Page 127 of Forever Offsides

“I was going to ask if you’d mind. You know how I love to do knees.”

“I do.”

A few hours later, we’re dancing in the OR to Southern hip hop since that’s Reynolds’s favorite. We fixed his fibula, which required only a couple of screws, and now we’re on to his knee repair. The gallery is full because it’s a professional football player. This sort of thing always happens when we have an athlete here.

“You’re traveling with the team tomorrow, right?” my mother questions. She’s letting me do most of the work, which I appreciate.

“Do I have a choice?” I question, feigning annoyance at having to go. Buffalo is close enough, and it means I get to be with Rhett. Oh, and of course, watch my brothers play.

“Not really. You just haven’t complained as much about being with the team as you used to.”

Oh. Oops.

“I’m a professional, and you’ve already heard all of my gripes.” Ever so carefully, I drill a tunnel into the tibia and fibula so that we can attach the graft.

“Nice. Really clean holes.”

“Thank you.” I beam under my mask so no one can see it.

“Minimal bleeding. Is the graft ready?”

“Yes, Dr. Reyes,” the circulating nurse informs us.

“Is it possible football is growing on you?” my mother presses, her chin lifting, and she momentarily blinds me with her surgical headlight.

“Mom!” I hold up a hand, blocking the light.

“Sorry. I just wanted to see your face when I asked you that.”

Motherfucker. This is the problem with working with your mother.

“I love getting to see Mason and Crew.”

“That’s the only reason?”

The woman blinds me again.

“Can we focus on the patient?”

“Is that your way of saying you’d rather not answer with an audience? Because I’d be more than happy to drill you about this later.”

“Just spit it out, Mother. You’re the worst at playing it cool.”

“You told me you’re not seeing Russel⁠—”

“I’m not!” The staff are working all around us, helping us with the scope equipment and setting up the graft while my mother is asking me questions like I’m a teenager again.

“Just making sure your smile isn’t related to him.”

“Jesus Fluffing Christ. What is it with people and my smile? You’d think I walked around this place scowling all the time.”

“You do,” Mary, one of the nurses, says. “Well, you used to.”

“That doesn’t mean a man is the reason. Let’s not get sexist with ourselves. I’m a fourth-year resident and more or less get to run my own show as a senior level.”

“Okay, fine.” My mother holds up a gloved hand. “I’ll stop asking. Let’s place the graft.”

“Sounds like a fantastic idea.”