Chapter 2 #2
It’s perverse, but the territorial, possessive monster she’s reduced me to is satisfied I’ve left my mark on her body.
I tap the side of her thigh and Delta bends her leg automatically, allowing me to manipulate the joint while trying not to notice the cute-as-fuck hot pink, lace-trimmed panties she’s wearing.
“I had dinner with my brother last night. You’d like him.
He ordered us bacon cheeseburgers with melted cheddar poured over them before I arrived. You?”
“Nope,” Delta sighs, looking put upon. “Dad’s got me on this new high-protein diet, so I’ve been mostly good.
Though I’ll shamelessly exploit your legal obligation to keep my secrets and admit that I did sneak about six peanut butter brownies today.
Somebody brought them in for a birthday and left them unattended in the locker room.
I don’t count the calories because they were shitty. ”
Pressing my lips into a flat line to stop myself from laughing out loud, I carefully keep my eyes trained on the small area of skin I have reason to be looking at.
As opposed to the panties riding up her hip.
“You ate someone’s birthday brownies? Also, I feel qualified to inform you that caloric intake isn’t dependent on your level of enjoyment. ”
“Shhh,” Delta hisses conspiratorially and when I look up to meet her sparkling eyes, my breath catches. “You fold the corners of your book pages, which at least shows extremely questionable judgment. Let me have this, Doc. ”
My pulse skips.
I like her so much.
“Come on, would it kill you to use a folded-up receipt or a napkin or something? You’re usually so civilized.”
I choke out a laugh as my hands fall from her hip. She has no fucking clue how uncivilized she makes me. “I’ll try.”
Delta props herself up on her elbows and watches silently as I cross to the little metal tray table, my head spinning. I need to keep my shit together. I’m about to insert a hypodermic needle into her joint, for fuck’s sake. We both need me to be focused on the medicine.
“Are you in more pain lately?” I ask, and I’m relieved to hear my voice is once again cool and professional.
“Some,” Delta admits, her tone deceptively mild, and I glance over my shoulder at her, distracted. God damn it, why can’t she just give me a straight answer?
“What does that mean, some?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’m snowboarding four days a week and in the gym for two. Pain is normal, Doc.”
Some pain is normal for athletes training at her level, but I have three years of experience in how terribly slanted Delta’s pain scale is.
River’s brand of parenting seems to be more geared toward creating champions at any cost and less about raising well adjusted, healthy human beings.
God only knows how old Delta and her brothers were when their father first taught them that showing pain is a sign of weakness.
The only way I’m getting an accurate picture of her condition is if I see it for myself.
“We should do some scans...” I offer with no real hope she’ll agree. Sure enough, I haven’t even finished suggesting it before she’s rolling her eyes.
“Is that going to tell you anything you don’t already know? I’m listening to my trainers and therapists. When the Olympics are over, I promise you can cut me open and give me a bionic hip.”
Yeah, she listens to the trainers and therapists whom River employs.
I don’t work for Delta’s father directly, but after three years of treating his athletes, I’ve learned he rarely fails to get what he wants.
The man is an ambitious, competitive animal willing to chew off his own leg to reach the finish line first. Would one of his staff stick their neck out to argue with him?
Doubtful. Especially if Delta is feeding them the same crap she tries to tell me.
Her last surgeries were years ago now, long before I started feeling the way I do about her, and they were minimally invasive.
A total hip replacement is different, it’s brutal, and if I’m having this much trouble just giving her an injection of anti-inflammatories, there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to put a scalpel to her skin again.
The thought alone makes me nauseous, and I’m not selfish enough to put Delta’s long-term health at risk for the sake of my ego.
I don’t bother correcting her. God knows she won’t let me do the surgery anytime soon, anyway.
We’re both quiet as I open the supplies and pull on my gloves, dread pooling heavily in my stomach.
Delta is always so fucking stoic about this, so when I turn around to see the worried crease in her brow and the way her hands are twisting the hem of her t-shirt, it’s like someone has dumped ice down my back.
“Hey.” I hate how she instantly relaxes her expression when she realized I’ve seen, playing the part of brave for my sake.
I have no interest in the Delta Jacobs that River has polished for public consumption.
“I’m okay, Doc.” She smiles bravely, and her voice is an octave too high. She’s not fine, she’s petrified, and who could blame her? We’ve done this so many times. She knows exactly how much it hurts. Has she been this scared every time, and I somehow failed to notice?
“Delta—”
“Can we please just do it?”
