Surgeons, Rivals...Lovers

She still wouldn’t be asked to assist, but she deserved to observe. It’d be the honorable thing to do, help her get a foot into Ootaka’s OR in a way she probably couldn’t unwittingly screw up.

At the scene he’d noted at least three behaviors Ootaka would cut her over: inability to speak with authority; lackluster leadership skills; and visible displays of emotion. From the sidelines she’d be able to get a feel for things without being in the spotlight.

“It had stabilized him, but he’s popping more PVCs than he was, and his blood pressure range is narrowing again,” she added, directing all attention to the patient and the display on his wrist. “One hundred over seventy-five.”

Enzo had gotten used to being the main one to answer questions or brief Ootaka on patients. It was only to make sure that he knew the whole situation that Enzo tacked on, “Pressure had normalized to one hundred and forty-three over eighty-five after the second aspiration.”

“One hundred and forty-three over eighty-one,” Davis corrected.

Right. No more giving her credit. Those four measly points didn’t make any difference to the situation, other than highlighting that he’d made a tiny mistake. Not precisely underhanded but kind of snotty all the same. Apparently she was capable of a modicum of backbone. But squabbling over insignificant details wouldn’t impress Ootaka, so he held his tongue.

Ootaka nodded in the direction of Trauma 1 and led the way. In less than a minute the stretcher was locked into position amid the equipment in the trauma suite, all gloved hands on deck.

“Davis,” Ootaka directed. “Another aspiration.”

Davis? Damn.

A larger hypo than the ones she’d used on scene landed in her hand. A nurse took over the job that Enzo had performed earlier, swabbing the chest.

Again he watched Davis carefully position and guide the needle into the man’s chest, then another flow of bright blood pulled back into the hypodermic. Not so watery as it had been on the second draw.

“For the third draw, it’s a lot thicker than it was even the first time.”

Enzo locked his jaw to keep quiet. Something he never did with the other residents… but this was Davis’s show.

Davis withdrew the needle and concluded, “His chest isn’t simply filling with serum again. There’s bleeding. He’s got a tear somewhere.”

“He does,” Ootaka confirmed. “Going to have to go in. Correct call, DellaToro.”

Of course it was. Enzo stepped forward again. Before Enzo could do more than nod, Ootaka turned to Davis. “Welcome to West Manhattan Saints, Dr. Davis. An OR has been prepped. You’re with me.”

Enzo’s head jerked back as if he’d been slapped.

Ootaka had invited her to surgery.

A slower step back to get out of the way again and Enzo found himself blinking, as if clearing his vision would do something to clear up what he’d just heard. But nothing had changed. The situation settled like lead in his belly.

Ootaka was definitely impressed with her.

The man told all the first-year residents they couldn’t assist him until he’d seen them in the OR to weigh their ability. They observed, he gave them small tasks, and gradually built up to assisting. Usually other surgeons did much of the initial surgical instruction, Ootaka was next-level surgery. And if you didn’t meet his expectations…

It wasn’t so much that Ootaka made a production of letting the resident know they were no longer welcome—big displays of emotion were the same as big displays of drama—he simply stopped extending invitations. It usually took the resident a few weeks to realize they were no longer welcome or even on his radar. Enzo had even seen the man forget the name of residents once he’d stopped shining attention on them.

Davis wasn’t precisely a first year, but it was her first year at WMS. Ootaka had never seen her perform.

A pericardial aspiration by hypodermic, while tricky, didn’t compare to using a scalpel…

The team wheeled Mr. Elliot out of Trauma 1 and down the fastest hall to the OR, leaving Enzo to find something else to do.

A now-familiar Scottish brogue came from just outside the door. “Kimberlyn got Ootaka already? Caren said she was good.” He looked around the door frame.

“Don’t make me hit you, Sam.” Enzo stepped out, uncrossing his arms to let them hang, feigning the relaxed appearance he’d rather others see. He just couldn’t get his shoulders to loosen up. “What are you doing down here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be with the babies?”

