Chapter Three Vanya
Of all the things I could have been mistaken for, an eager puck bunny is about as likely as a tap-dancing unicorn. And to think I had been looking forward to meeting him!
When I passed the room to find Jeremy Lopez preparing for treatment, I couldn’t wait for an introduction. Unfortunately, misogynistic assholes will misconstrue forwardness as a negative trait. Serves me right for trying to be approachable and friendly. Guys like him will find every opportunity to put a woman in her place.
I’m a woman in the medical field. His disparagement isn’t new to me.
You’re a doctor? patients ask and follow up with some version of me being too young, or too feminine, or too delicate, or too Indian.
Can you call the supervising physician? You’re talking to her right now.
Where did you get your degree? University of Toronto for biochemistry and Harvard for medical school. You might have heard of them.
Have you done this before? Help relieve the pain of people who treat me like I’m the hired help instead of a medical professional? All the time, thank you very much.
Why is your English so good? I’m Canadian, for fuck’s sake.
“There’s been a, um, a misunderstanding. I’m sincerely sorry, that was—”
“No need to get into it. Let’s start over.” I interrupt Mr. Lopez because the thought of reliving the last five minutes, even via an apology, makes my skin crawl.
“Great to meet you, Mr. Lopez.” My pleasantness is as forced as my smile.
We shake hands. I feel his large, calloused palm through the firm grip. Heavily lashed brown eyes assess my face. My own eyes burn with the effort to keep a steady, neutral expression.
“I’m the new MD for Dr. Kyle Lane’s private practice,” I continue. “My work includes extensive experience with connective tissue anomalies and neuromuscular medicine.”
I don’t usually get this jargon-heavy around patients, but he doesn’t get the simpler version, which is that my work treats nerves, muscles, bones, and the spine holistically.
Men like Jeremy Lopez need me to perform my expertise before they concede my qualifications. He’s about to get the entire performance, even if he’ll need a medical journal to translate our discussion.
“Dr. Kapur joins us from Massachusetts General, where her expertise in osteopathic manipulative treatment generated cutting edge research,” Kyle adds a shortened version of his earlier introduction.
“Manipulative treatment sounds like a mind fuck or a massage. Which one is it?” Mr. Lopez pointedly asks me, deadpan and dismissive.
“Jeremy!” Kyle interjects, finally recognizing how rude his patient is. But instead of sternly correcting the hockey player, Kyle appeases him like a child. “It is much more than that. You’ll see.”
If I didn’t need this spoiled brat athlete for my research, I’d tell him to fuck off right now. So, against my baser impulse, I swallow my pride.
“Mr. Lopez—”
“Jeremy,” he barks.
“Jeremy, of course. Can I ask about the hamstring issues you reported from a few weeks ago? Are you finding more tension in the knees as well?”
“Um, yeah, that’s why I came in as soon as I could.”
His eyes narrow in my direction, the lighter shades of brown overtaken by black pupils. Clearly, his close assessment finds me inadequate. Too bad for him, decades of being underestimated has desensitized me to judgment. I’m just getting started.
“My research has shown that craniosacral therapy, which improves the flow of cerebrospinal fluid, can be helpful,” I state pleasantly.
“She’ll work on your spine,” Kyle clarifies. His phone pings, and he reads the text. “I’m backed up with patients, but this is your lucky day, Jeremy. Dr. Kapur is available for consultation today. She can customize an updated pain management plan that fits your strength training. You’re both good, right?”
While the doctor talks, Jeremy and I continue to stare, daring the other to admit discomfort. No one budges.
“Update me later,” Kyle says on the way out, presumably to both of us. The door shuts, leaving me alone with the star goalie who squirms from his perch on the padded exam table.
“I understand you’ve been responding well to corticosteroid injections to the knee.” I’m straight to business. “However, as a long-term cure, there are valid concerns, as I’m sure Dr. Lane made clear.”
“Yeah,” Jeremy confirms. “That’s why we limit it to twice a season.”
“Recent studies show that the peripheral nervous system affects the skeletal microenvironment. With your hypermobility, the stimulation of sensory nerve innovation to promote bone and ligament health would be highly beneficial.”
His exhale is heavy and his glare suspicious.
“Look, I know I was a jerk when I made assumptions about what you were doing here. But it’s not because I’m sexist, OK? You can stop with the complicated medical vocabulary. I get it. You’re a big deal.”
He doesn’t exactly apologize, but I hear the regret and decide to take his words as an olive branch. There’s no point holding a grudge when my research requires his cooperation. The sooner we get started, the sooner I can collect data and leave—this room, this practice, this city.
Eyes on the prize, Vanya. He’s just another obstacle.
Documented treatment of a high-profile NHL goalie would generate interest in Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. In the world of sports medicine, interest equals funding for research that benefits all EDS patients.
At his prime as an elite athlete, Jeremy Lopez is the final piece of a complicated puzzle I started building half a decade ago. I’m not stupid enough to let a bad attitude—obviously, his —muddle the direction and impact of my research. Swallowing my pride in order to secure his cooperation isn’t a big deal when I consider everything else I’ve sacrificed.
“Your hypermobility has a lot of positive effects, especially as a goaltender,” I begin with a more amenable tone. “My guess is that you also have heightened proprioception. I mean a sense of position and movement in space. Objects move slower for you, in other words.”
“Sometimes, sure, when I’m in a certain state of mind.”
“Like during a hockey game, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Here’s the thing, Jeremy. While your reflexes are triggered quickly, your muscles and skeletal system are enduring the strain of erratic and abrupt movement. What I’m proposing to do is ensure your rigorous training is balanced with preemptive pain management. Before your discomfort becomes chronic…” I pause because he noticeably flinches.
“What?” Jeremy asks irritably. Maybe I imagined his reaction.
“We should integrate osteopathic, hands-on manipulation alongside the other interventions.”
“Is that what Kyle meant? That you’ll work on my spine?”
“Yes. As well as ligament stability, joint strength, and training supervision.”
“I don’t have time for all that,” he says, shaking his head like I’m the one who didn’t understand the assignment.
I’m tempted to tell him he’ll change his mind as soon as something breaks down. Season-ending injuries tend to open up one’s schedule, after all. Instead, I voice what I know is an athlete’s catnip.
“You’ll be stronger and more agile, Jeremy. This goes beyond preventing an injury. It’s turning your EDS into a strength instead of a weakness.”
“I’m already doing that.” Athletes are more confident than most people. This guy is just smug. Bratty and smug.
My fingers tighten around the stethoscope in a death grip. Only my pride keeps me from storming out of this room. Trying not to roll my eyes, I pivot to another approach.
“How about this. Give me thirty minutes today. If your hamstring pain and knee discomfort do not improve, I’ll take your twenty bucks and be on my way.”
He snickers and shakes his head. “You think you can help my leg pain in thirty minutes when I’ve been living with it for decades? Good luck with that.”
“Put a timer on it,” I snark.
The man is pushing my patience to the brink.
“Sure. Why not? I’m already here.”
And because he’s an obnoxious, spoiled jerk, Jeremy Lopez starts his timer.