I want to argue with her, but it’s not my fucking place. This course of treatment was my recommendation. Corticosteroids are standard for people with Delta’s condition and really her only option if she wants to keep competing. It’s the last line of defense before a total hip replacement.
My feelings for her are the only problem here.
My feelings and the fact that she’s never given me a full, honest answer when we’ve talked about her pain.
Pulling on my gloves, l roll the metal procedure table to her side.
Delta is lying back, her eyes locked on the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in determinately slow, measured breaths.
On the surface, this seems like every other time I’ve done this to her, but it isn’t.
Something is going on, and I want to know what the fuck it is.
“Look at me.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think to stop them. It’s an order and my whole body floods with heat when she obeys it without pause. How many times have I thought about how good it would feel to boss this woman around?
This isn’t a fantasy, though. It’s a nightmare.
The moment her eyes meet mine, that stoic facade cracks.
As I watch, a single tear runs over her cheek, and she makes no effort to hide it.
The room is so quiet I hear the soft tap of it hitting the paper.
I act without thinking. Ripping the glove off my left hand, I reach out, twining my fingers through hers together atop her warm stomach.
It’s not enough. I need to fix this, but all I can do is look on helplessly as her tears turn to sobs and her breaths come in gasping, greedy gulps.
It’s agonizing to see her cry, but exhilarating too, because this is real.
Her tears are mine, her pain is mine, her honesty is mine. Only mine.
“That’s it, let it out.” My thumb draws back and forth over hers as my other hand reaches behind me, taking the antiseptic wipe off the procedure table and gently wiping it over the familiar patch of skin where I’m going to inject the drug. “Good girl.”
Delta whimpers, gazing up at me with wide, fearful eyes. “I- I-” Her voice breaks and I shush her, shaking my head. We’re so close I can see the dampness of her eyelashes and a fine white line, nearly invisible, just beneath her full bottom lip.
“How did you get that?” I ask, depositing the wipe on the corner of the tray without looking away. “The scar below your lip.”
My fingers find the syringe.
She laughs breathlessly, tears still shining in her eyes.
“It’s my only non-snowboarding-related injury.
I was five, my brothers used me to test the laundry basket elevator system to their treehouse.
It didn’t perform as well as they expected.
Dad made them do whatever I wanted for weeks. I loved it.”
Imagining a small, gap-toothed Delta bossing around her big brothers makes me grin too. “How many stitches?”
“Twelve.”
“Holy shit.” I pop the cap off of the hypodermic needle.
“I know, right?” Her eyes dart down, widening, “Oh?—”
I wait to turn away until the very last second, and it’s fast. She barely has time to squeak in surprise before I’m pushing the syringe’s plunger forward, injecting anti-inflammatories and steroids directly into her joint, and pulling it back.
“Very good,” I mutter, capping the needle and returning my hand to her hip to press a pad of gauze to the injection site.
It’s a miracle I keep my hands from shaking as adrenaline floods my body.
I thought doing this was near-impossible when she was careful not to show pain or fear.
Knowing how scared she is makes this so much worse.
Delta’s eyes are squeezed shut, tears leaking down her cheeks all over again as I massage her poor hip. Fuck .
“Do you want me to get ice?” I need to do something damn it, but as I start to move away, Delta’s hand closes around my wrist.
“Don’t—” She shakes her head, taking a long, shaky breath, but still doesn’t open her eyes.
My throat constricts and I carefully weave our fingers together again, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Reaching into the pocket of my white coat with my free hand, I pull out a pen and a business card.
Setting it on the edge of the table, I scrawl my number across the back.
I can’t rationalize why I’m doing this. It’s unprofessional.
I’ve never offered my personal contact information to a patient before.
Hell, even my partners email me unless it’s an emergency.
The only people who call or text me are my family.
Yet, for what is quite possibly the first time in my life, the absence of a logical explanation for my behavior doesn’t stop me.
She doesn’t need to use it, but I can’t stomach her wanting me, needing me, and having to get through my fucking phone answering system and receptionist, then waiting hours for an appointment .
“Here.” Pressing it into her other hand, my heart flips at the sweet, surprised looks she gets when she realizes what I’ve written on the card. “If you need me. Even if it’s just to talk. Use it, okay?” I plead, wishing I could excuse wiping those last few tears from her cheeks, too.
Delta nods, squeezing my hand a little tighter. “If you want me to.”
My answering nod comes without hesitation. “I do.”
I want her to do a lot more with that number, but calling me if she needs me is enough. It has to be.