Chapter 8
EIGHT
DREW
On Saturday morning, I arrive at the tennis court fifteen minutes early. So I have plenty of time to reflect on all the reasons why this is a bad idea.
The first, and probably the least important reason, is that I have a lot of other stuff to do today.
There’s the grant proposal to finish, and a couple of papers I’ve been asked to peer review.
On top of that, I still have charting to finish from yesterday’s clinic.
I hardly ever leave charts unfinished, but my midday chat with Alexandra had me running behind.
The second reason is that Alexandra hasn’t played tennis in four years.
When a former professional tennis player doesn’t even own a racket, there’s a message there.
A nice guy wouldn’t have pushed her to play, but I guess I’m not that nice.
I’ve found five YouTube clips of her playing tennis, and I’ve watched them more times than I care to admit.
And the last reason this is a bad idea is the most obvious: Alexandra is my admin assistant.
Even though we’re just going to play tennis in a public park, it still feels like we’re doing something inappropriate.
My brain has definitely been wandering to inappropriate places, like how her legs will look in a tennis skirt.
But none of these reasons seem to matter when she rides up on her bicycle and smiles at me. Her cheeks are flushed from the wind, and she’s not wearing her glasses—she must have put in contacts. It probably means she’s serious about the tennis, but I kind of miss the glasses.
“Hey, Dr. Malone.” She leans her bike against the fence and takes off her helmet.
“You should probably call me Drew,” I say casually. “At least while we’re on the court.”
“Sure. I’ll try to remember.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if I can call her Ally, but I bite it back. I need to keep a professional distance.
We walk through the gate onto the court, and I try not to stare at her legs. She’s wearing pink spandex shorts, and the color draws the eye.
Who am I kidding? Alexandra’s legs draw the eye.
I pull two tennis rackets out of my duffel bag. “You can use whichever one you want,” I offer, holding them out to her.
She examines them one at a time. “This one’s brand-new,” she remarks.
“Yep.” I won’t try to deny it; I bought the second racket after work yesterday.
“I’ll take the new one,” she says, handing the other one back to me. “When I beat you, I don’t want you to claim it’s because you were playing with an unfamiliar racket.”
“Sure,” I say with a chuckle. I pull two new cans of tennis balls out of my bag and hand one to Alexandra. She pops the lid off and holds the fresh tennis balls under her nose.
“I missed the smell,” she confesses. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s nothing like it.”
So why hasn’t she played tennis in four years?
As I’m thinking about that, Alexandra takes off her sweatshirt, revealing a faded navy T-shirt with ‘Fashionista’ written across the chest. “Okay, let’s get this done,” she says, tossing her sweatshirt on the ground against the fence.
“Sure. Do you want to rally for a bit to warm up?”
She furrows her brow. “Nah, let’s just play. You said just one set, right?”
“Yeah, one set. You can serve.”
“I don’t need any favors, Dr. Malone,” she says with a frown.
“I’d toss a coin, but I don’t have one,” I tell her. “So since I challenged you to this match, it seems fair that you start.”
“Okay.” She collects the tennis balls on her racket and starts toward her end of the court. But after a few steps, she stops and turns to face me.
“I need to you promise me something,” she says.
“Sure.” I expect her to ask me to promise I’ll come to the stupid strategic communication meeting if she wins, and obviously I will. Hell, I’ll go to the meeting regardless of who wins the tennis match. Alexandra’s certainly gone above and beyond to get me there.
Not that I expect there to be much of a contest here. I played some tennis in university and I still play recreationally when I have time, but that isn’t often. I doubt I’m anywhere close to her level, and she’ll probably wipe the court with me.
But Alexandra’s question surprises me. “I want you to promise that no matter what happens, you won’t let me win.”
“I don’t let anyone win, Parker,” I reply. “I fully intend to kick your ass.”
It was clearly the right answer, because she smiles before she walks to the service line.
Her first serve hits the net with an anticlimactic thump, and her second serve is wide by at least a foot. A double fault, and the first point goes to me.
