The warrior queen opened her mouth. “And, no,” he told her, “not in the way you’re thinking.”
Her mouth snapped shut, and then she said, “I’m not thinking that. Because who’d—” And then shut her mouth again.
She’d meant to say, “Who’d pay you?” He could tell. He smiled at her and said, “You’d be surprised.” And saw her flush a little.
Temper. Heat. Also, he’d won this one.
“Ah,” Nils said, smiling as much as a thin, dry guy was ever going to smile. Now, that was a neurosurgeon. “Luka Darkovic, from the Blues. Here for his …”
“Cervical epidural steroidal injection,” the woman—whatever her name was—said. “I’m just explaining to him that it’s a straightforward procedure.”
“I know it’s a straightforward procedure,” Luka said. “I’ve had it done before, and more than once.”
“You have,” Nils said. “I did one of them myself.”
“Want to do this one?” Luka asked. “I’ll wait.”
“Because Dr. Wolcott is young?” Nils asked, with some more of that almost-smile. “Or because she’s a woman? Which is it, I wonder? Choose your answer carefully.”
“I don’t care that she’s a woman,” Luka said. “I care that I haven’t seen her being competent at much so far.”
Did he feel like a bastard? Yes, he did. Did he feel at a disadvantage? That, too. Probably the reason for the “bastard” part.
“Oh?” Nils asked. “Have you had the opportunity to observe her, then?”
“Yes,” Luka said. He didn’t add the part about the dog. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He restrained himself.
“Ah.” Nils said. “Then perhaps some background would help. Dr. Wolcott got her medical training and did her residency at Johns Hopkins, which is the top neurosurgical institution in the United States, and one of the best in the world. She was chief resident there in her fifth year, which you could think of as being captain of the Under 20s, and she’s board-certified in her specialty, which took an additional two years of training. She most recently spent two years as an attending physician at Emory University Hospital in Atlanta, another fine institution. We’re extremely fortunate that she decided to do a spot of world travel, which allowed us to acquire her as our highly qualified locum. I hope that eases your mind.” He told the woman, “Luka is a rugby player. A member of the Blues. His spine is important to him, which would explain his nerves. In both senses of the word.” He smiled. Dryly. Luka wondered if he ever broke into a jolly laugh. He’d bet the answer was “no.” The doctor went on, “He took a good hit on Friday, which I assume is how the injury occurred. And now, I have a procedure of my own to get to. Carry on.” He stepped out again before anybody could say anything, and the curtain rattled back into place.
“I don’t have nerves,” Luka said. “I never have nerves. Excuse me? Nerves?” Also, the bloke felt like he had to put the “chief resident” bit into rugby terms, like he couldn’t understand it otherwise?
He was not enjoying this day.
The dog-loser—the surgeon, whose name he still didn’t know, because he’d forgotten—said, “Unfortunately, I have limited time for this discussion. I have back-to-back surgeries today, and I’ll need to juggle yours already to get that additional scan in, so if you’re declining the opportunity for those injections, please tell me now. You can check about rescheduling for another day.” She wasn’t looking flustered now. She was looking cool, competent, and possibly a little impatient.
“Right, then,” he said, after a minute. “As it seems that you know what you’re doing, go ahead and do it. I need it to happen today.”
Not his smoothest encounter ever. Not even close.
She did his injections. They were absolutely straightforward. He didn’t have the sedation, and he didn’t move, either, just lay there on his belly like this was no more nerve-wracking than a visit to the dentist. But when he told her afterwards, “That’s me playing on Saturday, then. Cheers,” like none of it had happened, and as if he’d rather not be in the gown at all, so he could just hop off the table and head out again to resume a busy day of … whatever a rugby player did, she …
She switched all the way out of “personal” mode, was what. She said, “You’re not playing rugby this weekend with a herniated disc. I may have relieved the pain and reduced the inflammation, but that doesn’t mean I’ve repaired the tear. ”
“Understood,” he said. “And I’ll be playing anyway. I’m missing training to have this done, and I reckon I’ll be coming off the bench on Saturday, but if I’m selected, too right I’m playing.”
She took a centering breath and said, “As your surgeon, I advise against it.”
What did she expect him to say? Something that showed his annoyance. Instead, he said, “The trainer and coach will have the last word, but I’ll play anytime I can. Every time I can. Sportsmen don’t get these injections so we don’t hurt. We’re used to hurting. We get them so we can play. You could look it up.”
She said, “Well, good luck with that,” and walked out of the room.
Spinal fusion coming up next. On somebody who would be grateful. And nervous. To which she would respond by being professional and reassuring in her detached competence. Her happy place.
She waited to think about any of it until she was home again, which was a disconcerting nine and a half hours after she’d left, meaning it had been light then, and it was light again now. She meant to think about it, but she couldn’t, because Webster rushed her at the door.
He didn’t jump on her. He just frisked at her. All around her. Banging into her some and making her knees buckle, because the room was small and he wasn’t. A dog this big should not frisk. His tail was going at its usual ninety miles an hour in a complete circle, his tongue was hanging out, and he was panting like he hadn’t had a walk in weeks.
She gave him some pats. Of course she did. You couldn’t not pat him, not when he was going crazy with delight at the very sight of you. She waded through his furry exuberance to the kitchen table, then held up the note and told him, “Busted. The dog walker said you went out with the pack and ran on the beach. You are not dying for exercise and love.”
In answer, he leaned against her hard, wagged his tail some more, and licked her arm.
“You got on my bed last night,” she told him. “After I told you to stay off it. Also, this place is covered in dog hair.”
He gazed at her soulfully and panted some more, as if he were saying, Can I help it if I love you and want to be close to you?
“All right,” she said, pulling off her sweater. “I don’t have an elliptical machine here, which means I need to get my half hour of cardio some other way, and vacuuming two extremely small rooms isn’t going to cut it. I’ve got a gym membership, though, transferred to me for the duration. Isn’t that lucky?”
Webster sat in front of her and stared at her face as if she were saying something absolutely mesmerizing. She felt stupid talking out loud to him, but he was enjoying it, so why not? She said, “I have to confess, though, that I don’t feel like going today. I don’t feel like I can handle one more new thing. I’ve got all this time to kill, though, so … do you want to go for a walk? Or maybe we should try running. New hobby, right? New solo hobby, which I can do anytime and anywhere, which is perfect for my clearly preordained lifestyle. It seems I walk alone, baby. Well, except for you. If I take you, though, you’re not allowed to run away with me, because I have a feeling I’m not good at running.”