Chapter 2
Gillian
All of my favorite things start with T.
Toffee lattes.
Telenovelas.
And – more relatively – Tuesdays.
I love Tuesdays the same amount that Garfield hated Mondays.
See, Mondays equal misery.
All the woes and whines of the weekend roll over and carelessly infect the first day of the week.
Basically, they pump it full of ache and decay that you can’t just simply brush away.
But Tuesdays?
Tuesdays equal opportunities.
They allow you to remove the infection and clean it out and seal it for safety.
They’re almost like a second chance to have a better beginning to the week you’re in.
And I adore second chances.
Likely because they always serve as pivotal plot moments on my favorite shows.
It’s the reason why I rarely do anything other than paperwork on Mondays.
Paperwork I can do from home.
On the comfort of my own sofa.
While listening to whatever drama – spy or Spanish – I’m currently binging or in some cases…rebinging.
Entering the front office area of Victory Teeth, my dentistry practice, barely proceeds Rhonda Todd, my patient service lead, dramatically sighing, “Ohthankgod, Doc, I did not feel like walking my ass all the way back there to bring you this.” One set of her dark, cacao colored fingertips nudge the toffee latte towards me while the other aids in holding her own cup.
“You should know it was that twelve-year-old gerbil squeaking child that can’t count to five who made it rather than that fine ass Alex Cross lookin’ mofo that we both know can get it any day that ends in y. ”
“They all in end in y, Rhonnie.”
“My point exactly.”
It’s impossible not to snigger at her brazenness and her pride and her lack of care what anyone thinks about what she says or does or wants.
I secretly admire that.
Out of all the skills I’ve honed in my life, that isn’t one of them.
I, however, have never had a cavity, so maybe that balances the shit out?
“And now that we’re talking about gettin’ it,” she segues without missing a beat, “how was the wedding? Beautiful? Long? End with you doing the animal kingdom a solid by saving a horse and ridin’ another stallion instead?”
My free hand tucks itself into the pocket of my loose-fitting, maroon scrubs at the same time I announce, “Technically, there was no wedding.”
“What?”
“She ran away.”
“What the hell do you mean she ran away?” Rhonnie doesn’t actually wait for me to explain. “Like hooked up with the priest, take off to Mexico, smuggle themselves onto a cruise boat to The Bahamas where they start their new lives selling coconut water out of actual coconuts, never showed up?”
“Not quite.”
“Too bad,” Rhonnie disappointedly sighs. “I would love to hear about some real-life Doncella en la Noche shit.”
That was a good episode.
And I totally didn’t see them running into the priest’s first wife who he thought had died, which was why he became a priest to begin with!
Gahhhhh, I love good television.
Almost more than a great seasonal cold brew.
“I guess in a way it kinda was that type of drama?” Having a small sip precedes me explaining, “This was the fifth time in three years she’d left a dude at the alter hence why Aly brought me and Kira instead of Lionel who refused to attend anymore ‘En Vogue inspired’ weddings.”
The music reference prompts her to smirk. “You are too young to be makin’ that reference, and I am too old to be jealous of some heifer I don’t know being engaged a literal handful of times when I can’t even get one.”
“First off, I’m not that young-”
“Gurl, I watch soaps that are older than you.”
“And second,” my lips curl upward, “there’s nothing wrong with wanting a bit of romance for yourself.”
At least not according to Kira who interrogated me around Aly’s snores regarding my interactions with tall, delicious, and southern during our drive back to Highland.
It was…uncomfortable.
She basically hung onto my every word, which never happens.
Okay.
Not never, but rarely.
Usually only when I’m talking about whatever athlete came into the office for the day, and she feels like trying to guess who it was since I take patient confidentiality quite seriously.
Especially considering most of my clients are famous in their respective sports.
She swooned and gasped and gushed and then slapped me in the arm for not giving the guy my phone number despite the fact she was the one who made that shit impossible to do.
And to make everything worse?
I didn’t even get his last name.
Just his first.
Trough.
Which is…I’ll admit it.
Weird.
But not that weird.
I mean whatthefuck names are definitely out there.
Pilot Inspektor.
Bear Blaze.
Moon Unit.
Hell, I’ve even got a pro rally driver named Dingo that I’ve performed three root canals on in the last year.
Odd names are a real thing.
It would just make my social media searches a little less cringe if I had a last name to attach it to.
The thought of Dingo leads to me shifting subjects, “Soooo…who are my guest stars for the day?”
Rhonnie casually clicks a couple keys on her computer prior to reading out, “You’ve got toothless, gutless, sunless, funless and then hopeless as well as planless after lunch.”
There’s no stopping me from mirthfully scolding, “Rhonda.”
“What?” She swings one black scrub covered leg over the other and gestures towards her screen. “He’s missing sooooo many teeth.”
“Looft. He’s actually on the hockey team my brother coaches-”
“That’s the one Bull is the team dentist for?”
“Right.”
“Partnering for it through the practice.”
“Right again.”
“Just like I’m right about toothless missing an ass load of teeth.”
“He’s only missing four.”
“So. Many.”
“And he’s coming in for an apicoectomy.”
“Uh-huh,” another flick with her finger is made to the computer, “she whines about anything we won’t put her under for.”
“Frank. Doctenn tennis player. Coming in for a cracked tooth.”
“He’s paler than Elle Fanning.”
“Lourd. Table tennis player originally from Mistletoe, Montana. Also coming in for a cracked tooth.”
“He never fucking smiles.”
“Alkac. Cricket player. Root canal.”
“He never stops complaining.”
“Russell. MMA fighter. Routine examine.”
“And she’s new.”