Alexandra mutters to herself as she picks up two balls for her next serve. She tucks one under the hem of her shorts, and the spandex holds it in place against her thigh.
Damn. Those pink shorts are even more of a distraction than a tennis skirt would be.
She hits her next serve too late, and it slams into the net for another fault.
Alexandra’s frustration is clear in the set of her shoulders. Clearly, this was a bad idea. She hasn’t played tennis in four years, but being an asshole, I goaded her into playing.
She retrieves her second ball from under her shorts, and I nod to let her know I’m ready to receive.
And this time, she finds her form. After a perfect toss, she bends her knees, springs up, and smashes her racket down. The ball bounces in the service court and whistles by me.
Alexandra gives a little fist pump. “Fifteen all,” she says, with a smile of satisfaction.
She wins the next three points to take the game, and her play improves considerably as the set goes on. Even if she hasn’t played tennis in years, she’s clearly been doing something to stay in shape. She’s all over the court, chasing down balls that should have been out of reach.
Alexandra wins the set 6-2, and when we finish, she looks as fresh as she did when we started.
“You play well, Dr. Malone,” she tells me as we walk off the court.
“So do you.”
She shakes her head. “I’m really rusty, obviously.”
“Probably a good thing for me,” I tell her. “Spared me the humiliation of losing 6-0.”
“Yeah. Been there, and it’s not fun. Thanks for this,” she says, handing me back the tennis racket.
“Sure.” As I zip the racket back into its cover, I consider suggesting she keep it. I have no use for a second tennis racket.
And I almost ask if she wants to play again sometime, but I bite my tongue. This was a one-off. I shouldn’t have pressured her into it in the first place.
She slips on her sweatshirt and gives me a nod goodbye. “Thanks, Dr. Malone. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Bye, Alexandra.” I watch as she puts on her helmet, swings a long leg over the seat of her bike, and pedals away.
On Wednesday morning, I walk over to Alexandra’s desk five minutes before the strategic communication meeting is scheduled to start.
“Ready?” I ask when she looks up from her computer screen.
Alexandra looks confused. “For what?”
“For the strategic communication meeting.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. You want me to come with you?”
“Of course,” I reply. “You can take notes.” There’s no way I’m going to suffer through this alone, and this is exactly the sort of thing she was hired to do.
“Oh, right. Sure.” Alexandra scrambles to find a pen and some paper. “‘Kay, I’m ready.”
As Alexandra and I walk out of the office, Celine shoots me a curious look. I resolutely avoid her eye.
We take the stairs to the executive wing and arrive at the meeting exactly on time. Around twenty people are sitting around a big conference table. I recognize Heather Larkin and a couple of other managers, but most of the faces are unfamiliar.
There are only two empty chairs left. Alexandra hesitates, clearly unsure if she belongs at this table, so I pull out a chair and gesture for her to sit. I take the last empty seat, directly across from her.
“Great, we’re ready to start,” Heather says. “I’m Heather Larkin, and I’m so excited to be chairing the Multidisciplinary Strategic Communications Committee.”
Just my luck. This thing has grown from a meeting to a committee.
“We’ll get started with introductions,” Heather says brightly. “I’d like everyone to share their name and an interesting fact about themselves.”
I catch Alexandra’s gaze and give her a wink, and the corner of her mouth quirks up.
I hold my phone under the table and pull up a text thread to Alexandra Parker (assistant).
Me: We should have workshopped this. I don’t have an interesting fact.
“I’m Elaine Bainbridge,” says a tired-looking woman to Heather’s right. “I’m the Director of Inpatient Operations, and I’m so happy to be part of this committee.”
Heather smiles. “And an interesting fact?” she prompts.
Next to me, Alexandra pulls her phone from her pocket and holds it under the table to read my text.
“Oh, um . . .” Elaine chews her lip, trying to think of an interesting fact. “Uh, I have a kitten named Bubbles.”
“Great,” Heather enthuses.
