“Yeah, but you got up, bleeding from more than one place and still grinned like you’d pulled off some magic trick. That’s the attitude you have to hold onto and you’ll do amazing things.”
Her steady confidence awakens the part of me that wants to believe her but rarely dares. I lean back and let the warmth of her words seep in, even as my brain insists on tallying all the stupid reasons I’m unqualified. It sucks to second-guess whether I deserve a spot in the Circuit, even if I know I do. I worked too hard not to believe in myself.
When the server comes back, we order. Nevaeh gets the kale salad she swears is life-changing, but I want a sandwich with fries because carbs are survival.
As we wait, my friend tells me about her new upstairs neighbor, a guy who insists on playing saxophone at two in the morning. “It sounds like a goose and a trumpet had a screaming baby.”
I snort into my ice water. “I hope you’re recording this. You could sell it as a horror soundtrack.”
“I already texted you a clip, but you didn’t listen.”
“After twelve hours of alarms and monitors beeping, I don’t need to add goose-trumpet to the mix.”
That gets her laughing, head tilted back and curls bouncing. I tell her about a patient who tried to bribe me with aTupperware full of homemade cookies so I’d “accidentally” bump him up the surgery schedule.
“Like some shady backroom deal,” I finish the story.
“Did you eat the cookies?”
“Of course not.” I pause and smile slyly. “Okay, one…but only after his surgery.”
Nevaeh snorts and smacks the table so hard that people at the next booth turn to look. Our conversation continues with more funny stories. By the time our food arrives, we’re laughing so hard the server flashes us a bemused glance. For a moment, the world outside and all my worries feel far away.
Nevaeh waits until I’m halfway through my fries and slips the question in casually. “So, what’s next? Now that you’ve hit your personal best?”
I stall, chewing slower than necessary. “Keep training while I wait to hear if I made it as one of the twenty women who get to go onto the Circuit next season.”
“When will you find out again?”
“On the twentieth.”
“Oh, the same day we’re meeting with the crew,” she smiles, mentioning our friends. “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”
Her faith warms me like sunlight on my skin. I push a fry around the plate, dragging it through a smear of ketchup. “What if I get there and fail?” I voice the worry circling my head for days.
Nevaeh blinks, surprised. “Fail?”
“Yeah. What if I get to the Circuit again and fall apart? Last season, I had the excuse of being new. Nobody expected muchfrom me. The stakes are higher now. Everyone and their mother are watching.”
“So what? You’re not defined by whether you stand on a podium or not. You’re defined by your perseverance.” The knot in my chest loosens a little. Across from me, Nevaeh smirks. “Besides, what’s the worst-case scenario? You wipe out spectacularly and move on. Shit happens.”
That earns a low laugh from me. “Thanks for the pep talk, Coach Vae.”
“Anytime. Payment accepted in fries.”
I shove another fry in my mouth before she can snatch it, and we both dissolve into laughter. The fear inside me eases more with every minute. Maybe, just maybe, I’m ready for the Circuit and everything that comes with it.
By the time I clock in after the late lunch with Nevaeh, I’m back to my work self: assured, steady, and ready to help save lives. The shift from friend to nurse is always abrupt, but it’s one I’ve learned to make on autopilot.
Working in a hospital means I live in a world where seconds matter. It’s calculating drip rates with one hand while calling a doctor with the other. It’s charting tiny changes that can mean the difference between recovery and regression. Some days it feels like I’m holding back the tide with nothing but my bare hands. Other days, when a long-term patient takes their first shaky step in weeks, it’s like watching a miracle in slow motion.
I’ve seen people come back from injuries that should’ve kept them in bed forever or worse, and I’ve also seen familiesshatter at a bedside, their hope collapsing under the weight of one single CT scan. The job teaches you to be steady even when the ground shakes beneath you. Patients, families, even the new residents—they look to us to be calm in the chaos.
Today, the pace is manageable. I check in on a post-op craniotomy patient whose wife hasn’t left his side, reassure a young man just extubated that the rasp in his throat is normal, and help an anxious intern prime a feeding tube.
Afterwards, I grab the empty wheelchair waiting by the nurses’ station and start down the hall. Teddy’s first physiotherapy appointment is on the schedule, and I promised Dr. Royce I’d help him get there.
The moment I step inside, a new scent catches me off guard—a clean, yet warm scent drifting through. It’s subtle but intoxicating, like crisp apples and woods. And effortlessly masculine. Definitely not the standard hospital soap. Em must’ve brought him his toiletries.
