Maverick In The Er
Шрифт:
“You’re the doc. You tell me.”
She paused to study him with her practiced eye. “We’ll need X-rays to check for hairline skull fractures or broken ribs, but as a purely preliminary opinion I’d cancel any photo ops if I were you.”
He swiped at the blood running down his chin. “That bad, eh?”
“It could be worse,” she said, taking a gauze pad someone had handed her to hold against his chin. “Besides the goose egg that’s probably giving you a headache and the gash you’re already well acquainted with, you’re developing quite a shiner. Don’t worry, though. You’ll be back to your handsome self in no time.”
“My handsome self, eh?” He tried to grin, but it came out as a grimace. With shaky fingers, he gently probed his cheekbone. “Oh, that hurts.”
“I’m sure. Pain is a common side effect of having your face meet a fist, but ice will help. What about your chest? Can you breathe in and out easily?”
He huffed first, then took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah.” He rubbed the side of his chest. “My ribs are sore, though. How do football players handle this day after day?”
“Conditioning and extra padding,” she answered. “Let’s get you to a room so I can look at your knee. Ready?”
He winced. “I’ll have to be.”
Immediately, multiple hands pulled him upright. “Any dizziness?” she asked.
“Not really,” he muttered as he sank heavily into a waiting wheelchair, his face white with pain.
“Who’s on call for Orthopedics?” Sierra asked Roma.
“Abernathy. I’ll page him,” the nurse said.
She turned back to Trey. “Ready for your ride down the hall?”
“No. I want to go home instead.”
“Don’t be a baby,” she scolded lightly as she pushed his wheelchair alongside a bevy of worried-looking staff.
“Did anyone ever tell you your bedside manner lacks a little something?” he grumbled. “Like compassion?”
“Would you rather I stand here and gush all over you?” she wanted to know. “If so, I could hand you to another doctor, but I don’t think Lamont or Ben are likely to treat you like spun glass either. Marissa might, but you’re older than her usual clientele, so who knows?”
Lamont Stedman and Benjamin Kryszka, both men pushing forty, were the other two ED physicians on duty. Marissa Landower, an attractive woman about ten years older, was the resident pediatrician. While any of them would fuss a bit over him, none would fall apart like a dewy-eyed debutante.
He peered at her, looking like a lopsided raccoon. “I should get hazardous-duty pay.”
“If it will make you feel better, I’ll give you one of the kids’ sugar-free lollipops. Cherry or grape?”
“Can you lace it with a painkiller?” he asked, his voice hopeful.
“Sorry.”
“Then I’ll pass.”
Sierra braked the wheelchair beside the bed. “Do you want to hop up here or stay where you are?”
“I’ll stay right here, thank you very much. It’ll save on wear and tear when you send me to my car. So I can go home,” he finished pointedly.
“What? And miss a trip to Radiology?” She tutted. “Now, Dr. Donovan—”
“This is so unnecessary,” he grumbled. “I have a minor bump on my head, my chin’s not bleeding nearly as badly as it was and I wrenched my knee. Nothing that a few ice packs and a bandage won’t cure.”
She leaned over to study the gash, fully aware of how wonderful he smelled. “You’re right about your chin. A butterfly bandage should take care of it. As for the rest of your aches, we need X-rays.”
“No, we don’t.”
His expression reminded her of a little boy whose wishes were being thwarted. If he crossed his arms and stuck out his lower lip, the picture would be complete.
The diagnosis was in and it was definite—Dr. Donovan was a lousy patient.
“Yes, we do,” she said, hiding her amusement. “How would it look if I sent you home with a subdural hematoma, a concussion or a torn ACL?”
“I didn’t tear my ACL,” he said. “Anterior cruciate ligament tears would be more painful and I would have heard a distinct pop, which I didn’t. I also didn’t fracture my skull and I absolutely, positively, do not have a concussion.”
“Here’s your ice pack, Doctor.” A nurse thrust the cold bag at him and he placed it on his face with heartfelt thanks.
“You know your brain wasn’t scrambled because…?” She waited for his response.
“I’ve had a concussion before and my current headache doesn’t come close.”
“That’s good to hear, but while you may have Superman’s X-ray vision, I, as your physician, do not.” She motioned to one of the nurses to begin taking his vital signs. “So your opinion is overruled. We might even spring for an MRI of your knee.”
“You’re making far too much of this.”
“Risk Management and Workman’s Comp all require a thorough exam, which is what I’m trying to do. As one of the hospital’s finest and most illustrious staff members, you should sit back and enjoy the attention.”
“I’d rather be at home, licking my wounds in private.”
While his injuries were obviously painful, she suspected they were strictly of the minor variety. “You’ll get there soon enough,” she predicted. “Meanwhile, let’s slip you into a hospital gown so we can take a look at—”
“Not a chance.”
“It’s either that or cut off your pants leg,” she warned. “I can’t see through fabric either.”
“Grab your scissors,” he said firmly. “Losing a pair of pants is not worth the indignity.”
“Okay, but it’s a waste of a perfectly good garment.”
“They’re mine to waste. Cut.”
With an order like that, she couldn’t refuse. She began snipping through the cotton, careful to avoid puncturing his skin. Each slice revealed more of his muscular leg and caused her mouth to suddenly go dry.