Page 25 of Dr. Bad Boy

“Max…” I huff out a frustrated breath, because the words I know I should say just don’t feel right rolling off my tongue. I settle for the closest truth. “This is dangerous. We can’t pretend there aren’t rules.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“So you need to forget what we did.Ineed to forget what we did.”

Another nod, and his frown gets deeper. He looks down at the ground, then off into the distance. More thinking. Then he swivels his head back to centre and exhales roughly. “We'll figure something out.”

I swallow hard. That’s what I’m afraid of.

8

Max

The pageI got while talking to Violet was from one of the residents at the hospital, so I head straight there from the arena. I’m on-call, and this morning during daily rounds we’d decided to keep a concussion patient in for the weekend. His parents are still making noises that they’d like to take him home early, and my resident wants me to step in to the conversation.

I’d return later tonight anyway, but I make it clear to any resident I work with that I want to be looped in on absolutely anything out of the ordinary.

Part of that is my teaching obligation—hard to evaluate residents if I don’t see them doing all facets of the job.

But most of my motivation there is selfish. I’m a different person when I walk through the hospital doors. Calmer, more giving.

I like myself more when I’m wearing the stethoscope, even when I’m having tough conversations.

After that unsettling interaction with Violet—and yet another reminder that I can’t control myself around her—I could use the retreat to the one place where I am unflinchingly professional.

I leave my hockey bag in the back of my SUV and head straight to the paeds in-patient floor. I roll my sleeves up to my elbows and scrub in the room behind the nursing station, then check the white board.

Two patients are out for testing, but other than that, nothing has changed since this morning. I check in with my residents, then the junior trainee and I walk down to the private room at the end of the hall where Ethan Bolton is recovering from his tumble down a flight of stairs at school—complete with a concussion.

I knock on the door, then poke my head in with a friendly smile. “Hello again.”

It doesn’t take long to realize that the Boltons are nearing the end of their rope emotionally. Both parents are here today because their daughters are spending the day with friends in the city, but they’re farmers who live an hour outside Ottawa.

And it’s harvest time. If it hadn’t rained yesterday, Mr. Bolton wouldn’t be here today.

“I appreciate how difficult this is for your family. We’d talked about Monday being discharge day, and I’d like to stick with that, but I’m not ignoring the challenges of needing to come in to the city. A lot of families decide to stagger their visits—”

“I’m not leaving my son in a hospital for days on end,” Mr. Bolton grinds out with a fierceness I appreciate.

“Not days. One day, though. Tomorrow, for example.” I give Ethan a half-grin. “I’m not doing anything. I’ll come by. And we’ve got patient support staff that are excellent.”

The murderous look on his face tells me that’s a non-starter.

“It’s not just the strain on the family,” Mrs. Bolton says, trying to temper her own frown at the same time as she smooths over the sudden tension in the room. “Ethan’s lonely. He even misses his sisters.”

“And my Lego,” Ethan adds solemnly.

I nod. “And your television and sketchbooks and video games, too. I get it. Which is why we want to keep you here another day or two. This is really important, because that stuff is irresistible.”

He frowns. “But I feel better.”

“Good. That’s what we want to see.”

“So why can’t I go home?”

I glance at his backpack on the floor. A stylized Captain Phasma picture decorates the front. “Because you won’t feel better once you’re at home and you’re trying to build a TIE-fighter. You’d concentrate so hard on getting the laser cannons just right that you wouldn’t notice your head starting to hurt.”

Just like the Sponge Bob squeaker, my Star Wars knowledge wins over kids where my medical knowledge has no sway. Ethan nods. “Oh.”

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