WHAM.
A thunderous clang and clatter from the stage, followed by a heavy grunt and several alarmed shouts.
The music cuts instantly. Floodlights flare to life, blinding after the strobes.
“Medic!” someone yells, high and panicked.
I’m already running. Past techs. Past dancers. Onto the stage.
Sandro René is tangled half beneath a collapsed riser, his face gray, one arm crushed against his chest at an impossible angle.
“I’m a doctor,” I say, dropping to my knees. “Give me space.”
The knot of bodies around us pulls back fast, leaving a circle of shocked silence.
Sandro’s breathing is fast and shallow. His curls are matted with sweat, eyes wild as he tries to shift, only to choke out another strangled sound. “It popped. When I fell. I heard it.”
“And I bet it hurts like hell” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Looks like a shoulder dislocation. Don’t move. We’re gonna get this taken care of.”
His eyes squeeze shut, sweat beading at his hairline. I anchor one hand behind his shoulder blade, wrap the other around his wrist, and test the tension—yeah, it’s out.
“Okay, Sandro. I’m going to lift and rotate to get thisback in the socket. Not gonna lie, it’s gonna hurt, but only for a second.”
He nods once, jaw clenched.
I count low so only he can hear.
“Three… two…”
CLUNK.
His breath rushes out in a harsh gasp, body sagging against the stage as the joint slips back into place. Relief floods his features instantly.
“It’s in,” I mutter, supporting the joint. “Stay still. Slow breaths.”
A voice shouts from the wings, breathless: “Medic! Coming through!”
The tour’s athletic trainer pushes through the crowd carrying a packed trauma bag. Her eyes land on me, then on Sandro’s shoulder.
“What happened?” she asks, kneeling opposite me.
“Collapsed riser. Anterior shoulder dislocation. Reduction completed.” I shift slightly so she can inspect.
She blinks—impressed despite the adrenaline. “You reduced it already?”
“Had to.” I nod toward the metal structure beside us. “Didn’t want him pinned with it out.”
Sandro opens his eyes again and looks between us. “He did it fast. Barely felt it.”
The athletic director checks alignment, palpates gently, and lets out a breath then starts wrapping his shoulder for stability. “You saved him a trip to the OR for sedation.”
I shrug. “I work in emergency medicine. I like to keep people out of the OR as often as possible.”
Sandro huffs a weak laugh. “Hire him,” he mutters. “Before someone else does.”
I glance up—Lucy is standing just outside the circle of people, eyes locked on me, chest rising quickly, eyes wide and shocked like the rest of the cast and crew standing around.
Our gazes meet and her face softens. Relief. Pride. Something warmer and deeper that lands squarely in the center of my chest.
