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“Careful!” I hold on to his arm and urge him backwards, ignoring how big his bicep feels under my hand. “You may have a concussion…or something?” I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but I know enough that he should keep still until seen by a proper, qualified medical professional.
He obeys, scooting his bum back and resting his head on the pillows behind him. “You always said you wanted to do something medical, so this makes sense.” He waves his hand towards my navy-blue scrubs and I want the floor to open and swallow me up. I know exactly what I look like in this uniform, which is made as a one-size-fits-all, which means it’s one-size-fits-none. I’m a frumpy, small person in a shapeless, unflattering fabric and I hate that it bothers me so much.
I ignore his comment and point to his shoulder. “What happened here?”
He shrugs and grimaces. “Soccer injury.”
“Not a minor one either.” We both jump at this sharp comment and I glance over to see who’s so vocally unhappy by this turn of events. It’s a man in an expensive-looking suit typing frantically on his phone, a scowl on his conventionally attractive face.
“That’s Jordan,” Matthew says, bringing my attention back to him. “He’s my manager and is more worried about my health than I am.”
“It’s because if you break your body, we all suffer.”
Matthew barks out a laugh, not the happiest of sounds, and ignores him, giving his full attention to me. “So, how have you been?”
I chuckle. He asks this like it’s been six hours since we’ve seen each other and not six years. “I’m fine.”
“Mr Barkly?” We both look up at the surgeon, who’s now commanding the room. “Your shoulder is dislocated, a mild dislocation that can be popped back in without surgery.”
Jordan lets out a sigh of relief, one that is notably bigger than the patient’s.
“Does that mean he can play this weekend?” demands Jordan.
Everyone seems to hold their collective breath as we wait for the answer. Matthew is the star and leading goal-kicker of the national soccer team and there’s a World Cup Qualifier match coming up this Saturday. I’m still a non-sports fan, and even I know this is a huge deal.
“It depends.” Everyone deflates. “Let’s just take it a step at a time.”
Out of everyone in the room, Matthew looks the least disappointed by this news, his eyes still fixed on me. I push my glasses back up my nose and let my eyes bounce to every person, place and object they can land on, as long as they’re not his deep, dark brown eyes.
“We’re going to give you some morphine now, to manage the pain before we pop your shoulder back in.” Dr McNally nods at the nurse on his right and she hurries off to prepare the meds. I use this as my cue to escape, taking a few subtle backwards steps out of the room.
“Where are you going?” Matthew asks, not missing a trick.
“It looks like you’re sorted in here.”
“Stay!” The word is a command, but the tone is a plea, and it keeps me in place. “This is going to hurt. Can you stay and hold my hand?”
I scoff at the absurdity of this giant man needing me to comfort him. He must have a gaggle of people just waiting for this opportunity.
“Natalie?” Stacey snaps, and I stand up straighter. “Your patient needs you.” She tilts her head at the bed with a meaningful look and I wilt under her glare.
“Of course,” I stammer, taking a step back into the room, eyes down, suitably chastised.
“Well, if that’s sorted,” Dr McNally offers into the awkward silence. “Let’s get this shoulder popped back in so we can get you out of here.”
Matthew nods, a conciliatory look on his face as he watches me. I determinedly look away, observing as the nurse adds morphine to his IV drip instead.
“That should take a couple of minutes to kick in,” she tells him, a flirty smile on her pretty face. “Then you won’t feel anything at all.”
He smiles his thanks at her, but his eyes are still on me. It’s like he’s got a laser focus on only me. It’s disconcerting. The sooner he’s out of here, the better.
“Natalie?” I look up. His large hand is waiting to be held, and I sigh. There’s no getting out of this.
“OK, tough guy,” I mutter softly so Stacey can’t hear me. “Let’s get this done.”
He grabs onto my much smaller hand and softly squeezes it, sending a shock wave up my arm and all the way down to my toes. Just like it did when we were teenagers.
“Thank you,” he whispers, his eyes drooping. The morphine is kicking in.
