No reason to feel sick about it, but I do.
Not because of the procedure—that went exactly to plan—but because of who he is. What this means for him.
I knew his name before they sent his scans through. Everyone in sports medicine knows who Reid Hutchison is. He’s been anchoring the Colorado Storm’s defensive line for over a decade.
He’s a wall in the net, a monster under pressure. He’s not justgood,he’s consistent. Respected. One of the best goalies in the NHL.
And he’s drafted to Team USA for the Winter Olympics in February.
Or hewas.
The minute I saw the tear on the MRI, I knew.
Meniscus damage that deep, at his age?He doesn’t have a hope in hell of making the team now, not with the recovery timeline or the rehab demands, not with how close he is to the end of his career already.
No one’s said it to him out loud yet, as far as I know, but I’ve watched enough athletes go through this reality to know how it ends.
Even if he makes it back to the league before the end of the season, his Olympic shot is gone.
He’s not my patient anymore, not officially. I’m just the resident surgeon who assisted Dr. Moreno. The one who was there during the prep and held the scope during the debridement. But I read every note, watched every second of game footage I could find last night.
I know exactly what’s at stake.
Elodie shifts behind me again, sensing the mood change. “Hey. You okay?”
“Just tired.”
She doesn’t push. She knows the difference between tired and wrung out, but she also knows when not to ask.
And today’s not just about Reid Hutchison.
I still have to call the pediatric team about the eight-year-old in Trauma. The one with the osteosarcoma in his femur. We got the imaging report an hour ago—aggressive, high-grade, and already showing signs of cortical destruction.
It’s a textbook case with a textbook treatment plan.
But he’seight. He asked if he’d be able to go to his friend’s birthday party next weekend, and his mother… She didn’t say anything. She just looked at me, her mouth slightly open, forgetting how to speak.
My stomach turns, and I scrub a hand down my face, then force myself upright to start gathering my things. I need to check on Hutchison, chase the peds team, and ideally not burst into flames from the ache in my spine.
But Elodie, as always, has perfect timing.
“Did you know Jenny thinks you’re sleeping with him?” she says casually, flicking a jellybean from her palm into her mouth.
“With Hutchison?”
She blinks. “What? No. Dr. Moreno.”
All I can do is stare because frankly, ew.
“She didn’tsayit,” Elodie clarifies, a little too cheerfully. “She implied it. Passive-aggressively, of course. You know how she gets when he talks to you in full sentences.”
I groan and shove my chair back under the desk. “Unbelievable.”
“She’s just mad he respects you more than he respects her new lip gloss.”
“Her new lip gloss smells likebubblegum.”
“Mm, and he still said good morning to you before her. Tragic.”
