Page 7 of Red Zone
“Don’t move anything. We’re putting you in a collar.” She used her hands to hold his neck in place. It would take three more assistants to remove his helmet and secure the cervical collar. “Cut off his pads.”
When they got the pads off, the problem with his right arm was clear. She almost bit her tongue.
Bad. Very bad.
His right arm was extended above his head in a way that resembled raising your hand in class.
There was only one very specific orthopedic injury matching this description. It couldn’t be fixed until they cleared his neck and confirmed he didn’t have any fractures.
Until then, he would be in unbearable pain.
“What’s wrong? Roy. Tell me,” he called out.
She leaned back over him. “Can you wiggle your feet? How do they feel?”
“They feel wet. Roy, my arm. What’s wrong with it? It fucking hurts. Shit. Shoot. Sorry. Swearing.” Only Bowen would worry about foul language in front of her while his arm was out of its socket.
“Your shoulder is out. I’m confirming with Glazier, but we’ll be headed to MetroGen to get some studies and put it back in. Everything is fine,” she tried to sound upbeat.
“Are you coming with me? I want you to ride with me. Not Navarro. You’re cuter. I’ll clean up my language.”
“Gotta talk to Glazier first.” The man was an incorrigible flirt, even in horrible pain. She resembled a drowned rat more than a human right now. “Get him an exposure blanket. We don’t need him to catch hypothermia, too.”
Three ambulances were rolling onto the field as a muted celebration occurred on the Browns sidelines. She moved to Glazier, who had a long leg splint on the extremely pale quarterback. “What happened?”
“Tib fib fracture from this damn mud. Likely ORIF for Winslow.” Glazier referred to the surgical procedure of open reduction and internal fixation—putting a rod in to make the shattered bone line back up.
It was the bread and butter of orthopedic surgery and devastating for the person on the receiving end. The quarterback’s season was over, no question about it.
“The tight end, Krinsmith?”
“He’s got a forearm fracture. I expect a standard reduction. Sullivan?”
“Suspected inferior right shoulder dislocation. He’s in a C-collar though.”
“Gotta fucking hurt with the collar’s pressure on his shoulder. Get it back in STAT. “Glazier twisted up his mouth. “Unless you want me to trade off. You could go with Krinsmith, and Navarro can take Sullivan.”
“Sullivan wants me to go with him.”
Glazier smirked. “Sure he does. Don’t forget your place here. Any idea which ER doc is on tonight for conscioussedation?”
“Dr. Ourisman is covering traumas.” She’d checked the schedule beforehand. Glazier was automatically the orthopedic surgeon for any NFL players, even though he wasn’t actually on call.
“Fuck. Wish it were Yates. Think we can convince their Chief to call him in?”
She scanned thebleachers behind the Browns end-zone and grinned. “I’m pretty sure heand his wife are here. They’re massive Browns fans, and she works for Cleveland Fire,right?”
“Glad you keep up on this stupid shit. He has a wife?”
“Kyra... do you know his first name?” she guessed.
“No.”
“It’s Ryan. They’ll come if you ask.” She’d long ago figured out Glazier treated his over-prepared underlings much better than his under-prepared ones.
Glazier picked up his radio to issue commands. “I need a loudspeaker announcementto have Dr. Ryan and Kyra Yates report to the Browns sideline. Patch me through to MetroGen. We’re going to need ER rooms for three patients and an OR open for me. I expect rooms assigned to Glazier, Navarro, Yates, andReynosa-Romualdo.”
She got back to Bowie with the rest of the medical team, readying the backboard. “Glazier wants us to go to the MetroGen ER. We’ll secure his arm in this position. I thought I asked for an exposure blanket.”
