Against the Ropes
Page 31
“Score!” Charlie shouts. “Good shot, Doctor Drake. You missed your calling in the NBA.”
Dr. Drake’s cheeks flush ever so slightly and he gives Charlie a bemused smile. “Actually, wrestling was my thing in college, but I’ve always enjoyed handling balls.”
Don’t look at Charlie. Don’t look at Charlie. DON’T LOOK AT CHARLIE.
“I’m sure you do.” Charlie’s voice shakes with repressed laughter. “As does Mac. We were just discussing how much she enjoys—”
“Charlie! Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Three’s a crowd. I get it. And look, I see the lovely Doris watching us from the entrance to the cafeteria.” Charlie gives me a wink and walks briskly toward the glaring woman in the lime green suit, his every step punctuated with a little squeak from his Crocs.
“He’s quite a character,” Dr. Drake muses.
“He’s got a good sense of humor.”
Dr. Drake studies me for a long moment. “You two seem quite close.”
“We’re good friends.” I twist my school ring around my finger—round and round and round.
“And that’s all?” He puts a hand on my lower back and steers me away from the cafeteria.
“Just friends.”
Dr. Drake smiles and his hand slides around me to squeeze my hip. “Good to hear.”
“Um…the cafeteria is the other way.” I slide out of his grasp and spin around.
Dr. Drake motions to an exit door at the end of the hallway. “I’m taking you to the Surgeon’s Club. It’s a new private club just down the block run by a few friends of mine. You and I have some business to discuss and I thought we could do so without the distraction of all your male friends vying for your attention in the cafeteria. I’ve already talked to Jenny and she has agreed to cover for you.”
Um…what male friends? Who’s vying for my attention? Charlie?
I swallow hard and follow him outside. The door slams closed, and I catch a glimpse of my faded Tweety Bird scrubs in the glass. “I’m not really dressed for a private club.”
“Nonsense. It’s run by medical professionals and a favorite with the hospital lunch crowd. There are always a few people in scrubs.”
We walk down the block to a tall, brick building with a heavy oak door. Dr. Drake slides his card through the card reader and heaves the door open. I freeze, poised on the threshold of the ultimate masculine man cave, scented with the fragrant odor of bloody meat. The dark wood details, worn Persian carpets, and leather furniture imbue the room with an air of exclusivity. The white walls covered with taxidermy remind me of the zoo. A deer looks balefully down at me as I follow Dr. Drake to a table by the window.
“I’m the only person wearing scrubs.” I take my seat and glance around the room. I recognize almost everyone from the hospital. “I’m also the only woman, and the only person who is not a doctor.”
He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Relax. You’re with me. No one is going to say anything.”
Maybe not, but they’ll be wondering why Dr. Drake is slumming it with the staff.
Dr. Drake smiles at the waiter, waiting patiently by the table. “We’ll have the Chateaubriand, medium rare, baby potatoes, and spring vegetables. No wine. We’re on duty. Just water.” The waiter scratches everything down on his pad and, before I can say anything, he is gone.
“I like my meat cooked.” My voice rises in pitch. “Well cooked. Charred to a crisp. If it’s pink and squishy with blood oozing out of it—”
Doctor Drake cuts me off. “It would taste even better. The chef here is extraordinary. I promise you’re going to love it.”
I imagine Dr. Drake tearing into a raw steak, bloody juices dripping down his chin. Bile rises in my throat. If anyone should be eating raw steak, it’s Max, not the capital C conservative doctor. Does Max like his steak rare? I would guess he does. Predators usually like fresh meat.
“We should get down to business before the food arrives.” Dr. Drake steeples his fingers and his normal, genial expression turns serious. “I’ve been reviewing personnel files in anticipation of the upcoming annual reviews. I must admit I had forgotten you were in pre-med, but I never knew you were near the top of your class. Why didn’t you apply to medical school?”
I shrug. “I didn’t know if it was what I really wanted to do, and I didn’t have the money.”
Dr. Drake shakes his head. “You have a healing gift, Mac. You have a responsibility to share it. I want to help.”
“How?”
“I know people on the scholarship committees. I can direct you to the scholarships you have the best chance of winning. I can help you fill out the forms. I can put in a good word for you with my friends on various admissions committees. I’ll even tutor you when you get in.”
My mouth drops open. “That’s very kind of you, but why do you want to help me?”
He beams. “I think you would be a great doctor, and we need more doctors. You have compassion, intelligence, and empathy. Your EMT coworkers and your coworkers in the hospital have had nothing but praise for you.”
My cheeks flame and I stare at the table. “I don’t know. I just…I need time to decide what I really want in life.”
“It’s been almost three years since you graduated,” Dr. Drake says. “You’re spinning your wheels. You can’t stay on the admissions desk forever. You need to move forward. I’m giving you a chance to grab the brass ring. Don’t let it go.”
