2. Annette
Chapter two
Annette
The World's Worst Patient
By the time I start my morning shift, Jamie Walker has already made hospital news.
Not the official kind. The nurse-to-nurse kind.
The orthopedic trauma floor at Riverton Regional Medical Center runs on coffee, controlled chaos, and whispered updates long before anything makes it into a chart note. By seven fifteen, everyone knows the captain of the Frostholm Blizzards came out of surgery sometime after two in the morning.
Displaced left clavicle fracture, repaired with a plate and screws.
Three fractured ribs.
Small pneumothorax, stable and resolving.
A whole lot of stubbornness, still undiagnosed but strongly suspected.
I stand at the workstation outside his room and scroll through the overnight notes for the third time.
The Blizzards had been here in Riverton, hundreds of miles from Frostholm when it happened. They were playing a nationally televised road game in our arena. That is how he ended up here instead of at Frostholm Medical Center. Wrong city. Wrong hospital. Wrong night.
But the right trauma team.
I remind myself of that as I read the operative report.
Successful fixation. No complications. Pain controlled with medication. Oxygen saturation was stable overnight. Repeated chest films show no worsening of the pneumothorax.
Good. Very good.
I’m an ARNP, Advanced Registered Nurse Practitioner, on the orthopedic trauma service, but I also cover arena emergency medicine when the hospital contracts medical staff for major events.
Most nights, that means sprains, stitches, dehydration, the occasional broken wrist from someone who forgets ice is slippery.
Last night was not most nights.
Last night, Jamie Walker hit the ice like the sound had been sucked out of the entire building.
I still remember his face beneath the arena lights. Pale, with teeth clenched while trying to pretend the pain was smaller than it was.
Trying to look past me toward a rookie who clearly mattered more to him than his own ability to breathe.
I close his chart. Fame can wait. Status can wait. The Frostholm Blizzards can wait.
Today, Jamie Walker is a post-op trauma patient with a repaired clavicle, injured ribs, and a lung I plan to keep a very close eye on.
That is all.
Dr. Henson stops beside me with his tablet tucked under one arm and a paper cup of coffee in his other hand. He looks like he has been awake since Tuesday, which is impressive since it is Friday.
"Morning, Annette."
"Morning."
He nods toward room 412. "You're staying with Mr. Walker today."
Not a question. A decision.
"Any specific concerns?"
"Other than the fact that every sports reporter within three states has called the hospital main line?" His mouth twitches. "Pain control. Breathing exercises. Fall risk. Ego management."
"Ego management is not in my scope of practice."
"Today it is."
I pick up the tablet again. "Was he awake overnight?"
"Enough to ask about the score twice."
That does not surprise me. "Anything else?"
"He asked whether his rookie defenseman was okay before he asked whether he needed surgery."
I glance toward the closed door. There it is again. That same instinct. Everyone else first.
Dr. Henson lowers his voice. "He’s going to push."
"Most elite athletes do."
"Not like this one."
I almost smile. "Then I suppose he and I will have a very educational day."
Dr. Henson tells me to call him “if he develops increased shortness of breath, worsening chest pain, dizziness, fever, if his oxygen drops, or if he gets a sudden urge to prove masculinity by walking down the hall unassisted."
"That last one sounds likely."
"That's why I said it." And he walks away.
I take one breath before opening the door.
The room is dim, the blinds half drawn against the morning sun. Machines hum softly. The scent of antiseptic lingers beneath the sharper smell of hospital coffee from the hallway.
The bed is empty.
For half a second, I think I have the wrong room.
Then I see him.
Jamie Walker is half sitting, half sliding off the other side of the bed. He’s wearing a hospital gown, a sling, an oxygen cannula, and the expression of a man who believes sheer determination can override gravity.
It cannot.
"Mr. Walker." He does not look up.
"Almost." His bare feet search for the floor.
The monitor cord pulls tight. His face goes gray. "Nope." His right hand grips the mattress. "I just need to stand."
"You need to not fall," I call as I’m dashing around the bed.
He starts to argue. His body votes first. The second his weight shifts, his knees buckle.
I catch him by the shoulders and brace my hip against the bed. He is solid muscle, six feet plus of professional athlete, and for one alarming second, I feel the full weight of what would have happened if I had arrived ten seconds later.
Pain flashes across his face. He tries to hide it. He fails.
"Back," I say.
"I can-"
"Back!"
This time he listens. Barely.
I guide him down slowly, keeping his left side supported while he clenches his jaw hard enough to crack teeth.
