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LENA

ONE MONTH EARLIER

“I just don’t see why you can’t work this summer, Brad.” I groan as the waist of my new scrub pants digs uncomfortably into my skin. I’ll have to ask for a size up, which means trading in all the pairs the hospital issued me yesterday. At least the tops fit.

My boyfriend pinches the bridge of his nose. “And I don’t see why you can’t understand how much work it is to finish a dissertation, Lena. The sooner I do that, the sooner I can get on the job market, and we can start our next chapter.”

He acts as if academic professionals wait until graduation to start searching for tenure-track jobs. But I don’t say that to him. What’s the point? I need to leave, especially considering I need to grab new pants before I embark on a twelve-hour shift at the trauma center.

As the newest member of the emergency dental squad, I’ve encountered some pretty gnarly mouths already. Even though it’s only been a month, I’m proud of how infrequently I’ve had to step away to compose myself.

Brad has been less proud of this achievement. I frown, remembering how he insisted that I stop discussing my work when he’s trying to concentrate.

He’s already returned to his book, and I take a deep breath, remembering that all couples go through difficult stretches.

The stress of both of us being in graduate school has been intense.

Interestingly, a PhD in philosophy takes longer than a doctorate in dental medicine.

I’m just glad I was able to find a good-paying job in Pittsburgh while he finishes his degree.

There’s no way we could cover rent in two cities with my loan payments coming due.

Brad’s stipend is barely enough to cover his Paleo diet requirements, so I’ve been floating the bills.

I sigh. “Right. Well, I’ll be pretty late.”

He nods. “I’ll probably sleep in the office so you don’t wake me with all the lights and running water.”

I wince at this. I take extraordinary care when I return home.

Obviously, I shower off the gore of the emergency department, but I don’t even turn the fan on, so it’s as quiet as possible.

Brad and I need to have a conversation soon.

An honest, sit-down heart-to-heart so we can hash out this tension between us and figure out some solutions to these perceived slights on both our parts.

“I love you,” I say, but he’s bent over his book and doesn’t hear me. The words feel more hollow than usual.

I step out of our apartment into the spring sunshine and walk a few blocks north to General Hospital.

It’s an absolutely gorgeous day, and I let the weather lift my unease.

This is just normal couple stuff, part of the growing pains in any relationship where both parties are career-focused and trying to find their footing.

By the time I reach the sliding glass doors of my workplace, I feel much better about everything. “Morning, Luis!” I smile at the security guard, who suspiciously eyes my bundle of scrub pants.

“You bringing your laundry into work, chica?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Gotta switch out for another size.”

Why I’m telling the security guard my ass is too big for my pants? I have no idea. But he winks at me. “No shame in that, mami. Better to be comfortable while you’re walking around fine like that.”

I blush, surprised by how his compliment affects me. Most people in my life have a different perspective on my size. “Thank you, Luis.”

“Any time, Doc!”

I swing through the linen room to swap my extra-large pants for a set of two-X. Thankfully, the curvy woman at the counter gives me a supportive hand pat, lets me change into one of the new pairs, and quickly turns in the pair of pants I arrived wearing.

Outfitted, I stop by my locker, drop off all my crap, pull my hair back into a long ponytail, and prepare for whatever mayhem the day may bring.

Will I start with a skateboarding accident?

Siblings fistfighting? An alcoholic who tripped and fell off a curb?

I sort of like that it could be any or all of these things in addition to horrors unimagined.

I have no idea why trauma dentistry appealed to me when searching for a job after graduation.

It’s probably weird that I find the work to be soothing.

I’m definitely seeing people at their worst, but I pride myself on my ability to keep them calm, to reassure them that I’m going to get them feeling better, and, if they let me help, chewing food normally in no time.

I consult on a rollerblading mishap and a college rugby fiasco before lunch, and I am just about done wolfing down some soup when I see a nurse sprint-walking toward me with a phone.

She’s got the determined pace of a woman on a mission, so I shovel another bite of chicken noodle into my mouth and stand to meet her.

“Lena.” She heaves out a breath. “Urgent call for you.”

My brows shoot up, and I reach for the phone.

“This is Dr. Sinclair.” The nurse mouths that she has to get back to the floor, and I wave, hoping she understands that I will return the phone as soon as possible.

I start to follow her, but I pause at the elevator bay as the voice begins shouting in my ear.

“Lena Sinclair, this is Sarah Collins, assistant coach of the Pittsburgh Fury. We have an emergency.”

I absolutely did not have to “get picked up by a fancy black car and driven to the hockey arena for a job offer” on today’s bingo card.

Another reminder that no two days in dentistry are alike!

I run my hands over the smooth leather interior as I’m chauffeured to the Hill District.

I stare at the sun glinting off the windows of the giant arena, briefly remembering my mother once saying that girls “my size” never get very far in the world.

Her words seem hollow as I’m ushered through a fancy door, an even fancier elevator, and into an office suite full of very-fancily-dressed people.

It hadn’t occurred to me to feel self-conscious in my scrubs and Hokas, and I was just about to squirm when a white woman in track pants and a T-shirt burst into the door.

“Dr. Sinclair. Thank goodness. I’m Sarah.” She holds out a hand, which I shake, impressed by her rough palm and firm grip. “We’ve had a tragedy.”

A throat clears from behind the mahogany desk. “Tragedy is a strong word. No one has perished.” A balding white man stands and adjusts his suit jacket. “Dr. Sinclair, I’m Charles Sutton, owner of the Pittsburgh Fury. Please, take a seat.”

I see someone has brought a leather chair right up behind me, and I lower myself into it as Sarah sits in the chair to my right.

Mr. Sutton taps his desk and sits back down.

“Are you aware, Dr. Sinclair, that the professional hockey league is required to employ a dentist and have one present for all practices and home competitions?”

I shake my head. “I never thought about it before. But it makes sense! I bet you see a lot of mouth trauma. ”

Sutton coughs. “Indeed.”

Sarah groans beside me and slaps the desk.

“I don’t have time for all this. My guys are suited up and waiting for the morning skate.

” She turns to face me. “Doc Bowman had a heart attack this morning. He’s over at General.

They placed a stent, and he’s fine. He apparently badgered the staff to ask who was the best with the brutal mouth cases, and they named you.

We’re offering you a job. Starting immediately. ”

I blink, processing her words. “I’m sorry? A job?”

Sutton waves a hand. “We have arranged for someone else to fill in your current position at the hospital. We require a specific temperament, and we believe you are uniquely suited to meet our needs.”

I glance at one wall of his office, covered floor to ceiling with television monitors, each showing footage of a different hockey game somewhere in the world.

I gesture at the screens. “I’m not really …

cut out for a public role with a lot of attention…

” I drift off, not wanting to spell out that a chubby dentist will not be great for optics on air.

Sarah frowns and recoils. “Dr. Sinclair, yours is a role where–if you’re doing it well–nobody will even know you exist. Ideally, we never need you at all!”

Sutton nods.

I frown. “I can’t imagine that’s true.”

Sutton taps the desk. “Dr. Sinclair, truly, the most likely scenario each game is that you stop the bleeding as quickly as possible so play can resume.” He snaps his fingers, and a young Black man in a suit approaches with a folder, leather, of course. “This is our compensation offer.”

I crack open the folder and gasp when I see the bolded number at the bottom of the page.