For the first time in my career, the game wasn’t about me.
And it had never felt bigger.
27
Nicole
I was adjusting the flow rate on Mrs. Alvarez’s IV when Rosemary said my name the way she did when she needed to pretend she was fine.
The pump beeped once, the warning light flicking from yellow to green, and I tucked the tubing back against the pole before glancing over. Rosemary stood at the foot of the bed with the chart open on the computer-on-wheels, shoulders squared, mouth set in a line that passed for neutral if you did not know her well enough to hear the strain riding underneath it.
“They posted the rotation list for surgical,” she said.
Mrs. Alvarez watched us both with mild interest, her oxygen cannula in place, hands folded over the blanket. I offered her a smile, the polite kind, the one that meant we were talking shop and nothing worth worrying about. Then I nudged the bed rail back into position and stepped closer to Rosemary.
“And?” I asked, already bracing.
Rosemary swallowed. She tapped the screen with the back of her knuckle instead of her finger, a habit she picked up during her first year on nights. “I didn’t get it.”
The words themselves were small. The way she said them was not.
I glanced at the screen, even though I already knew what I would see. Names stacked in clean rows. The surgical rotation highlighted in blue. And there it was, bolded at the top, the name everyone on the floor had been whispering about for weeks.
James’s new girlfriend.
A nurse who transferred in from Chicago. Shiny resume, safe hands, and a smile that made certain people forget to ask hard questions.
Mrs. Alvarez shifted, clearing her throat. “Everything okay, nurses?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rosemary said at the same time I did, our voices overlapping just enough to make her nod and settle back again.
I waited until we were in the hallway before I spoke. There was enough activity to afford us some privacy—transport pushing a gurney past us, a respiratory therapist jogging toward the ICU with a tank rolling behind him.
“Did Parker give you a reason?” I asked.
Rosemary shook her head. “She said it was competitive this cycle. Said I should be proud I was even considered.”
She tried for a shrug, but it came out stiff. Then she closed the tablet and started walking toward the next room, her steps measured, her badge swinging against her scrub top.
I followed, my jaw locked so tight it made my temples ache.
Competitive. That was the word they used when they wanted to sound fair. That was the word James liked best.
We stopped outside Room 412, and Rosemary scanned her badge before pushing the door open. Mr. Keene was sitting up in bed, breakfast tray untouched, remote clenched in his fist.
“Morning, Mr. Keene,” Rosemary said, professional, steady. She crossed to the bedside and started checking his vitals, fingers moving with practiced ease. “How’s the pain today?”
“Same,” he grumbled. “And this thing still won’t get ESPN.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, already reaching for the cuff.
I pulled on gloves and began checking his IV site, my hands moving on autopilot while my thoughts ran hot and circular.
This was Rosemary. She stayed late without being asked. She volunteered for the cases no one else wanted. She knew every attending’s preferences and never once complained when they changed their minds mid-procedure. She wanted that rotation because it would open doors she had been knocking on for years.
And James had worked the system so it went to someone he was sleeping with. Typical.
Rosemary finished documenting and moved to adjust the head of the bed. “We’ll have Physical Therapy by later this morning,” she told Mr. Keene. “Try to eat a little, okay?”