By the time he is upright against the pillows, a thin sheen of sweat has broken across his forehead.
He takes one shallow breath. Then another. Not enough.
"I'm fine."
I reach for the pulse oximeter clipped to his finger and glance at the monitor.
"No. You're determined. There's a difference."
His eyes shift to mine. Blue. Tired. Still sharp beneath the medication and pain.
"You always this direct?"
"Only with patients trying to face-plant before breakfast."
"I wasn't going to face-plant."
I look at the floor. Then at his bare feet. Then at the tubing now looped around his ankle.
He follows my gaze and a faint crease appears between his brows.
"That was temporary."
"Gravity usually is not."
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile.
Almost. Good. Almost is better than gray and sweating.
I move the tubing away from his leg and check the dressing along his clavicle. No obvious bleeding. His sling is slightly twisted because he clearly tried to escape while wearing it.
"Any dizziness?"
"No."
"Nausea?"
"No."
"Pain level?"
"Manageable."
"That was not a number."
He exhales carefully.
"Four."
The monitor shows a small spike in heart rate.
I look at him. He looks back with the calm, stubborn focus of a man who has lied about pain before and considers it a leadership skill.
"Try again."
His jaw tightens. "Six."
"Closer." "Seven."
I write it down.
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"Eventually telling the truth."
That gets me a real look. Not angry. Assessing. Jamie Walker is used to reading a room. I can feel him doing it now, sorting me into whatever place fast enough in his head.
Friendly. Useful. Obstacle. Threat.
I have no doubt I am currently somewhere between obstacle and threat. I can live with that.
"Where's Coach?" he asks.
There it is. "Downstairs, according to the note from security."
"He needs to come up."
"He can visit when you're cleared for visitors."
"I need to talk to him."
"You need to breathe."
"I am breathing."
I pick up the incentive spirometer from the tray table and hold it out.
"Then prove it."
His eyes narrow slightly. "You have a lot of confidence for someone who just met me."
"I met you last night. You tried to negotiate with me while lying on the ice with a collapsed lung beginning to form. We bonded."
"Small pneumothorax," he corrects.
"You read your chart?"
"I heard someone say it."
"Then you also heard someone smarter than you tell you to stay in bed."
The almost smile returns. He takes the spirometer because refusing now would be childish and he knows it. That, at least, is something.
I talk him through the first slow breath.
He hates it, every part of him hates it.
His fingers tighten on the plastic. His shoulders tense before he remembers one of them cannot afford the movement. The ball barely rises.
Pain shadows his face. He lowers the device.
"Again," I say.
"That was one."
"It was a warm-up."
"You always cheat?"
"Only with patients who lie about their pain level."
He studies me for a beat, then tries again. Better this time. Not great. Better.
I set his pain medication within reach, verify the schedule, check his IV site, then scan his band and administer what he’s due for. He watches every movement.
Not suspicious. Controlling.
There is a difference.
"Laptop," he says. "No."
"Phone?" "Later."
"Coach?" "Later."
"How's Ethan?" That one lands differently. His voice changes. It gets quieter. Rougher.
I pause. "I have not been updated on him yet."
"Find out."
Not a request. Not rude, either.
Almost desperate.
I set the cup down. "Mr. Walker…"
"Jamie."
"Jamie," I correct. "Right now, your job is healing."
"My team needs me."
"Then heal."
The room stills. The machines keep humming. Somewhere in the hallway, a food cart rattles past.
Jamie looks at me like I have just said something he does not know how to argue with.
Good.
"You make that sound simple."
"I didn't say it was simple. I said it was your job."
He looks away first, not defeated. Thinking.
The morning settles into a careful rhythm.
Vitals. Breathing exercises. Pain reassessment. Surgical site check.
And a reminder that standing without assistance is not a personality trait.
He argues less than I expect. He watches more.
When Maria comes in from housekeeping to empty the trash, his face changes.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
"Morning, Maria."
She stops so abruptly the trash bag rustles against her leg. "Oh. You remember me?"
"Your grandson's tournament was last weekend, right? How'd he do?"
Maria's whole face brightens. "They won two games. He scored once. His mother cried."
"Good for him. Tell him Captain Walker said nice work."
Maria presses a hand to her chest. "He'll never believe me."
"Make him earn believing you."
She laughs and leaves the room smiling.
I finish updating his medication record, but my attention stays on him.
"How did you know that?"
His gaze shifts to mine. "Know what?"
"Her grandson. The tournament."
He seems genuinely confused by the question. "She told me last night before surgery."