Chapter 38 – QUINN
QUINN
“So… friend hang out tonight?” Russel asks, making me sigh.
Inwardly. Outwardly. All over the damn place.
He told me he had nothing to do with that video Intertainment posted and that he only said those things about me because they were all true.
He claims coming back to Boston and seeing me again has truly reprioritized his thinking and that he regrets ever letting me go.
But with that, the press has been lingering off and on outside my house. Not while the team was away, thank goodness, but since they’ve been back, yes. It makes seeing Rhett tricky. But it’s more than that.
I don’t want to be in the spotlight again.
Certainly not for something that isn’t real but manufactured. It’s like déjà vu, and it’s made me unsettled and edgy.
“Can’t tonight.”
“You say that every night.”
I hitch up a shoulder. “Then you’d think you’d get the hint already.”
He moves in front of me. “You’re the one who offered friends that last time.”
He has a point. Not my smartest play. “I’m not a publicity stunt.”
He shifts and glances away for a beat, his hands going to his hips. “I don’t think of you as one. I think of you as the woman I’d do anything to have a second chance with.” His fingers graze my chin, and I jerk away.
“That’s not friends.”
A sharp whistle whips through the air. “Russel. On the field. Now!”
His eyes narrow and his jaw locks. “We’ll talk more about this later.” In a beat, he’s back on the field before I can tell him I’m all set with that.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out.
Hayes: *Video of Robin Williams singing “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” from Mrs. Doubtfire*
Hayes: If I were Jewish and had a Bubbie, this would be my life. Oh wait. It already is.
Roman: Then why. The fuck. Are you. Marrying HER?!
Hayes: Because she is all the things I love. Obviously. I’m marrying her because she’s perfect for me and my life and my situation. You know this.
Me: So Paris in the fall is magical, is what you’re saying. When do we get to meet the devil, I mean, princess?
Hayes: I’m being an asshole. She’s not that bad. She’s not.
Roman: Who are you trying to convince?
Hayes: I love her.
Braelyn: You love her what?
Hayes: Everything. I’m sure I love her everything. You know, when I think about it, I really like all the things she is. Especially after a vat of alcohol. I’m venting. Can’t a guy be allowed to vent?!
Forest: I’m just going to be factual and not sugarcoat anything. You’re the worst motherfucking liar in the history of liars. And I repeat what Roman said, so reread his text.
Hayes: I’m sure you married assholes all had moments of doubt like this.
Aston: Nope
Skylar: Totally
Roman: Zero.
Braelyn: Maybe.
Hayes: You see?! It’s not all “La Vie En Rose”. It’s normal to feel this way before you marry someone. Right?
Forest: Never been married but…
Aston: …
Skylar: …
Braelyn: …
Roman: …
Hayes: Fuck all of you.
Me: People, do you realize I’m footballing and not supposed to text?
Skylar: More like watching it. And you’re at practice.
Me: It’s the same thing. Oh! Shit. No. Gotta go!
Skylar: What happened?
Braelyn: Yikes. Everyone okay?
Roman: Quinn?
Hayes: Quinn? Is Crew okay? Mason?
I run onto the field and slide through the grass until I come up on the player who is on his butt holding his shin with an expression that tells me he heard a bad crack.
“Reynolds. I’m so sorry, man.” One of the players whose name I don’t remember has his hands on top of his head and is pacing. “You stopped, and I didn’t, and I didn’t realize, and fuck, dude.”
“Not your fault,” Reynolds tells him. “My knee gave out on me.” He meets my eyes. “It just gave out. I was running, and I felt, I don’t know, like a pop or something. Then I got hit, and I think I broke it.
The trainer throws me a side-eye. We’re at practice today, but it’s their hard practice. Normally, a player wouldn’t get hit like this.
The player is holding his hand over his shin, and I get him to move it.
Crap.
“Let’s get you to the hospital.” It’s surgical. I can tell without even requiring X-rays. The bones are displaced, likely because he tore a ligament or two in his knee, and then got hit just right, causing the fracture.