Alexandra’s thumbs fly over her phone screen as a woman named Rupi tells us about her upcoming vacation to Punta Cana.
My phone pings.
Alexandra Parker (assistant): Say you can predict the future. You knew exactly how this meeting would start.
I press my lips together to smother a laugh.
Me: No one else would understand that.
A woman named Carlene tells us she’s recently taken up watercolor painting, which gets points for originality. I glance at Alexandra, who’s holding her phone under the table as a man named Scott tells us about his dog.
A moment later, my phone pings again.
Alexandra: Say you’re saving up for a gangster.
Me: ??
Alexandra: **hamster. Autocorrect fail.
Me: Gangster would be funnier.
I catch Heather’s eyes on me. Shit. “Dr. Malone, I think you’re next,” she says.
I try to pull myself together. “Right. Okay. I’m Drew Malone. I’m a neurosurgeon and the chief of surgery. And . . .” I trail off. This is when I’m supposed to say I’m excited to be part of this committee, but I can’t do it.
“And your interesting fact?” Heather prompts.
I glance at Alexandra, who raises her eyebrow a fraction of an inch. An unmistakable challenge.
“I’m, uh, saving up to get a hamster.”
Silence falls. Then Alexandra laughs, and the rest of the room joins her.
“Such a sense of humor,” Heather says with a chuckle.
The problem is, I could have introduced myself as Drew Malone, a neurosurgeon who likes the way his assistant looks when she plays tennis. And when she’s sitting at her desk eating sour candy, and making smartass comments, and . . . just about all the time, really.
Heather drones on about a quality improvement project to assess a new structured communication tool. At least, I think that’s what she’s talking about, but I’m having a hard time focusing.
My eyes wander across the table. Alexandra’s top lip has the most perfect cupid’s bow, and her lower lip is a tiny bit fuller than then top one. It looks lush and soft, and . . .
Damn. She’s my assistant.
I resolve to keep my distance. I’ll see her when she gives me my lunch in the morning, and that’ll be it. I won’t text her again, even though my fingers are itching to continue our message thread.
I definitely won’t ask for a tennis rematch.
“We’re hoping to have preliminary results by October, so we can submit a poster to the Canadian Quality Improvement Conference,” Heather says.
Of course Heather wants to do a poster; she’s trying to claw her way up the management ladder, and she thinks it’ll make her look good. She’ll probably want to put my name on the project, too.
The meeting finally ends, with threats of more meetings and subcommittees and the usual crap. Alexandra and I go back downstairs, and I tell her to take the rest of the day off. I need to write a grant proposal, and I can’t afford any distractions.
I’m on call on the weekend, and I spend most of it at the hospital. By Monday morning I’m exhausted, and a cup of mint tea isn’t going to do much to wake me up. I don’t even like mint tea, but it seems less emasculating than the fruity herbal flavors.
I almost cave and buy coffee—I’m not operating today, so it won’t matter if I have a tremor—but I don’t want to get hooked on it. Decaf’s not the answer either, because I can taste the difference, and it makes me crave the real thing.
But when I walk into my office, the sight of Alexandra is a more effective stimulant than any drink. She’s wearing her hair loose today, and it spills over her shoulders in a riot of golden waves.
“Hey, Dr. Malone,” she says. “How was your weekend?”
“Busy. I was on call,” I say curtly. I can’t make small talk with Alexandra when her hair looks like that. She looks like she just got out of bed.
“Oh, right,” she says. “Here’s your lunch. And you know, if you ever want me to pick up your tea for you, I’d be happy to. Save you waiting in the line.”
“Sure. Thanks.” I nod hello to Celine, who’s on the phone, and escape into my office.
Fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock on my door.
“Yeah?”
Alexandra walks in nervously. “I’m really sorry to bother you, Dr. Malone. But Heather emailed about a follow-up meeting for the strategic communications project, and she’s sent me some dates. Are you be free next Wednesday morning?”
As I’m debating how to answer, there’s another knock on the door, and a man and woman walk in.
My heart sinks. My day just got infinitely worse.