Hotshot Doc(19)

Not wanting to waste any more time, I start the time-out, and each member of my team confirms they’re ready for the procedure to begin. The roll call circles back to the operating table, Dr. Collins introduces himself, and then it’s Bailey’s turn.

Part of me expects her to turn on the spot and walk right out of the room. Dr. Collins just publicly shamed her. She’s single-handedly wasted everyone’s time this morning. If she’s half the surgical assistant Dr. Lopez claimed she is, she’s likely beating herself up right now.

She looks over at me and so much of her is concealed beneath her scrub cap and mask—the freckles, the smile, the pale blonde hair. All I have are her eyes, and they’re staring up at me, revealing a mixture of emotion I can’t quite name. To the world, our exchange might be a millisecond, but between us, it feels like a long, contemplative pause.

My eyebrow quirks as if I’m asking, Well? What’ll it be?

She jerks her attention back to the table, and I stare at her masked profile as she says for the entire OR to hear, “Bailey Jennings, Dr. Russell’s surgical assistant. Everything’s set.”

Well then.

Dr. Collins clears his throat, clearly annoyed he didn’t get a better chance to lay into her. Then I speak up, my voice booming over the quiet room. “This morning we’re operating on a seven-year-old female named Fiona Valdez. She and her family have traveled a long way to be here in our operating room. We’ll be performing a pedicle subtraction osteotomy in an effort to remedy and delay further curvature. We’ll take a posterior approach. Does everyone agree?”

A chorus of voices speak at once and then I hold out my gloved palm.

“Bailey, ten blade.”





Chapter 9





BAILEY



This is ridiculous. I knew I’d suffer consequences because of my tardiness, but it must be my lucky day because I have to endure not only one crabby surgeon, but two. I thought Dr. Russell was bad, but he doesn’t compare to Dr. Collins.

Older, tall, in shape. In the five minutes I’ve stood at the operating table with him, he’s already mentioned the fact that he “cycles” twice.

I decide to ignore him as much as possible, mostly because I’m still reeling from the public scolding he gave me when he first entered the OR, but apparently my lack of interest needles him because right after the first incision, he meets my eyes over the operating table and sneers. “Y’know, Dr. Russell, I don’t know if I would put up with my surgical assistant holding up a quarter-million-dollar case like this.”

He says it just like that, while looking me in the eyes! My cheeks grow hot. I want to snap at him to drop it. Yes, I was late, but I’ve apologized and there’s nothing more I can do about it. Instead, I jerk my gaze back to the patient, knowing better than to respond.

“Well then it’s a good thing this surgery is coming out of the hospital’s pro bono budget,” Dr. Russell replies, his voice even colder than usual. “Bailey, pay attention. I need you to suction more.”

I jerk forward and shout at myself to stay focused.

A few minutes later, Dr. Collins decides to turn his attention back to me once again. Like a grade-school bully, he just can’t seem to get enough. “How long have you been on Dr. Russell’s team?”

Why, oh why did he have to ask that question?

“This is my first day,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. With my mask on, I doubt he can hear me, but he must, because he laughs like I’ve just said the most ridiculous thing in the world—and, well, I have.

“Not making a great first impression, are you?”

I want to tell him to fuck off, but I can’t. It’s not how this works. I have to sit quietly and stay focused. He can basically say or do whatever the hell he wants. Oh, the privilege that comes with a white coat.

Dr. Russell could speak up and come to my defense. He could tell Dr. Collins to shut his trap, but he doesn’t. He’s focused on the case. He doesn’t say a word unless he’s asking for an instrument or giving an order.

On the Worst Surgery Ever scale, I’m hovering somewhere near a 9.5, and then fate decides to ramp it all the way up to a perfect 10 when my stomach starts to growl. We’re only halfway through. I realize I completely forgot to eat the muffin Josie threw at me when I left the house.

For a second, I think no one heard it.

Thank God.

“Is that your stomach, Bailey?” Dr. Russell asks, accepting the pedical screwdriver I hand to him.

I swallow and am careful to avoid eye contact. “Yes.”

“Did you eat breakfast?”

I consider lying, but there’s no denying the very loud, angry noises coming from my stomach, so I sort of veer around the question. “I was in a hurry to leave the house.”

He nods and then with an even, hard tone that sends chills down my spine, he says, “Don’t ever step into my operating room without eating again. It’s careless. This is grueling work. You’re standing over a table for hours, retracting and cauterizing. If you pass out, you endanger my patient. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“What is that, the second or third strike against you, Bailey?” Dr. Collins asks with a chuckle that slices straight through me. “Looks like you might be in the market for a new surgical assistant sooner than you thought, Dr. Russell.”