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“You know, the quarterback for the San Antonio Wranglers? The Wes Blakefield.”
I stared dumbly. “Yes, of course. What’s the emergency?” I still had no idea who he was other than that he was an athlete.
A nurse tapped me on the shoulder. “Dr. Ashworth, come with me. We’re prepping him for surgery for you.”
I shook my head. These people were acting like the president was in here. I hadn’t even examined the patient or seen a chart or a damn x-ray.
I put up my hands. “Everyone needs to take a deep breath and slow down. I need some information before I perform any surgery
.” I walked with the nurse down the hall and through the door next to the operating room.
“Here.” She flipped on the lights, projecting an x-ray onto the screen.
I looked at the hand. There were two bones distinctly out of place, and as I stepped closer, I could see a small hairline fracture on a third.
“Where did these come from?” I asked.
The resolution was perfect. Our equipment was excellent, but I’d never seen scans so clear.
“The Wranglers sent them with him,” she answered.
“And why is this an emergency?” I questioned her. Sure, it was an uncomfortable injury, but standard procedure would be to discuss options with the patient, book an OR, and then perform surgery.
“The playoffs. This is Wes Blakefield’s right hand.” She looked at me as if I were supposed to realize the significance, which I did not. “His throwing hand.”
“So?” I crossed my arms. “I can see that it’s a right hand.”
“The Super Bowl,” she emphasized. “This may be the Wranglers’ only chance. You have to repair his hand and get him back on the field immediately.”
“But I haven’t even spoken to him. And it’s not my job to help him reinjure himself. He’s going to have to heal after this. He’ll need rehab, physical therapy.”
“We already prepped him. He said to do whatever it takes. The coach says the same thing.” She stared at me, then whispered. “He’s here in the waiting room. Coach Howell.”
“Good Lord.” I threw my hands in the air. “This is not the Pope or the Queen. It’s a quarterback? You all are acting like lunatics over a quarterback?”
“He’s the quarterback, Dr. Ashworth. And you’re the best surgeon. He wanted the best. The Wranglers wanted the best.”
I smiled at that, but the Wranglers meant nothing to me. When I lived in D.C., I knew Ben loved to watch the Sharks play football, but I never got into it. I couldn’t name a single player. To be honest, I had forgotten San Antonio even had a team. All of this meant nothing to me.
“I guess I should at least speak to the coach before I go in there. Any other relatives? Next of kin present?”
The nurse shook her head. “No, but they’re anxious for you to get started.”
“Well, they’re going to have to wait a minute. I’m not going into surgery rushed like this for a non-emergency. Let me take a breath.” My heart was racing as if this was a life or death situation. I needed to calm the environment around me.
I brushed past her and walked toward the waiting room. It wasn’t hard to recognize the coach. He was wearing a visor and a polo. He had an athletic look about him, even with a paunch belly.
“Coach?”
“Are you the surgeon?” He looked at me skeptically.
“Yes, I am. I have had a chance to review Mr. Blakefield’s x-rays and it looks like it will be a rather simple surgery.”
He scowled. “There’s nothing simple about putting my star quarterback under the knife.”
“I can understand your hesitation. But I assure you, I’ve performed this same type of procedure before and I expect it will be fairly smooth.”
“When can he play again?”
