Chapter 1 #2
Logan grins. “Lu and I can swing by yours tomorrow after practice. Feed her, clean the tray, make sure she hasn’t sacrificed a bird on your stovetop or something.”
“She only did that once.”
Eli snorts. “That you know of.”
Their voices are light, but it’s all surface. I can feel what’s underneath it. They’re trying to keep the mood up, but they’re just as gutted as I am and know what this means. How close we are to the Olympics. How close I am to the edge.
But none of us is mentioning it, not yet.
There’s a knock at the door, and the boys’ heads all whip toward it as it opens.
Dr. Park doesn’t acknowledge the guys as she steps in and stops beside the bed. Their eyes remain on her as she checks the chart again, and scrawls something onto it.
“We’re ready for pre-op,” she murmurs, eyes on her notes. “Porters are on their way up.”
They boys blink, and their collective gaze trails back over to where I lay on the bed.
“You guys can wait in the day lounge,” she adds, still not looking at anyone. “Or come back later once Mr. Hutchison is out of surgery.”
Jake nods first and stands. Chase follows, gently cupping a hand to my cheek. “You got this, Hutchy.”
Logan doesn’t say anything, just holds my gaze for a second, then nods. Eli’s last. He doesn’t speak either, but places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes once before turning for the door.
They file out, one by one, the door hissing closed behind them, and the silence I usually love so much suddenly feels deafening.
I stare at the ceiling again, trying not to let panic set in. The sharp shift in my gut tells me it’s not working, and I scramble to fill the void with something, anything to take my mind off what’s about to happen.
But I’m shit at small talk, so say the first thing I can think of.
“They’re gonna look after Gremlin for me.”
She glances up with mild alarm.
“Is that… a child?”
“My cat.”
“Oh.” She blinks. “Of course.”
“One of them is going over after practice. She’s temperamental.”
“The cat or the friend?”
The edge of my mouth curls. “Both.”
Dr. Park huffs a tiny breath, so small I almost miss it, but something in my gut eases.
Getting even the tiniest of reactions out of her feels good on some weird level. A confirmation that there’s a human with feelings under the white coat.
She sets the clipboard aside.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve just fucked my entire career.”
There’s no point in pretending it’s not a reality right now, and for some reason, saying it to a stranger feels easier than saying it to my best friends. Even if that stranger is about to be one of the surgeons holding a blade to my knee.
She nods. “Entirely normal.”
“Fucking up my career?”
“No.” She frowns, eyes pinning mine. “That feeling, as though you’re on the precipice of a make-or-break life moment—that’s normal. Means you care. And it means you’re going to work twice as hard to ensure it doesn’t happen.”
I swallow deep, and nod once. “You got that right.”
She tilts her head. “Which is why, Mr. Hutchison, I know you’ll have no problem removing your piercings to ensure the risk of infection is reduced.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, because damnit, she’s got me.
“Right now?”
She shrugs. “Or you can wait until we sedate you and let a nurse do it.”
Abso-fucking-lutely not.
“Fine.”
With a sigh, I reach for the hem of my gown.
“Nope!” Her voice goes sharp, and her hand dashes out as she turns her head away. “I am not—God, can you—just… do it under. The. Sheet. Blanket stays on.”
My hand freezes. “What? You said now.”
“Under,” she says instantly, flapping her hand at the blanket. “Everything stays under.”
I scowl and drop the gown. “You should’ve led with that.”
“I didn’t say flash the room like it’s Medical Magic Mike.”
“Jesus, relax. It’s not like I was gonna flash you my—”
“I’ve seen enough unsolicited dick in my residency, thank you.”
I snort before I can stop it, mostly because this woman couldn’t keep a handle on her bedside manner to save her own life.
“Sounds like a personal problem.”
“It became my problem the second you reached for your gown.”
I don’t grin, but it’s a near thing.
She busies herself by pulling on a pair of gloves, muttering something under her breath. I pretend not to hear it, and instead tug the sheet up, then slide my hands beneath it, shifting awkwardly as I try to find the first barbell.
Her eyes dart to where my hands are under the sheet, and she clears her throat.
“I don’t imagine any of this was on your bucket list.”
I glance up. “You always this chatty before carving into someone’s knee?”
“I find it helps calm the nerves.”
I snort. “Yours or mine?”
She doesn’t answer, and I wonder if it’s because she’s nervous, too. If she’s scared about the surgery, about getting a good outcome.
