Page 2 of Daring the Hockey Player

"Hi, Amber," he says and gives me a friendly hug.

He's tall and smells good. I try not to embrace him for too long. I don't want to seem clingy or weird. "Hi," I say and force a smile. My stomach is tumbling, and I gesture to the seat beside me at the bar.

Tripp grabs the stool and waves the bartender over, ordering a vodka.

I can't imagine drinking vodka straight, but I'm trying not to judge him.

"Did you have work today?" I ask. What I really want to know is, did he have a bad day? Is that why he's going straight for the hard stuff?

Tripp shakes his head. "Day off for the week. I'm on for the next two weeks starting tomorrow."

"Oh, wow." I'm surprised by his schedule. "The hospital has you work fourteen days in a row?"

"I like the overtime. It keeps me busy, and the pay is great, too," he says.

I take another swig from my drink. Handsome. Check. Workaholic. Red flag. But he's an adult, and I'm still in college. Maybe that's what it's like when you get out of school? You work yourself to death. It doesn't sound fun.

At least this is a red flag, I can see. And the vodka might be one too. I'm not sure. It's still too early to tell.

"What about you? You're still in school?" Tripp asks.

I blush and nod. "Yes, I'm studying microbiology. I have another year until I graduate."

"What do you plan on doing with that?" he asks.

"I'm hoping to get a job at a hospital or university laboratory," I say.

"Let me know when you graduate. Maybe I can help you out." Tripp downs the shot of vodka and orders another.

"Thanks. How do you like working for Steele Concierge?" I ask. It's a privately owned and funded medical center in the heart of downtown New York City. Charlotte comes from money, so when she injured her ankle, she had the cab driver take her where there wouldn't be a long wait in the ER.

"The sixteen-hour days are a bit brutal. The nurses, you wouldn't believe what some of them are up to."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"The charge nurse was caught in the stairwell with a bag of fentanyl, passed out. We thought for a minute that she ODed."

"Oh my gosh. Did they fire her?" I can't imagine anyone being allowed to keep their job after that type of ordeal.

"They forced her into thirty-day rehab. She's back on the floor again, was clean for about a year…"

"How did she not lose her license?" Shock floods through me.

Tripp shrugs. "The board doesn't really do much since the hospital is the equivalent of a drug dealer. Making her give patients drugs, it's like it's there and tempting her."

I'm utterly speechless, and I stare at him like the world suddenly makes absolutely zero sense.

"But she stole fentanyl from the hospital."

"She wasn't the only one using fentanyl. Three, no, four other nurses were taking part. They'd all steal something and share it amongst one another. Super easy, post-Covid, when the inhalers for an asthma attack are in the same cabinet as the narcotics. A nurse unlocks the cabinet, rushes to get what they need, and doesn't bother locking it."

"That's insane." I can't wrap my head around how any of this is acceptable or how it could be true. But he doesn't seem like he's lying. He looks stressed, with dark circles under his eyes and his fingers drumming against the bar counter.

Tripp shrugs like it’s not that surprising anymore. He’s grown cold to it, like it’s just another day at the hospital. He finishes his second shot of vodka and orders a third.

Maybe he’s just making himself numb.

“I mean, I get it. I work sixteen-hour days. I've had to ask the doctors for methamphetamines."