Page 5 of Falling for the Orc All-Star

Just passing observations. In this job, you get to people-watch a lot, and that’s what saves it from being boring. I love seeing people come in hurt and leave healthy again. (Okay, I don’t like the suffering part, but I appreciate the improvement part and like having a front-row seat to someone’s healing journey.)

“If you’d like me to show you how to better maneuver—”

“I got it.”

“Okay. Well, then, all the forms you need to fill out are here. Insurance, driver’s license, emergency contact—”

Mr. Silverbow, having just collapsed into the loveseat, groans and stands back up. “What? I was just at the hospital last night. You should have all this!”

“Well, the hospital records are not the same as ours. We’re not the hospital, we’re their partnered provider.”

“I don’t know what the hell that means.”

“It means I just need you to enter your information again,” I say, a patient smile forced onto my face.

I hate this. I mean, yes, I hate when patients get angry at me for no reason, and this guy seems somewhat irritated, but that’s understandable. He’s injured. Probably in pain. Worried about his career. But, say what you will, when you people-watch, you start to build character stereotypes in your brain.

King is proving himself to fall into one of my most hated stereotypes, i.e., “the handsome guys are jerks” stereotype. This isn’t so much a Pine Ridge thing but a “growing up, moving from school to school with a Navy father and a nurse mother, and finding out that when you’re the cute, chubby, new girl, handsome, athletic guys tend to treat you like a doormat” thing. Or like you’re invisible. At best, they treat you like a sister or someone to help them get the prettier girls.

King is the last patient of the day, and I know Kev is waiting, so I try to help things along. “If you’d like to read off the information on your insurance card to me, I can input it for you?”

“Insurance? My health insurance shouldn’t be touching this. I got injured at work! At the big game last night?” He looks at me like I have the brains of pond scum.

So, yes, I’m being a little petty when I flip my hair and push the tablet back into his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t watch the game last night. Not really much into hockey. I took my dogs to the park last night.”

The guy towering over me swallows several times. Rage crosses his features. “Okay. Fine. Doesn’t matter. I’m not supposed to give you my insurance card. My team’s insurance should cover this. It was work-related.”

“Then I’ll still need some information from your team’s insurance. A provider number? A contact number? They should have given you something last night?”

“My coach and the team medics handle that shit.”

I bite my lip. There’s.... There’s such an undercurrent of irritated petulance in his tone that it makes me want to smack him. “Whydon’t you call your coach, sir? Let me know what you find out.” I start to walk off when the door swings open with a hiss. That means someone’s used the automatic door, pushing the big silver button that controls it. Someone who probably can’t walk or stand too well.

“Mrs. Yerchenko! You were supposed to be here at two!” I exclaim when a little old lady hobbles in, looking pale and winded. “I thought you forgot. I called you a couple of times.”

“I fell in the parking lot. So silly,” she mumbles, bright spots appearing on her wrinkled cheeks. “I could hear you calling me, dear, but that silly little phone—it’s so slippery. It fell out of my purse and went right under the car—”

“Should she be driving?” King asks, and I turn to glare him to silence.

“I can drive fine! It’s the walking I have trouble with!” Mrs. Yerchenko hobbles farther into the office, and I hurry to help her. “Ever since I had that fall at the Labor Day Picnic...”

“Come on in the back. Dr. Bailey is waiting for you.”

“I brought him some peanut butter cups. Such a sweet boy. They’re down the grate by the car,” she laments. “I was able to get the phone—eventually, but the candy...”

“Don’t you worry. Marina already made a peanut butter cup cheesecake today, and I don’t think he needs any more sugar.” I usher Mrs. Yerchenko straight back into the safe, healing arms of Dr. Kevin Bailey, and return to find a towering toddler looming in my personal space.

“What the fuck was that?” he demands.

“I beg your pardon?” I ask. Anyone who knows me would have warned Mr. Windbag that when I speak softly and ask questions I already know the answers to, you should duck and cover.

King doesn’t know me.

“You just let that woman go right in? No little tablet full of information to fill out?” He dangles the tablet between two fingers.

“Don’t you dare—”

He drops it, and I snag it, starting to well and truly lose my temper.