“I didn’t sayflash the room like it’s Medical Magic Mike.”
“Jesus, relax. It’s not like I was gonna flash you my—”
“I’ve seen enough unsolicited dick in my residency, thank you.”
I snort before I can stop it, mostly because this woman couldn’t keep a handle on her bedside manner to save her own life.
“Sounds like a personal problem.”
“It became my problem the second you reached for your gown.”
I don’t grin, but it’s a near thing.
She busies herself by pulling on a pair of gloves, muttering something under her breath. I pretend not to hear it, and instead tug the sheet up, then slide my hands beneath it, shifting awkwardly as I try to find the first barbell.
Her eyes dart to where my hands are under the sheet, and she clears her throat.
“I don’t imagine any of this was on your bucket list.”
I glance up. “You always this chatty before carving into someone’s knee?”
“I find it helps calm the nerves.”
I snort. “Yours or mine?”
She doesn’t answer, and I wonder if it’s because she’s nervous, too. If she’s scared about the surgery, about getting a good outcome.
I find the first ball and start unscrewing it by feel—it’s a little awkward, the metal stubborn between my fingers.
“You okay over there?” she asks after a moment, as if I’m moving too slowly for her.
“They’re curved and screwed, it’s not exactly a quick-release system.”
A pen clatters to the floor as she prepares a sterile bag, but she ignores it. “Would you like assistance?”
“Wouldyou?”
She coughs once to cover her laugh, then looks away, giving me whatever shred of privacy she can while still standing within reach of the sterile bag she’s holding.
I slide the first barbell out and hand it over the sheet without looking, and she takes it without comment.
“How many?” she asks.
“Three,” I mutter.
“Please don’t drop them on the floor.”
The second comes out easier, and I pass it over. “I catch pucks that fly over one hundred miles an hour for a living. Do I look like I might drop them?”
“Yes.”
I huff and work on the third, which takes a moment. I grit my teeth, shift my legs wider under the blanket, and finally pull it free. It’s undignified as hell.
“Here.”
“Thank you.” She takes the last one with the kind of delicate care usually reserved for live grenades, then pops it into the bag with the others.
We don’t speak for a beat as she busies herself with labels for my bag of barbells.
