2. Harper
CHAPTER TWO
HARPER
The smell of the ER at three in the morning is a cocktail of industrial-grade bleach, stale coffee, and the metallic tang of dried blood.
It’s a scent that lives in my hair and under my fingernails, a constant reminder of the chaos I choose every single day.
I adjust my stethoscope, the cold rubber biting into the back of my neck, and stare at the monitor in room four. Tachycardia. Again.
"Four more hours," Mia says, leaning against the nursing station. She looks as tired as I feel, her dark curls escaping from her scrub cap in defiant ringlets.
I don't look up from the screen. If I stop moving, the exhaustion will catch up, and I can't afford to let it kick my rear end until my shift ends at seven. "The longest four hours of the shift." God. I always wonder how I make it through the early morning hours of hell.
"We’ve got this," she counters, stepping into my line of sight.
I finally drop my gaze, my shoulders slumping just an inch. The adrenaline is beginning to ebb, leaving a gritty film behind my eyes. "I wish I had your enthusiasm at three am."
"It isn’t all it’s cracked up to be," she says softly, her hand brushing my forearm in a brief, grounding squeeze.
“Yeah, right.” I offer her a tired smirk and head toward the break room, the linoleum floor squeaking under my clogs. The hallway is a blur of fluorescent light and the rhythmic hum of machines. My world is predictable in its unpredictability and governed by protocols.
The break room is mercifully empty, smelling of burnt popcorn and the faint, sweet scent of someone's discarded donut. I fumble with a plastic cup, the machine groaning as it pours a stream of liquid that barely qualifies as coffee. It’s hot though, and that’ll have to do.
Mia wanders in a moment later, her eyes bright with that dangerous glint she gets when she's about to meddle. "So, the hospital gala is this weekend. Please tell me you’ve figured out your dress situation."
My heart drops as dread fills my throat.
I’d rather have toothpicks stabbed under my fingernails than give a speech.
Public speaking isn’t a strong suit of mine, but I got roped into it by the hospital PR team.
I groan into my cup. "The emerald one is in the back of my closet. It still fits, and it’s perfect for the occasion. "
"The emerald one? Harper, that dress is a weapon of mass distraction. You can't just 'wear' it. You deploy it," she says, sitting on the edge of the laminate table.
"Yeah, right.” I sit back and feel the exhaustion overtake my aching body.
“It’s the only thing in my closet that qualifies as a formal dress," I say, leaning back against the counter. "Plus, it’s a work event. Not a dating mixer. I just have to get through the night without gagging when someone’s grandmother fawns all over my brother. "
She rolls her eyes, a dramatic gesture that involves her entire upper body. "Everything is a dating mixer if you're brave enough. You’ve been single so long that I’m starting to think you’ve taken a vow of silence regarding men."
"I haven't taken a vow. I just have standards. And a schedule that doesn't exactly allow for candlelit dinners and long walks on the beach," I remind her. "Besides, you know my rule."
"The 'No Athlete' rule," she sighs, reciting it like a weary liturgy. "Because they’re all arrogant, self-absorbed, and possess the emotional depth of a puddle. I know, I know."
I point my stirring straw at her. "They are. Especially the hockey players. I’ve spent my entire life watching Ryan deal with them. I’ve seen the ego, the drama, and the way they treat people like gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe. No, thank you."
Mia leans forward, her expression shifting from teasing to curious. "Is it really about them, or is it about Ryan? You’re so loyal to that brother of yours, I think you’ve adopted his enemies as your own."
The comment hits a little too close to the center.
I think about Ryan, my big brother, my protector, the man who spent his first NHL paycheck making sure our mom’s mortgage was paid off.
He’s the star forward for the New York Titans, a man who wears his heart on his sleeve and his bruises like medals of honor.
His rivalries aren't just professional; they're personal.
"His enemies are usually people who try to take his head off with a carbon-fiber stick," I say, my voice tightening. "So yeah, I’m not exactly inclined to grab a beer with them."
"Too bad." Mia takes a sip of lukewarm coffee and winces. "I’m betting some of those hot hockey players could teach you a thing or three."
I finish my coffee in two large, bitter gulps. “I’m not interested in learning anything from any hockey players.” As the words leave my mouth, I get a tingling in my spine. Like I just dared the universe or something.
I head back to the floor, my mind already pivoting back to my patients. Work is safe. Work is where the rules make sense.
By the time seven o'clock rolls around, my eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed with sandpaper. I give my report to the day shift, ensuring every detail is documented with clinical precision. I’m a careful person. I document things. I don't leave room for error, in my charts or my life.
I’m walking toward the exit when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Ryan. It’s a link to a sports article with a caption that reads: Can you believe this prick?
I click the link. It's a piece about Jaxson Thorne's recent shutout and his comments to the press.
Or rather, his silence. The article describes how he stood motionless, refusing to answer questions until reporters finally gave up.
The photo shows him leaning against the goalpost, his mask up, sweat dripping down a face that looks entirely too handsome for someone so miserable.
He looks bored. He looks like he thinks the world owes him a debt it can never pay.
I type a quick message back to my brother.
Me
Looks like he needs a nap and a personality transplant.
Ryan
You can say that again. How was your shift?
Me
The usual. It sucked monkey balls.
Ryan
What can I do to help you?
Me
Nothing. I’m headed home for at least six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Then I’ll be all new again.
He sends a GIF of a snoring English Bulldog, and I laugh. Ryan always knows what I need. He’s always been the wall between me and the world, ever since our dad left and it was just Mom and us. He took on the job of taking care of both of us.
The drive home is a blur of gray Seattle morning. I live in a studio apartment near the park, a space filled with succulents I struggle to keep alive and mystery books I barely have the time to read. It’s small, but it’s mine. It’s a place where the chaos of the hospital can’t reach me.
I shower, scrubbing the hospital off my skin until it’s pink and stinging. I avoid the mirror, knowing the dark circles under my eyes will only make me feel more tired. I fall into bed and sleep a heavy, dreamless sleep that lasts until the afternoon sun starts peeking through the blinds.
When I wake up, the gala feels more like a looming threat than a social event.
I pull the emerald dress out of the closet.
It’s silk, the color of a deep forest after a rainstorm, with a neckline that’s professional enough to wear to a work function but daring enough for a woman who hasn't been on a date in eighteen months. I trace the fabric, thinking of Mia’s teasing words.
I’m not looking for a movie moment. I’m looking to survive the evening without spilling red wine on myself or getting trapped in a conversation about hockey.