Page 374 of The Doctors Will See You Now

“Oh, good,” I whispered toward Nick. “You should be able to answer this one.”

“Who has the most wins as a head coach in the NFL?” The mic squealed in annoyance as the MC announced the second question.

I picked up the pencil and stared at Nick, awaiting his response.

He smiled, took a sip of his beer, shrugged. What he didn’t do was give me an answer.

“Do you know this one?” I asked, and he shook his head.

“Nope.”

What the fuck? “Aren’t men supposed to know, like, everything about sports?”

He shrugged. “Maybe, but I don’t. Time in the OR, remember?”

“When was the last time you watched ESPN?”

“Uh…” He ran his hand across his jaw. “A few years ago, I guess.”

“A few years ago? Haven’t you heard of DVR?” I questioned with widened eyes. He had the good grace to laugh, even in the face of my insults. “Jesus Christ, I think we should probably start praying they ask medical questions.”

He winked. “Good plan.”

“Fleetwood Mac’s Sex Pants are going to be so disappointed in you.”

A hearty laugh left his lips, and I couldn’t help but smile in return.

“Time’s up!” the MC called out. “Pencils down!”

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered. “We didn’t even get an answer for that one.”

Nick patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, trivia girl. We’ll get the next one.”

“If we do, it won’t be because of any help from you.” I tried to feign annoyance, but even playful anger slid from my features as if I were greased up like a slip and slide. All smiles here.

“Now, that,” he said with a grin, “is probably one hundred percent accurate.”

“I was hoping your trivia success rate matched your surgical success rate.”

“Sorry, Charlotte. Looks like we’re going to lose this one on the table.”

I couldn’t not giggle at that. “Don’t talk like that! Get out the defibrillator! It’d be a damn shame if Fleetwood Mac’s Sex Pants didn’t live to see another day.”

“I get it. I’m attached to this patient too.”

“Then don’t let FMSP die! Get in there!”

“FMSP?”

“It’s getting too long to keep repeating,” I admitted.

He moved his lips into a firm, serious line and slapped his hand on the table. “C’mon, Charlotte. We have to get it together here. In the name of freedom, liberty, and the pursuit of Fleetwood Mac’s Sex Pants, we need to make our country proud and bring home the trivia trophy.”

I narrowed my eyes and mimicked his stern expression. “Let’s do it. Let’s show these trivia bitches who’s boss.”

We talked a big game, but our follow-through was subpar at best.

The next twenty-three questions went the same as the first two, and by the end of the night, when the MC ran through all of the correct answers, we had only managed a whopping two out of twenty-five. Our only right answers revolved around my expertise in Harry Potter and Friends.