Page 1 of Goalie Secrets
“I still can’t believe you’re making me do it, Ash,” I tell my best friend.
Although the context varies, this isn’t the first time I’ve expressed the sentiment. Ashley’s second job—one she assigned for herself since we met in third grade—is pushing me out of my comfort zone.
“When you’re gray haired and wrinkled, you’ll thank me. Your grandchildren will appreciate what a hot piece of ass grandma was in the good old days.”
I choke on air at the thought. “I am not showing my grandkids boudoir photos, you sicko!” Or anyone else, if I can help it.
“Why the hell not?”
“If I have to explain why tits are not part of story time, then there’s no hope for you.”
“Tasteful pictures of you in lingerie are your line on the sand for decency? Don’t bullshit me, girl. I was in the room when you flashed—”
“Are you going to bring up New Orleans for the rest of our lives? It was before medical school, so it doesn’t count.”
“Tell that to the frat boys you corrupted.” Her cackle is so jarring, I pull the phone away from my ear.
“Dr. Kapur? May I come in?” A woman’s voice follows three confident knocks outside my office door.
“Yes, of course,” I answer before returning to my best friend. “I gotta go, Ash. I’ll call you later.”
“Fine. I have to dress for work anyway,” she says. “Are you sure you don’t want me to fly in for a birthday celebration thisweekend?” Ashley’s voice turns melancholy because this is my first birthday in two decades that she won’t be celebrating with me.
“I’m sure. Gotta go!” I hang up and put on my game face.
Today, I’m starting my one-year fellowship in the most successful physical rehabilitation center in Ohio. It’s a temporary step that brings me closer to my goal of running my own clinic.
“I would have left my door open if I knew the office started this early,” I greet the woman standing by my door at seven in the morning. “Please, come in.”
“Hi, I’m Sabrina Whitby, the office manager. When I saw your light, I couldn’t wait to welcome you. Are you an early bird like me?” she asks cheerily. Her small hand is dwarfed in my oafish one. Despite a scrubbed face and the unflattering outfit of the Columbus Physiatrists Rehabilitation Center, she’s very pretty.
“I wanted to get a head start on setting up my office before everyone came to work,” I explain.
“Do you need help?” she asks.
“No, thank you. I’m nearly done.”
I can move boxes and organize my own files. However, as the office manager, Sabrina could probably help me with something else.
“Actually, thereissomething I’d like to ask you about,” I venture. “Did Dr. Lane brief the office on why I moved from Boston?”
“A little,” she answers hesitantly. “Although Kyle is planning to give a proper welcome speech during the office meeting at 8:30 this morning. We’re honored that you’re here.”
I blush at her praise. Nothing’s worse than an ego-inflated, self-congratulating doctor who fishes for compliments every five minutes. There are enough of them around. The last thing I want is to sound like one.
“Oh, well, that’s not, um, why I asked,” I stammer, a tad defensively. “Did he mention which files I’ll start with? I mean patients. WhichpatientsI’ll work with.”
Her friendly smile wanes. “No, he didn’t. I thought he would do the rounds with you this week. I’m sorry, Dr. Kapur.”
“Please call me Vanya. And no reason to be sorry at all. I’m sure Kyle will have all that information during the meeting.”
A few beats of awkward silence pass.
“Well, if there’s nothing else…”
“I’m good! Everything is good,” I rush to assure her.
“Great to meet you,” she says in the tone used by people who have decided you’re a socially inept goof. I confirm her suspicion by closing my office door. It’s not that I’m unfriendly by nature, but unexpected interactions rattle me. Besides, working in this field has taught me a few hard lessons. One of them is to keep work interactions exclusively professional.