I looked up at the glass building. Ten floors of sickness, life, death, research, and wellness loomed in front of me. I had only been in San Antonio a month, but this wasn’t the first time I questioned why I had moved here.

The hospital had everything I said I wanted in a program. I could practice medicine, I could oversee long-term patient care, and I could be involved in the research that had always been my passion. But every time I walked through those doors, I felt lonely.

I was the new kid. The rookie doctor who finally had the training wheels off. The one who didn’t know her way around San Antonio, and still didn’t know if she was ready to move out of temporary housing into a permanent apartment.

I liked the city, but it wasn’t home yet. I still felt like a tourist who marveled at the Alamo, or thought about going to Sea World on a free day off. I couldn’t bring myself to accept that my life was here now, not D.C.

When I moved, I wanted to leave behind my failed relationship and all the memories that came with it. But the harder I tried to forget Ben, the more he was a part of what I was doing here. I questioned everything, and that simply wasn’t me.

There was more uncertainty in my life now than there had ever been.

I entered through the sliding doors, carrying my thermos, and nodded at the security officers as if they knew me and I knew them. I couldn’t have told you a single name in this place, other than the doctors who worked on my floor.

I took the elevator to the fourth floor and headed to the doctor’s lounge where I could change for the day. I had a twelve-hour shift ahead of me.

“Good morning, Dr. Ashworth.”

“Good morning, Dr…” I could never remember her name. I tried to play the game in my head where I made something about her physical features trigger an association. Oh yeah, she had pointy elf ears. “Peers.” I smiled, glad I had only mildly stumbled.

“Are you headed home?” I asked

She slammed her locker. “Yes, just ended my twelve, really it was thirteen. But who’s counting?”

“Right.” I laughed. “Have a good day.” I knew she was going home to sleep off what was a long night.

I was glad this week I was on days. Night shifts were always the hardest to bounce back from.

I grabbed my stethoscope from my locker and looped it around my neck. I clipped my hospital ID badge to my pocket. It wasn’t my best picture. I had pulled my blond hair back in a ponytail that day, and my eyes looked glazed over from lack of sleep.

I locked my small cabinet to see my first patient of the day. I liked to check in with my existing patients before taking on anyone new. Arriving as early as I did, I had plenty of time to peek in on everyone and say hello.

The nurses were swapping muffins and bagels as I walked past the station. One of the pharmacy reps had dropped off breakfast this morning.

“Oh, Dr. Ashworth, do you have a minute?”

I stopped and spun on my heels. “What’s up?” I quickly looked at her nametag. “Joanna.”

“It’s the patient in 405. He was complaining all night about his knee pain.”

“Did you up his pain meds?” I asked.

“No. We thought we’d ask you when you came in.”

“You could have paged me or called my on-call number. He just came out of surgery.” I was irritated. I had given strict instructions that if his pain level rose, I was to be contacted.

I rushed off to check on him before scolding the nurse any further.

I pushed open the door. “Mr. Hamlin, I heard you had a rough night.”

He winced before I even made it to the bed. “I didn’t sleep at all. And those nurses wouldn’t give me anything other than the original prescription.”

I carefully examined his knee and pulled the bandages away from his skin. The incision was a small one. It was amazing what we could do with surgery, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t going to hurt like a bitch.

“Well, I was hoping the swelling would have gone down a little more.” I looked at the man, clearly uncomfortable, even with icepacks and pillows cushioning his leg. “How about we up the pain killers today just a bit, and then we’ll back off them slowly tomorrow to get you to a manageable dose? I don’t want you to be too loopy, but it’s not worth not getting any sleep either. Agreed?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll take anything at this point.”

I squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll have the nurses bring it in right away.” I smiled. “Get some rest.”

I walked out, closing the door behind me, and sought out the nurse to administer the higher level of medication. This was exactly the type of situation that irritated me. The man needed sleep to heal, and for whatever reason, no one thought to call me or consult Dr. Peers last night. Now he was miserable and sleep-deprived. The last thing he needed after having knee replacement surgery. I marched toward the nurses’ station ready to tear off some heads.

“Bagel, Dr. Ashworth?” One of the assistants held up a box of pastries in my direction.

“No,” I barked. “I want to know why Mr. Hamlin didn’t get the medication he needed last night.” I slammed my patient files on the desk. “He hasn’t been out of surgery twenty-four hours.”

Everyone stopped eating and looked at me. “I-I wasn’t here last night,” the girl stammered.

“Well, find someone who was,” I snapped at her. “I’ll wait.” I eyed her as she scurried away from the baked goods and started asking nurses who was responsible for Mr. Hamlin.

I tapped my pen on the counter, waiting for an excuse. I wrote up the changes for his medication and handed them to the nurse administrator to update his patient information while I waited.

I pointed at her. “And make sure that says urgent.”

She nodded. “I will.”

I knew she wasn’t the one in charge of medication, but there were too many cracks in this system. I was livid.

As I waited, I heard my name paged over the intercom at the same time my pager started beeping in my pocket.

“Dr. Ashworth, you are needed in OR four, stat.”

I took off down the hall and punched in the second floor where the surgery bays were located.

I ran toward the surgery desk. “I’m Dr. Ashworth. I had a page.”

“Oh my God, I’m so glad you’re here.” The surgical administrative attendant looked panicked, and I began to wonder if it was a member of her family that had the emergency.

“What happened? What’s going on?” I asked.

Tears welled in her eyes. “It’s Wes Blakefield.”

I blinked. I knew I was bad at names, but if this one was supposed to mean something, I was really screwed.

“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?”

I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

“Play. When can I get him back in practice?”

“He has a fracture that will have to heal on its own, and moving bones back into place is going to also add to the healing process. I’d say with physical therapy and cooperation from the patient, he’s probably looking at eight weeks. That’s optimistic.”

“Eight weeks! We don’t have eight damn weeks.” The man’s cheeks turned bright red, and for an instant, I thought he might pick up one of the expired magazines and throw it across the room.

“Maybe it would help if you told me how the injury happened.” I still didn’t have any details after I was whisked from the fourth floor.

“We were running drills this morning. The boys had a rough night last night, so I was throwing it at them a little hard.” He hung his head. “Anyway, Wes slipped and the line ran right over him. Complete accident, but one of the cleats crunched his hand. Freak thing to happen in practice.”

“I see.”

The coach continued. “We knew when Wes stood up holding his wrist that it was serious. We did the x-rays on-site at our facility.”

That explained why some of the procedures had been completed before I was paged.

“Well, Coach Howell, I think he’s ready for surgery. I’ll give you an update as soon as we’re finished. Try not to worry. The good news is his life isn’t at stake, and he’s going to make a full recovery.”

The coach turned toward me. “Football is his life. If that hand isn’t better than it was before, you might as well kill him.” His eyes blazed right through me, and I felt a chill go down my spine.

“Like I said, I’ll let you know when he’s out.” I hurried out of the waiting room and headed to prep for surgery.

The nurses stopped whispering when I walked in the door. They were looking through the glass at the huge figure lying on the operating table. This entire scenario was absurd. It was a broken hand, for God’s sake. This wasn’t a triple-valve replacement. I sighed and started scrubbing in for the most important hand repair of my life.