“Um…” gentle taps hit the side of my cup in thought, “hint?”
“Blonde.”
“Oh!” The joyful squeak prompts Rhonnie to roll her eyes. “Dougherty. Women’s handball player. She suffers from severe dental trauma and needs a better plan on how to proceed forward before training begins for the next season.”
Rhonnie lets the corner of her lips fully kick upward. “You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?”
“For being able to decipher your cranky code?” I smugly smirk. “One hundred percent.”
Warm laughter bounces back and forth between sips of coffee.
Rhonnie’s been with me since before I finally decided to open my own practice that specializes in caring for athletes.
Six years ago, when I worked under Farrell – who talked down to me every chance he got – she was doing medical billing and coding and being treated like garbage for changing career fields later in life.
She randomly brought me a pick me up brew after I was forced to skip lunch for the third time that week and I brought her one the next morning to express gratitude.
The shit cycled between us until something resembling a friendship was constructed, which is when I confessed my dream of Victory Teeth.
Which is when she expressed her willingness to be a part of it.
Which is what led to me eventually taking the big leap about a year later.
And I’m glad I did.
Starting my own practice – that also houses three other dentists as well as an orthodontist – is the only, truly “for me” thing I’ve ever done.
It’s the only time I ever put my own wants and desires and hopes first.
It’s also the only time I didn’t let fear win.
Fear has a ridiculous amount of gold medal wins in my life.
“Bull is still on vacation for another week – as we both know – but swore via his weekly check in email that he’ll be ready to jump on those mouthguards-”
“Gumshields.”
“-files the second he gets back from Bermuda. April’s first appointment is at ten, so she should be here any minute as should Becca.
Judd had me reschedule all his appointments for the day after his teen wrecked his Mercedez last night, but Sybil still came in at eight, so she’s available if anyone needs any extra hands today. ”
“And Addy?”
“In the back, bathing herself in that ‘all-natural deodorant’ that does nothing for no one.”
“Rhonnie,” leaves me in another playful chastising tone that’s easy to brush off.
“Oh look,” she nonchalantly kicks her chin towards the glass door, “Toothless is here.”
Aaron Looft, the Vlasta born native, cheerfully strolls into the building, undeniable front tooth gap on full, proud display. “Morning, Doc!”
“Good morning, Mr. Looft,” I warmly greet in return. “You seem like you’re in a good mood.”
His sandy shoulders that are being covered by a white tank top innocently bounce. “Not in a bad one.”
“Give it time,” Rhonnie teases while moving her cup towards her mouth. “She hasn’t cut into your gums yet.”
After tossing her a small glare, I return my attention to him. “Do you have someone to drive you home after your procedure today?”
“Yup.” He kicks his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s parking his truck.”
“Fantastic. Why don’t you finish checking in with Rhonda while I grab you your post care paperwork to go over?”
“Shouldn’t you wait ‘til like post care?”
“I prefer to go over the information pre and post considering how much pain makes people forget or disregard or unable to comprehend.”
“You’re thoroughskies, Doc.” The brown eyed hockey forward I’m eye level with bends his tattoo skinned arms to rest on the high-top counter space in front of Rhonda. “I like that.”
“And I would like to go over your payment,” announces the woman reaching for a nearby tablet.
Dismissing myself to find Addison Seger, my lead dental assistant, is easily done as is instructing her on the paperwork to grab while I lock up my phone in my office.
It’s one of the random hockey things I learned from my big brother that I found easy to actually apply to my own career.
Stay focused.
Stay completely focused on the immediate miles ahead versus allowing yourself to be distracted by thoughts of the next game or playoffs or trades or seasons.
This means putting away my cell.
Distancing myself from calendars, reports, patient questions from patients not directly in front of me.
I give each person in my chair my full dedication and everything I’ve got, or I give them nothing.
Never played sports, but the mentality is easy to implement elsewhere.
Post abandoning my device along with my drink, I grab the materials, inform her of our first procedure to ensure she grabs the right equipment, and return to the front area just in time to see a sight that drops my jaw to the ground.
“See, Doc.” Looft tips his head to the larger-than-life male that’s texting next to him who’s sporting an odd outfit of salmon pink shorts, an arctic blue linen shirt, and a tan, straw cowboy hat. “My rideskie.”
“Sorry,” he offhandedly mutters. “My little brother is havin’ a wardrobe crisis for this pool party.
Evidently, there’s a dress code, so he was sendin’ me the Snap to see, but I was drivin’, then I needed to park, and now I’m tryin’ to text back an appropriate response that won’t send him spiralin’ into his typical teen ‘you jus’ don’t understand’ thing. ”
“Trough?” airily slips past my parted lips rather than any retort remotely related to his ramble.
Whether it’s his name or my voice that crinkles his forehead prior to his gaze finding mine is unclear. “Gillian?”
“You two know each other?” Rhonnie curiously questions at the same time she leans towards the unexpected situation.
Ear to ear smiles stretch out on our respective faces as I girlishly coo, “Well, we-”
“Tendy?” my older brother Milano – or M – suddenly interrupts during his unanticipated approach. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Tendy?
Like…goaltender?!
Like…on my brother’s team goaltender?!
Like…on my brother’s team therefore we can never date goaltender?
That tendy?
You mean to tell me out of all the goalie options out there – including lacrosse, soccer, and fucking water polo – I somehow magically managed to meet and flirt with the one that’s off-limits?!
I now see that Kira’s late-night espresso of wisdom wasn’t brewed to perfection.
Yes, there’s nothing wrong with wanting a little bit of romance for yourself unless it just so happens to be with one of the hockey players that your big brother coaches for a living.