“I came to make sure Kimberlyn had made it, actually. We were going to walk together today, but I ended up needing to leave early for an errand.”

“Miss Scarlet needs an escort?”

Sam gave a low chuckle. “She really did get under your skin.”

“She’s not under my skin. It was a quick reference to that dark-haired Southern pretty girl thing she’s got going on.” Enzo had lied, and he wasn’t a liar. It was a point of pride that he could be blunt and honest about anything. She’d thrown him off his game for a third time. “It takes more than a strong base of medical knowledge to impress Ootaka. She’s got steady hands, but her leadership is nonexistent. Couldn’t even rally some rubberneckers at the accident to call 911 or to push the vehicle off the patient.”

“Want to grab a pint after your shift? You can find some pretty lass to take your mind off Cricket.”

“Yes,” Enzo answered, because a beer sounded good, as did the idea of finding a pretty lass. Someone more his flavor. Not dark and soulful. Davis probably wrote poetry and wore black all the time when she wasn’t in scrubs. Also not a lass. That sounded entirely too much as if it could fit Davis, and he’d rather have someone real. Overly emotional just didn’t do it for him, either.

Hold on. “Did you call her Cricket?”

“It’s her nickname. Don’t tell her I told you.”

Enzo snorted, but nodded to his friend—Dr. Cricket’s new housemate—and headed off to look at the surgery board. Maybe they’d be in one of the surgeries with an observation gallery so he could at least watch…

A short walk and he stood, looking the whiteboard over. Head of surgical residents Dr. Gareth Langley had taken one of the rooms with a gallery. The name Lyons stood out on the list. He looked only long enough to determine he wouldn’t accidentally walk in on that man’s surgery, then moved on. Ootaka had indeed reserved the last gallery.

If he hurried, he might even avoid accidentally running into Lyons on the way. That had been the other bit of information to stand out on the board: times and approximate duration. His father was the last person he wanted to see today. Or any day. The fact that they frequently shared a hospital made it impossible to avoid him altogether, but Enzo did his best. Always did, and he imagined Lyons did, as well. In four years they’d managed to avoid saying even a single word to one another and that level of avoidance couldn’t happen without two people actively working at it.

He relaxed only when he’d stepped through the door leading up to Ootaka’s gallery.

In his time in the program nearly all of his competition had fallen by the wayside. Winning this fellowship was a marathon, but Davis was here to sprint the last leg. An immediate invitation into Ootaka’s OR definitely meant she had started the sprint and he felt as if he was standing still, which was ridiculous. She couldn’t cover that much distance in one surgery.

Time to get his head back in the game. Observe the new surgeon. See how much of what Sam had said was actually correct. See if she really was a threat to his goal or if his mind was playing tricks on him. However unlikely the possibility might be, he needed to judge for himself. If her backbone wasn’t full-on displayed, it didn’t matter how much she knew. She wouldn’t threaten his position as favorite horse in the race for Ootaka’s final fellowship.

But it might do the pit in his gut some good to see her getting the unavoidable dressing-down coming her way.

God, he sounded like a petulant child wanting Daddy’s approval. His stomach churned.

No one could survive Ootaka’s surgery without learning his particular rules. He should feel sorry for her.

If her arrival hadn’t felt like another shadow he’d have to fight his way out of, he might actually muster some sympathy.

The only way to find whatever was bleeding inside Mr. Elliot’s chest was to crack it.

Kimberlyn had been in a few thoracic surgeries since the accident, during the last months of her first year back… but seeing a chest open still made her scar burn.

This was someone else’s sternum, someone else’s pain.

The words danced through her mind on repeat every time she started to feel her chest tighten or her heart speed up.

Mr. Elliot deserved undivided attention, and the likelihood he’d one day have his own scar to fixate on hinged on the talent and skill of his surgical team. Mainly Ootaka, but she mattered.