Page 47 of Goalie Secrets

He leans back and gives me a toothy smile. Eric does the typical small talk chatter that I barely process. The yapping is vaguely familiar:Have you enjoyed Columbus so far? What are your holiday plans? You’re too young and pretty to be a doctor.Blah, blah, blah.

I attempt to answer his questions in a friendly manner while offering rote explanations of my measurements, but for the most part I’m lost in the process. Despite acknowledging the frustration of patients who want answersnow, the task of diagnosis is, I dare say, enjoyable. In a job that is mostly about managing the simple wear and tear of joints, the opportunity to work with a challenging case intrigues me. Identifying the elusive root causes of discomfort is particularly suited to physiatrists, since we treat the patient holistically.

The hour goes by quickly. I conclude that this isn’t the usual muscle or tendon problem. Eric is manifesting what I’ve only seen once in Harvard when a vascular specialist had joined our team to diagnose a patient with similar calf pain. The mysterious, chronic discomfort turned out to be a compressed artery. It wasn’t life-threatening in that case, so I’m keeping my suspicions to myself until we finish the tests.

“The staff will reach out to you when we’ve scheduled the imaging. Good to meet you, Eric.”

I leave with the intention of scarfing down my lunch before the next appointment. The morning of three straight hours with patients went by quickly. I need to gather myself before I getswamped the rest of the afternoon. Unfortunately, privacy isn’t in my future. Pete follows shortly after I enter my office.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“Yeah, what’s up?” I motion to a chair while taking a drink.

“I wanted to apologize for Eric. That was out of line,” he states, grabbing the back of the chair instead of sitting.

I pause from taking my first bite. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t believe he was hitting on you while you’re busy helping him,” he exclaims. “You don’t have to work with him anymore if he made you uncomfortable.”

Oh.Oh.Is that what he was doing?

I had been so immersed in the process, I was only pretending to hear half of Eric’s small talk.

“I didn’t even notice,” I admit honestly. “It was a standard assessment as far as I’m concerned.” In fact, I barely looked at Eric’s face or heard his chatter.

However, Pete’s worry reminds me to pay attention to the nuances. My strict no-mingling with coworkers or patients emerged from uncomfortable interactions I’ve had in the past. Times when my obtuseness was taken as encouragement, or my reluctance as insulting. This isn’t to say I blame myself, but I can acknowledge that I’m not a stellar reader of social cues.

“I’m glad you saw it that way,” Pete says, though he doesn’t seem glad at all. “Still, I told him he was being inappropriate.”

“I get caught up in the work especially with a case like Eric’s. Thank you for bringing the issue to my attention. However, I’ve got it from here and will better reinforce professional boundaries in the future.”

He raises his hand and lowers it, like he can’t decide if he should wave goodbye. I make the decision for him.

“I’ll see you later,” I utter with casual cheer because I’d like to move on and think about the rest of the afternoon. He takesthe hint and backs off, trusting me toreinforce the professional boundaries.

As I mull over the words, my thoughts go straight to Jeremy.

My body shivers as I recall him holding me, kissing me, arousing me. I still can’t believe he gave me an orgasm while he was on hisknees. And I swallow the bitter taste of regret for those professional boundaries I fail to uphold when it comes to this one man.

Hypocritical much, Vanya?

“I’ll leave you to finish your lunch,” Pete says from my doorway.

“Thanks, Pete.”

Finally, I can swallow my sandwich—and my guilt about Jeremy—in peace.

A sound of surprise comes from the hallway before Pete yells, “Oh, hey, Jeremy. Merry Christmas, man.”

Jeremy? As inmyJeremy? He isn’t due to come in till after Christmas. What is he doing here?

“You too, Pete. My mom is in town and made a ton of food for the staff. Everything’s in the lunchroom.”

That is Jeremy’s voice, alright. I’m not sure what to do with the sandwich that has turned to cement in my throat. And did I just call himmyJeremy? What the hell is wrong with me?

“Fuck, yeah! Did she bring empanadas?” Pete asks but doesn’t wait for an answer.

Jeremy stands by my door and lifts his chin. “There’s lots for everyone, Vanya. Come join us.”