I find the first ball and start unscrewing it by feel—it’s a little awkward, the metal stubborn between my fingers.
“You okay over there?” she asks after a moment, as if I’m moving too slowly for her.
“They’re curved and screwed, it’s not exactly a quick-release system.”
A pen clatters to the floor as she prepares a sterile bag, but she ignores it. “Would you like assistance?”
“Would you?”
She coughs once to cover her laugh, then looks away, giving me whatever shred of privacy she can while still standing within reach of the sterile bag she’s holding.
I slide the first barbell out and hand it over the sheet without looking, and she takes it without comment.
“How many?” she asks.
“Three,” I mutter.
“Please don’t drop them on the floor.”
The second comes out easier, and I pass it over. “I catch pucks that fly over one hundred miles an hour for a living. Do I look like I might drop them?”
“Yes.”
I huff and work on the third, which takes a moment. I grit my teeth, shift my legs wider under the blanket, and finally pull it free. It’s undignified as hell.
“Here.”
“Thank you.” She takes the last one with the kind of delicate care usually reserved for live grenades, then pops it into the bag with the others.
We don’t speak for a beat as she busies herself with labels for my bag of barbells.
I settle back against the pillow. “That was easily the most awkward thing I’ve done in a hospital bed, and I once had a prostate exam while maintaining full eye contact.”
She doesn’t respond with a smartass remark, which by this point in our snark-fest is enough to gain my attention.
I glance over to see her biting the inside of her cheek. Her eyes are fixed on the far wall, and her ears are turning pink as she tries to conceal her laughter.
“You okay over there, Doc?”
“I’m regretting my life choices,” she finally manages to say.
“Welcome to the club.”
There’s a knock at the door, and the porters enter. One older, one younger, both sets of eyes trained on me. Dr. Park immediately shifts back into business mode.
“Let’s go,” she says to them. “He’s ready.”
She steps closer to help adjust the bed and reaches for the side rail, but misjudges the angle. The rail clatters as she stumbles, catching herself with a sharp breath.
I react without thinking, my hand shooting out to steady her.
“Careful.”
Her eyes flash up to mine, a mix of irritation and embarrassment. “I’m fine.”
One porter unlocks the wheels of my bed while she regains her composure, and then I’m being guided toward the door.
Dr. Park walks beside us as they push me into the corridor, her clipboard tucked under one arm. All clean lines and calm instructions again, like the last five minutes didn’t happen.
I exhale and let my head fall back against the pillow.
She glances at me. “You okay?”
It’s unexpected. And I could lie—I’m good at it.
Instead, I shift against the sheets. “You’re sure the anesthesia guy got my correct weight?”
“Very sure.”
“I’m still not ruling out the possibility this is all a conspiracy to take me out.”
“We’re not that organized, and you’re not that important.”
I close my eyes, then hear her voice again. Gentler.
“But right now, Mr. Hutchison? I know the stakes, and I know how important this is for you. And we’ll do everything we can to get the outcome you want.”
The lights blur above us as we turn the corner.
“Okay,” I manage. “Thanks, Doc.”
She nods, and that’s it. No fake comfort or additional coddling. She’s acknowledging how shit this is without pushing, and I appreciate it more than any sort of sugar-coated bedside babble. Just a nod and a promise to do everything they can.
We pull into the pre-op area, filled with nurses and monitors and too much fucking light. I’m moved onto a new gurney, clutching the blanket a little tighter than I mean to.
“Ready?” a nurse asks.
I don’t answer right away, because my throat feels dry.
“Yeah,” I say eventually.
Dr. Park moves beside the bed, calm as ever, giving instructions to the nurse in short, clipped sentences before turning back to me.
“Doctor Moreno’s already in the OR,” she says. “We’re just waiting on your final checks.”
Right. The specialist surgeon I’ve met once in the last forty-eight hours. The one with thirty years of ortho under his belt and a reputation for rebuilding athletes’ knees like it’s nothing. I trust him, I do.
But somehow, I trust Dr. Park more. She’s the one I’ve seen the most, the one who explains things without softening the blow.
The one who handed me a sterile bag for my dick jewelry like it was just another Tuesday, and stifled a laugh when I grumbled about it.
She steps away, voice low as she runs through my stats with the anesthetist. I wonder if she’s scared too, as scared as I am. But her voice is clear and precise.
My eyes fall to her hands, and I watch them for a second.
Steady as hell.