work alongside him, like he did you tonight,” she insists as we reach our vehicles.
I shrug, unsure what to say in response as I hit my key fob to unlock my car.
“See you tonight,” I call out.
“Get some rest, we’re almost to a full moon, and that’s when all the crazies come out!” She hollers as I crawl into my driver’s seat.
Shaking my head, I just shut my car door, crank it up, then head out to grab some breakfast to take home. I’m too damn exhausted to cook, so a drive thru it is.
After picking up a breakfast sandwich and some orange juice, I drive home, thankful I survived my first shift. By the time I pull into my driveway, my food is consumed, and I’m ready to soak in a hot bath to soothe the ache in my leg. I know I’ll get stronger, but until that happens, I suspect I’ll be investing in a lot of Epsom salts.
With everything finally gathered and organized for the next day, I collapse into my bed, eager to sleep until I have to get up, get ready, eat, and leave. “Let’s see if I can make it through an episode or two before I pass out,” I muse, grabbing my remote, and opening up my recordings list. I’m hooked on a first responder show, but I prefer to binge watch several episodes at a time, instead of waiting impatiently each week for the next one to air.
As I drift into dreamland, my show forgotten, and my e-reader idly laying by my side, Jett comes to mind, consuming my thoughts.
“If only…” I murmur.
Chapter Four
Jett
“Get the lead out!” I yell as my players lackadaisically run their laps. “I’ve seen senior citizens in wheelchairs make better time than you guys are right now!”
“Christ, Blake, they’re all acting like they just got up from the Thanksgiving dinner table or something,” my defensive coordinator mutters.
“Right? Something must be going on. Call them in, we need to get to the bottom of this shit.”
I stand there waiting as Collins gets the team over to me, crouching down while taking a knee to wait on me, and anxiously waiting to hear what I’m going to say. This isn’t the same group of kids who slaughtered Penn Holley last week, and if they don’t put some pep in their step, they’re going to get dragged through the mud and lose their hard-earned ranking. Not to mention, if their attention doesn’t shift back onto the plays, they’ll end up injured or worse
“The easiest way for a player to get hurt is to be unprepared and lax in their plays,” I state. “During our summer camps, you boys gave it your all during two-a-days and three-a-days. You learned new plays, and worked hard to ensure the existing plays were committed to memory. Last week, you led the region in rushing and passing yards, touchdowns, and possession. Yet today, you all look as though someone killed your dog. So, tell me, what the hell is going on?”
Junior, who is the only sophomore on the varsity squad, raises his hand. “Go ahead, Junior.”
“Well, Coach Blake, none of us are feeling all that well.”
“What do you mean you’re not feeling well?” I inquire. I’m unaware of any stomach bugs going around, and while I know teenage boys will push the envelope with drinking, most of the team has chosen not to go that route. I have a few who will occasionally indulge from what I’ve heard, but only after a game, and for sure none of them do drugs.
His shoulders drop and I notice he’s got sweat beading on his forehead that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. Gazing at the rest of the team, I see most of them look the same.
“Coach, we all ate the school lunch today,” Timmers states when Junior fails to speak further. “Not gonna lie, I’m not sure if I’m going to puke my guts up or shit my pants.”
Fuck. Sounds like good old fashioned food poisoning. “Any of you go to the nurse?” I ask.
“Jameson did because he threw up in sixth period,” Cordell calls out.
I look at the team again and realize Jameson is absent from practice, one day before our game. “Did he check out and go home?” I question.
“Yeah, Coach, he did,” Timmers replies.
I mutter under my breath, cursing the fact that if the rest of the team ends up as sick as it sounds like Jameson is, we’re going to end up forfeiting the game. But my boys come first because at the end of the day, this is just a game.