“It’s my fault,” the poor kid tells us. “I must have planted wrong or something. Maybe my cleat got stuck in the turf? I don’t know.”
“Not your fault,” I tell him. “You can’t blame yourself. Injuries happen. You’ll heal up and be stronger on the other side.”
The kid nods, but he’s already got tears streaming down his cheeks, and so does his teammate, who is also blaming himself.
Coach is standing over us with his hand on Reynolds’s shoulder, and now we have a ring of players around us. I do a quick exam to make sure the bone didn’t cut an artery or anything, but then I declare that we need the cart. The poor guy crumbles.
“I’m so sorry, Coach. I’m letting the team down.”
Rhett squats and gets up in his face. “You’re not letting us down. Injuries happen. We all know that. Now your job is to take care of yourself and get the help you need so you can be back and kicking ass. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to take you to my hospital, do some imaging, and if you need surgery, it’ll be done today. The sooner it’s done, the better the healing. We’ll assess your knee as well.”
He nods, but the big guy is crying, and it breaks me when the big guys cry. They’re always the softies.
I stand, and the trainers and EMTs get him onto the gurney. My fingers are brushed from behind me, and my heart skips an extra beat. Rhett steps into me, his back close to my chest.
“How bad?”
I twist to him. “The fibula is broken. Possibly a tibia crack, but I can’t tell that for sure.
I don’t know the extent of the injury yet.
He likely has ligament damage or a tear since it was a non-contact injury before the hit.
If he does, he’s out for the season. I’m hoping it’s only the fibula, but I won’t know until we get an MRI and X-ray. ”
He’s visibly not happy but nods all the same.
“Dr. Reyes, will you keep me informed of the situation?”
“Absolutely, Coach Jones.”
I get a raised eyebrow, and his mouth meets my ear. “You dare to speak to me that way when we have players and staff all around us?”
My brows scrunch. “Like what? I didn’t speak to you any way in particular.”
His voice drops. “You have the sexiest voice on the planet. Anything you say is dirty and instantly makes me hard.”
I hold in my smile. “Am I supposed to apologize for speaking?”
“You better.”
“Or what, Daddy?”
He grunts. “My player is hurt. Don’t make me spank my orthopedic surgeon on the field. And if you call me Daddy again…”
“Yes?”
“I’ll shove my cock so far down your throat it’ll tickle your stomach. Careful.”
I roll my eyes and wave him away. “Blah. Your threats don’t scare me.”
His eyes are hooded as he says, “I’ll see you tonight, Doctor.”
I give him a cheeky grin. “Yes, Coach.”
I jog over to Crew and Mason, tell them the scoop, then hop in the ambulance and ride up to the hospital with Reynolds. I stay with him through X-rays and an MRI. He has a fibula fracture, no tibia injury, but he tore his ACL.
“Because the bone doesn’t require extensive reconstruction, I’m going to fix both at the same time. How does that sound? Only one surgery.”
Reynolds grins at me before it slips just as quickly. He shifts ever so slightly on the gurney, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. He refused pain meds for his fracture, choosing to tough it out as a woman would.
“I like the sound of that. But I’m out for the season, right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. We’re very lucky to have a donor for your graft already in our bank, so we’re good to go with that. The procedure itself—”
“Yo, Yang.”
My eyes close. I swear, Hirsh really wants me to slice his carotid.
“Why is he calling you Yang? You’re Reyes, right?”
I nod at Reynolds. “He thinks he’s funny and clever when he’s neither.”
“Go away, Hirsh. You’re not getting in on my surgery.”
“Why? Because I called you Yang? If it helps my position, you’ve been a little less Yang-like over the last few weeks.”
I flip him off, making Reynolds chuckle.
“Who’s Yang?”
“She’s from a show,” I explain to Reynolds. “She was a kickass surgeon that every other doctor was jealous of.” I wink at him.
“Oh come on!”
“Bye, Hirsh.”
“I’m going to be watching from the gallery anyway.”
I twist over my shoulder to acknowledge him. “Goodie gumdrops on you, big boy. Your intern can scrub in if she wants. I feel bad she has to put up with you.”
