“Let’s be honest—you thought you knew his.”
I ignored Shane. “So, well, I had no idea. Not until I saw him with the rest of the first-year residents a couple of days ago.”
“Did you open with ‘so that’s what you look like in clothes’?” Shane was clearly still biting down on a grin. Screw him. Except, you know. Best buddy and all that.
“Saturday Night Livecalled,” I said. “They want you on the show.”
“They’d be so fucking lucky.”
I snorted. “No, but anyway. I managed something like ‘Good job, anonymous resident who I never met before.’ While trying to forget, you know—you know.” I stopped for a meaningful look.
Shane had the good grace to try for a noise that vaguely resembled commiseration before I filled him in on the rooftop conversation, the competition, tomorrow’s presentation. He listened the way he always did: chin propped on a fist, all attention. His floral shirt was like a flag in the dim light of thebar. “Let me get this straight,” he said once I’d talked myself out of words. “Your options are flunk him and look petty, rank him first and look thirsty, or try and fail to be neutral?”
“Pretty much.” I shook my head. “He’sgood, Shane. His friend called him Spider-Hands, which, yeah—joke. But there’s a reason he came in first. If he’s a decent presenter… Just, fuck. Whoever wins this, it’s massive for them. And if he deserves it…”
“You’d be a dick to take that from him,” Shane finished, quiet.
“Yeah. So, in summary: I’m doomed.”
For a second, Shane studied me. Then his expression melted into something softer, the teasing edge almost entirely gone. “You know you’re allowed to like someone, right? Even residents. The timing sucks, and the power dynamics suck even harder. But feelings happen.”
Warmth crept into my face. “I know. And liking isn’t the problem. Acting on it, though? It would hit both our careers. So, no.”
“Then you admire him from a professional distance,” Shane said. “Write poetry about his knot boards or whatever. That’s what your little notebook is for, right?” He nudged my shoulder. “Just don’t artificially freeze him out, okay? It’s rare that someone catches your eye like this, so he must be something special. Don’t fake indifference so hard you break something—you, him, whatever it is that could grow there.”
I huffed. “Answer is: nothing much. Not until—oh, I don’t know. He’s finished his training, I guess. Seven years, give or take.”
“Hey, aim high.”
“Wow, is that how you pep-talk your third-graders?”
“I’ve got mad skills,” Shane said with a proud nod, his mouth twisting into something halfway between amusement and affection. “Just think about it, all right?”
“Sure.” I would. When hell froze over.
Shane, bless him, let it go after a warm, assessing glance. When he waved to Maeve for another round, I exhaled and ordered a seltzer this time. We toasted to poor timing and professional ethics before we parked hospital drama for a hamster jailbreak and glue sticks in hair. I laughed enough to loosen the tangled weight in my chest.
We called it a night around half past nine, the speakers belting classic eighties as Shane clapped my shoulder. “Deep breaths tomorrow, okay? Fair scores, definitely no poetry in the comment section. And if he crushes it—hey, seems you’ve got an eye for talent. Mouth, hands, same difference.”
“You’re not helping,” I told Shane.
He grinned. “I really am.”
Maybe.
Outside, fresh evening air welcomed us. We hugged, then I watched him turn toward the subway before I headed uptown, something like anticipation humming in my veins.
Deep breaths, fair scores. I could do that.
Probably.
Garcia had struck again. Like—seriously? Because when I arrived at the lecture bay, he’d put up a large poster that announced this to be theSuture Bowl Finals. Red tape declared the front row taboo for anyone but us judges. Okay then. Stage set.
Interns started filing in, most of them a few minutes early, expressions tight and energy humming somewhere between excitement and end of the world. I focused on my tepid coffee and the columns on my clipboard that split feedback into clarity, depth, and poise. Right, okay. I could do this—be objective, give everyone a fair chance. They were all the same to me.
Once more, with feeling.
At seven sharp, Garcia strode to the mic. “Morning, scrubs. Here’s how this goes: We’re about to announce the top five. They’ll each receive the same neonatal emergency scenario, staggered fifteen minutes apart, and get an hour to prepare. No phones, no computers, just straight-up brain power. Life’s unfair; so is medicine.”
