Page 2 of Concussion Protocol
"I'm Shane," I say more calmly. I'm sure he didn't hear me introduce myself when I walked in on him a few minutes ago.
"Pretty Shane," Jon coos, and I have to chuckle. This poor guy is out of it.And it’s not endearing at all. Not even a little.
Ignoring his drug-induced banter—I know better than to take anything he says seriously right now—I finish cleaning him up and bandage his arm. He was due to have his IV removed for discharge anyway.
Jon lets me escort him to the bathroom and I stand outside the door, leaving it cracked open so I can hear him if he needs assistance. Back in his curtained-off room, I explain to him that I'll need to help him get dressed because he’s too woozy to bend down on his own. His lips roll in, and his brow furrows like he might be uncomfortable.
“Do you have a friend or family member with you that you’d prefer to help? I can supervise instead. Or, if you sit tight for a minute, I can get someone else in here with us,” I offer, assuming that he’s uncomfortable with a male nurse dressing him.
It happens all the time. Women often feel more comfortable with a female presence, which is understandable. But it’s the men that are the ones that tend to complain the most, as if having another man assist them threatens their fragile concepts of masculinity. It can be exhausting, but I’m not really offended. I’m more concerned with my patient’s comfort than anything else.
And yeah, I've had to dress and undress attractive men before, but I don’t allow things like physical attraction to affect me. When I’m in work mode, that part of my brain checks out. I have never looked at an attractive patient twice, checked them out, or thought about them in that way while they were in my care.I'm a professional.
Even when said patients are far more attractive and endearing than they have any right to be, have perfect muscular asses, thick thighs, and shy smiles that are enough to make me want to blush.
Jon shakes off my offer, but his rigid posture and the tense set of his jaw betray his discomfort. I do my best to protect his modesty and help him feel more comfortable with the situation, but the moment I have to take a knee in front of him to help guide his feet into a pair of boxer briefs, I have an inkling of what his problem actually is.
I'd assumed that he might be uncomfortable because he knows I'm gay—obviously, since he knows I was dating one of histeammates. But that doesn't seem to be the issue after all. Pulling his underwear up until he can reach to finish pulling them on, I turn my head and avert my eyes while he pulls them up the rest of the way. The tight briefs do very little to hide his erection, and the longer I'm on my knees for him, helping him into a pair of loose athletic shorts, the more apparent the problem becomes. I swallow back my surprise and the tingling awareness of him watching me dress him.
Thank goodness he had a change of clothes in his bag and not just the uniform he'd been wearing when he arrived. I'm not sure either of us would have survived a jockstrap or the tiny shorts rugby players typically wear.
I’ll admit, this is definitely a first for me. But I'm still able to keep myself detached from the issue. Erections happen. It's an involuntary physical response that likely has nothing to do with me. I ignore it the same as I always do.
But then I make the mistake of looking up at him from my knees, and I'm confronted with not only the very obvious bulge hovering over me, but also a change in his expression that threatens to make my body match his reaction. His eyes darken and zero in on me. His lids are hooded, lips parted in such a way that you'd think I'd touched him and not merely pulled his pants up to his thighs without ever making contact with his skin.
I'm a professional. I'm a professional.
Clearing my throat, I stand and gesture for him to turn so I can reach to untie the hospital gown. The tight knot takes me a moment to untangle. A spark of static electricity zings over me when I reach for the fabric to pull it down his arms. I swallow and push my awareness of the heat in his glare to the very back of my mind. I hand him his t-shirt and help guide it over hishead, but then let him pull it down on his own, covering what looks like miles of bare, tan, toned skin and more abs than I can count when clearly trying to avert my eyes.
Why is it so hot in here?I should check with maintenance. It's usually freezing in here.
After guiding Jon to sit again, I step back to put space between us.
“You’re all set. We’re just waiting on your discharge paperwork, and to make sure you have a ride home.”
Closing the curtain behind me, I back right into Regina. She’s got a chart with discharge papers in her hand and a knowing grin on her face.
“What is that look for?” I ask, tipping my chin up and meeting her amused gaze with a blank expression.
Regina knows my weakness for rugby players. Hell, she had to listen to me bitch about all my problems with Eric for over six months before I caught him cheating. There were a lot of red flags leading up to that realization, but he was just so hot.
“MmmHmm.”
“Don’tMmmHmmme!” I rake a hand through my messy hair, wanting nothing more than a shower to wash away the last eighteen hours. Maybe a cold shower. “I’m done here. I’m going home.”
“I need you to finish discharging Mr. Wilton first, then I promise I’ll leave you alone.”
“Give me someone else. What else you got?”
Regina hands me the chart she’s holding under Jon’s discharge papers. I look at it and groan. Right-sided abdominal pain, fever, and vomiting.Ugh.This patient is probably going to need a CT and, if it's appendicitis, potentially surgery. And it’s a kid, which means I’ll get attached and not want to pass them off to another nurse once they’ve gotten comfortable with me.
Which means I would be stuck here for a few more hours. I’m so exhausted that I’m near tears at the prospect, but it's better than compromising my professionalism, so I reluctantly take the chart.
Regina's amused expression softens into one that looks troubled. She takes the chart back and passes it to one of the nurses that just clocked in. Then she turns back to me.
"What's going on with you?"
After steering her over to the corner of the nurses' desk and looking around to make sure we can't be overheard, I take a deep breath and tell her the truth. Most of it. I’m not going to tell her that I saw his boner and it was trying to speak to mine. That’s their business and it would be rude to gossip.
