looked around the door frame.
“Don’t make me hit you, Sam.” Enzo stepped out, uncrossing his arms to let them hang, feigning the relaxed appearance he’d rather others see. He just couldn’t get his shoulders to loosen up. “What are you doing down here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be with the babies?”
“I came to make sure Kimberlyn had made it, actually. We were going to walk together today, but I ended up needing to leave early for an errand.”
“Miss Scarlet needs an escort?”
Sam gave a low chuckle. “She really did get under your skin.”
“She’s not under my skin. It was a quick reference to that dark-haired Southern pretty girl thing she’s got going on.” Enzo had lied, and he wasn’t a liar. It was a point of pride that he could be blunt and honest about anything. She’d thrown him off his game for a third time. “It takes more than a strong base of medical knowledge to impress Ootaka. She’s got steady hands, but her leadership is nonexistent. Couldn’t even rally some rubberneckers at the accident to call 911 or to push the vehicle off the patient.”
“Want to grab a pint after your shift? You can find some pretty lass to take your mind off Cricket.”
“Yes,” Enzo answered, because a beer sounded good, as did the idea of finding a pretty lass. Someone more his flavor. Not dark and soulful. Davis probably wrote poetry and wore black all the time when she wasn’t in scrubs. Also not a lass. That sounded entirely too much as if it could fit Davis, and he’d rather have someone real. Overly emotional just didn’t do it for him, either.
Hold on. “Did you call her Cricket?”
“It’s her nickname. Don’t tell her I told you.”
Enzo snorted, but nodded to his friend—Dr. Cricket’s new housemate—and headed off to look at the surgery board. Maybe they’d be in one of the surgeries with an observation gallery so he could at least watch…
A short walk and he stood, looking the whiteboard over. Head of surgical residents Dr. Gareth Langley had taken one of the rooms with a gallery. The name Lyons stood out on the list. He looked only long enough to determine he wouldn’t accidentally walk in on that man’s surgery, then moved on. Ootaka had indeed reserved the last gallery.
If he hurried, he might even avoid accidentally running into Lyons on the way. That had been the other bit of information to stand out on the board: times and approximate duration. His father was the last person he wanted to see today. Or any day. The fact that they frequently shared a hospital made it impossible to avoid him altogether, but Enzo did his best. Always did, and he imagined Lyons did, as well. In four years they’d managed to avoid saying even a single word to one another and that level of avoidance couldn’t happen without two people actively working at it.
He relaxed only when he’d stepped through the door leading up to Ootaka’s gallery.
In his time in the program nearly all of his competition had fallen by the wayside. Winning this fellowship was a marathon, but Davis was here to sprint the last leg. An immediate invitation into Ootaka’s OR definitely meant she had started the sprint and he felt as if he was standing still, which was ridiculous. She couldn’t cover that much distance in one surgery.
Time to get his head back in the game. Observe the new surgeon. See how much of what Sam had said was actually correct. See if she really was a threat to his goal or if his mind was playing tricks on him. However unlikely the possibility might be, he needed to judge for himself. If her backbone wasn’t full-on displayed, it didn’t matter how much she knew. She wouldn’t threaten his position as favorite horse in the race for Ootaka’s final fellowship.
But it might do the pit in his gut some good to see her getting the unavoidable dressing-down coming her way.
God, he sounded like a petulant child wanting Daddy’s approval. His stomach churned.
No one could survive Ootaka’s surgery without learning his particular rules. He should feel sorry for her.
If her arrival hadn’t felt like another shadow he’d have to fight his way out of, he might actually muster some sympathy.
The only way to find whatever was bleeding inside Mr. Elliot’s chest was to crack it.
Kimberlyn had been in a few thoracic surgeries since the accident, during the last months of her first year back… but seeing a chest open still made her scar burn.
This was someone else’s sternum, someone else’s pain.
The words danced through her mind on repeat every time she started to feel her chest tighten or her heart speed up.
Mr. Elliot deserved undivided attention, and the likelihood he’d one day have his own scar to fixate on hinged on the talent and skill of his surgical team. Mainly Ootaka, but she mattered.
Luckily, Ootaka was the best. One day she’d be that good—another mini-Ootaka to save those poor wretches who had to be cut out of ugly car crashes. Just as she had.
Ootaka’s fellowship was the reason she’d come north. He announced last year that it was the last fellowship he was going to do, which was why she had ended up transferring to West Manhattan Saints when she’d been set up perfectly and had enjoyed her former hospital.
Waiting two years to apply for his next fellowship? No longer an option.
The intention toward trauma hadn’t really existed before her accident. She’d thought about it but had floated between cardiac, cardiothoracic and plain old general surgery, too.
Her life had become a series of dominoes that day…
As much as she hated what had happened to Mr. Elliot, his pain was her good fortune. It had gotten her noticed immediately. Now she just needed to perform well in this surgery. Keep Ootaka’s attention. Build his appreciation and belief in her. Do everything in her power to make this year count. Keep her promise: save the good people like Janie from the bad people like her.
Which meant outshining Ootaka’s star pupil, Dr. I’m-Running-Ahead…
“Suction.”
So Ootaka started her with the basics. Minding the blood was important enough. Suctioning it off where he needed to see what he was doing, keeping an eye on the pressure to alert him when they needed to give fluids…
Which was now.
“He’s lost a… bit of blood,” she began. Assisting a surgeon for the first time always meant getting used to the way they liked to do things. Very few things were standard when it came to OR etiquette. Hence her needing to ask, “At what point do you like to hang blood?”
“Are you saying that you believe we should be doing so now, Dr. Davis?” Ootaka never took his eyes off the patient, but movement in the corner of her eye pulled her gaze up. Someone in the gallery.
Enzo. Could he hear them up there?
Okay, she was being paranoid. Why would that matter? If he could hear, maybe he’d just pick up on how to be professional and not sneaky with a colleague.
Focus on the OR, not on who lurked above it.
“Yes, Dr. Ootaka. I would like to give him some packed red now.”
“Better. In my operating room, do not couch your concern for the patient in question. You’re a surgeon. Asking questions you know the answer to makes you sound uneducated. Save your questions for when you really don’t know the answer.”
Right. She could do that. Most of the surgeons she’d worked with preferred deference, but maybe that was their way of keeping a hierarchy in place. Ootaka’s air and reputation did that well enough—maybe he had no need to force protocol