“This is why no one likes you.”
“Everyone likes me. It’s you they can’t stand.” I give him a saccharine-sweet smile. “Karev.”
Hirsh chokes. “Low blow.”
I shrug and return to Reynolds. “Sit tight. We’ll get the OR ready and bring you in when we can. Someone from anesthesia will come and talk to you.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Sure thing.”
I head down the hall and bump into my mother.
“Ah, Quinn. I heard from your father that one of his players is here.”
“Yep. Wanna scrub in so I don’t have to deal with another attending or a fellow?”
“I was going to ask if you’d mind. You know how I love to do knees.”
“I do.”
A few hours later, we’re dancing in the OR to Southern hip hop since that’s Reynolds’s favorite.
We fixed his fibula, which required only a couple of screws, and now we’re on to his knee repair.
The gallery is full because it’s a professional football player.
This sort of thing always happens when we have an athlete here.
“You’re traveling with the team tomorrow, right?” my mother questions. She’s letting me do most of the work, which I appreciate.
“Do I have a choice?” I question, feigning annoyance at having to go. Buffalo is close enough, and it means I get to be with Rhett. Oh, and of course, watch my brothers play.
“Not really. You just haven’t complained as much about being with the team as you used to.”
Oh. Oops.
“I’m a professional, and you’ve already heard all of my gripes.” Ever so carefully, I drill a tunnel into the tibia and fibula so that we can attach the graft.
“Nice. Really clean holes.”
“Thank you.” I beam under my mask so no one can see it.
“Minimal bleeding. Is the graft ready?”
“Yes, Dr. Reyes,” the circulating nurse informs us.
“Is it possible football is growing on you?” my mother presses, her chin lifting, and she momentarily blinds me with her surgical headlight.
“Mom!” I hold up a hand, blocking the light.
“Sorry. I just wanted to see your face when I asked you that.”
Motherfucker. This is the problem with working with your mother.
“I love getting to see Mason and Crew.”
“That’s the only reason?”
The woman blinds me again.
“Can we focus on the patient?”
“Is that your way of saying you’d rather not answer with an audience? Because I’d be more than happy to drill you about this later.”
“Just spit it out, Mother. You’re the worst at playing it cool.”
“You told me you’re not seeing Russel—”
“I’m not!” The staff are working all around us, helping us with the scope equipment and setting up the graft while my mother is asking me questions like I’m a teenager again.
“Just making sure your smile isn’t related to him.”
“Jesus Fluffing Christ. What is it with people and my smile? You’d think I walked around this place scowling all the time.”
“You do,” Mary, one of the nurses, says. “Well, you used to.”
“That doesn’t mean a man is the reason. Let’s not get sexist with ourselves. I’m a fourth-year resident and more or less get to run my own show as a senior level.”
“Okay, fine.” My mother holds up a gloved hand. “I’ll stop asking. Let’s place the graft.”
“Sounds like a fantastic idea.”
We use a combination of screws and buttons to secure the graft so he’ll have good immediate knee stability with less graft stretching and good overall strength for it. We finish up and scrub out while they wheel Reynolds to the PACU. He’ll stay the night and be discharged tomorrow.
“Half the team is in the waiting room,” my mother informs me as we wash our hands.
“I’ll update them. It’s part of my job.”
“I hope you’re not lying to me about Russel.”
I pause with my hands under the water, my gaze fixed on the stream. “I’m not. Why would you ask that? And why the hell are you asking me in public?”
“Because it’s the only place I have your attention, and you can’t run off. You’re having sex, Quinn. Good sex from the looks of it.”
“Mom!”
She ignores my outburst. “But more than that, you like someone. A lot. Don’t bother lying to me and telling me it’s nothing. I’m your mother. I know you. You have a lot of me in you, and I remember being this way when I finally relented with your father.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to lie to her, but I can’t tell her either.
“It’s not Russel.”
“I’d like to meet him when you’re ready.”
I nod. That’s it. Because crap. Just… crap. This secret is growing out of control, and the lies are mounting. I have no idea how much longer we can do this before the whole thing blows up in our face.