Dr. Drake’s cheeks flush ever so slightly and he gives Charlie a bemused smile. “Actually, wrestling was my thing in college, but I’ve always enjoyed handling balls.”
Don’t look at Charlie. Don’t look at Charlie. DON’T LOOK AT CHARLIE.
“I’m sure you do.” Charlie’s voice shakes with repressed laughter. “As does Mac. We were just discussing how much she enjoys—”
“Charlie! Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
“Three’s a crowd. I get it. And look, I see the lovely Doris watching us from the entrance to the cafeteria.” Charlie gives me a wink and walks briskly toward the glaring woman in the lime green suit, his every step punctuated with a little squeak from his Crocs.
“He’s quite a character,” Dr. Drake muses.
“He’s got a good sense of humor.”
Dr. Drake studies me for a long moment. “You two seem quite close.”
“We’re good friends.” I twist my school ring around my finger—round and round and round.
“And that’s all?” He puts a hand on my lower back and steers me away from the cafeteria.
“Just friends.”
Dr. Drake smiles and his hand slides around me to squeeze my hip. “Good to hear.”
“Um…the cafeteria is the other way.” I slide out of his grasp and spin around.
Dr. Drake motions to an exit door at the end of the hallway. “I’m taking you to the Surgeon’s Club. It’s a new private club just down the block run by a few friends of mine. You and I have some business to discuss and I thought we could do so without the distraction of all your male friends vying for your attention in the cafeteria. I’ve already talked to Jenny and she has agreed to cover for you.”
Um…what male friends? Who’s vying for my attention? Charlie?
I swallow hard and follow him outside. The door slams closed, and I catch a glimpse of my faded Tweety Bird scrubs in the glass. “I’m not really dressed for a private club.”
“Nonsense. It’s run by medical professionals and a favorite with the hospital lunch crowd. There are always a few people in scrubs.”
We walk down the block to a tall, brick building with a heavy oak door. Dr. Drake slides his card through the card reader and heaves the door open. I freeze, poised on the threshold of the ultimate masculine man cave, scented with the fragrant odor of bloody meat. The dark wood details, worn Persian carpets, and leather furniture imbue the room with an air of exclusivity. The white walls covered with taxidermy remind me of the zoo. A deer looks balefully down at me as I follow Dr. Drake to a table by the window.
“I’m the only person wearing scrubs.” I take my seat and glance around the room. I recognize almost everyone from the hospital. “I’m also the only woman, and the only person who is not a doctor.”
He takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Relax. You’re with me. No one is going to say anything.”
Maybe not, but they’ll be wondering why Dr. Drake is slumming it with the staff.
Dr. Drake smiles at the waiter, waiting patiently by the table. “We’ll have the Chateaubriand, medium rare, baby potatoes, and spring vegetables. No wine. We’re on duty. Just water.” The waiter scratches everything down on his pad and, before I can say anything, he is gone.
“I like my meat cooked.” My voice rises in pitch. “Well cooked. Charred to a crisp. If it’s pink and squishy with blood oozing out of it—”
Doctor Drake cuts me off. “It would taste even better. The chef here is extraordinary. I promise you’re going to love it.”
I imagine Dr. Drake tearing into a raw steak, bloody juices dripping down his chin. Bile rises in my throat. If anyone should be eating raw steak, it’s Max, not the capital C conservative doctor. Does Max like his steak rare? I would guess he does. Predators usually like fresh meat.
“We should get down to business before the food arrives.” Dr. Drake steeples his fingers and his normal, genial expression turns serious. “I’ve been reviewing personnel files in anticipation of the upcoming annual reviews. I must admit I had forgotten you were in pre-med, but I never knew you were near the top of your class. Why didn’t you apply to medical school?”
I shrug. “I didn’t know if it was what I really wanted to do, and I didn’t have the money.”
Dr. Drake shakes his head. “You have a healing gift, Mac. You have a responsibility to share it. I want to help.”
“How?”
“I know people on the scholarship committees. I can direct you to the scholarships you have the best chance of winning. I can help you fill out the forms. I can put in a good word for you with my friends on various admissions committees. I’ll even tutor you when you get in.”
My mouth drops open. “That’s very kind of you, but why do you want to help me?”
He beams. “I think you would be a great doctor, and we need more doctors. You have compassion, intelligence, and empathy. Your EMT coworkers and your coworkers in the hospital have had nothing but praise for you.”
My cheeks flame and I stare at the table. “I don’t know. I just…I need time to decide what I really want in life.”
“It’s been almost three years since you graduated,” Dr. Drake says. “You’re spinning your wheels. You can’t stay on the admissions desk forever. You need to move forward. I’m giving you a chance to grab the brass ring. Don’t let it go.”
