“Google medical school told him he didn’t need to take a few weeks off to let his inferior shoulder dislocation heal. Do you think you can call up Dr. R-R and tell him to fuck off?”
The younger doctor’s eyes darted between Glazier and Bowen. “Sullivan wants me to talk to him?”
“Yes. While you’re at it, tell him he doesn’t know shit about football and doesn’t have the balls to admit it.” Glazier was full of helpful suggestions.
“I didn’t say that. My shoulder is fine. Clear me to play... please,” Bowen bared his teeth on the last word.
“Politeness will get you nowhere. Navarro, observe.” Glazier poked Bowen hard on the upper right deltoid, eliciting a wince of pain. “Seen enough? If you’re tempted to clear Mr. Sullivan right now, why don’t you also message Dr. R-R that he has the tiniest dick in Ortho?”
“Only if I want to be ripped limb from limb. Revenge is a dish best served cold,” Navarro said, “And Dr. R-R will make my OR time miserable if I screw with this.”
“Exactly. Doctors can be real bastards sometimes.” Glazier showed his teeth back at Bowen.
“How about telling him if I don’t play and we lose today, we can make sure the city of Cleveland sends him a thank-you card? With a single loss, we could be knocked out of playoff contention.”
“Or a single injury ends up being your last,” Glazier said.
“I still want to talk to Roy.” Bowen was willing to sacrifice his pride for info. “Where can I find her at MetroGen?”
Navarro made a choking sound. “He’s serious?”
“Embarrassing, isn’t it? Navarro, tell him where Roy is tonight.” Glazier gestured to his underling.
“My guess? She’s at the Halloween party.”
“Halloween party?” Bowen didn’t like that. The only adult Halloween parties in existence were nothing but mostly naked ladies and huge amounts of drinking.
“Yes, there’s a MetroGen Halloween party. I think I heard her mention going as a naughty fallen angel.” Navarro sounded an awful lot like Glazier right now, down to the glee in his tone.
“The event is only slightly less horny than the summer residency mixer. That one’s in a hotel, so she might have to resort to the back of a car if she finds a lucky fella.” Glazier was merciless.
“Stop fucking smirking.” Bowen figured he wasn’t allowed to rip either of them limb from limb.
“Me? Smirk? Absolutely. Accept reality. You’re out, and Roy is never coming back. While you’re freezing your injured ass on the sideline, she’s cozying up to single eligible doctors. Just the natural order of things.” Glazier left with the parting words that stung deep.
CHAPTER9
Aweek later, the pre-game warm up on the Thursday before Veteran’sDay was quite heated.
Mostly because Bowen was in the hot seat for arguing with the defensive line coach about the game-plan for his backup Lorenzo.
Head coach Keith Stefengold invited Bowen into his office for a chat.
Bowen immediately sat down on the hard, too small, wooden chair Coach S reserved for those in the Hot Seat. The team called it out Time-Out chair because Coach S seemed like a nice guy dad-type, until he wasn’t.
If you got called to the Time-Out Chair, you were in trouble.
Coach S rubbed his usual scruffy beard, always hilarious for a dude in his forties to have gone so prematurely gray. “You sit your ass down.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Time-Out chair was made of bare wood, didn’t have arms, and was deliberately undersized. Coach S had his ways of making a player uncomfortable without saying a word.
“I understand you are frustrated.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you on the field, too. You’re our best edge rusher. Yelling at Coach Jimbo won’t make our second best edge rusher more confident.”
