Endurance

by Amy Daws

  “There was no need.” He begins shifting nervously on his feet.

  “No need?” I turn my accusing gaze on him.

  “I went to the soup kitchen. It was fine.”

  I let out an exasperated sigh and rub my chin with frustration. “You don’t need to go to the soup kitchen while you’re staying here.”

  “Well, if I don’t, people will worry about me.”

  This gives me pause. Of course this man has some semblance of a family that cares about him. Apart from the fact that I know he’s homeless, he seems like the kind of bloke you couldn’t stand losing.

  “This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, Sedg. This should feel like a holiday. You should be living it up, relaxing, watching telly, having friends over—”

  “Sedgwick,” Belle interjects. “I’m really quite peckish. Would you mind if I use your phone?”

  “By all means.” He gestures toward the end table where the phone sits.

  I frown at Belle as she sits down, opens the menu, and proceeds to order a plethora of food. How the hell can she still be hungry after the feast we’ve just eaten?

  I walk over to Sedg and give him a pleading look. “Sedgwick, it would mean a lot to me if you would take advantage of some of the luxuries this hotel has to offer. It’s why I brought you here specifically. Get yourself some new clothes, whatever you’d like. You really helped me out last night and I want to do this for ya.”

  He looks uncomfortable. “It’s not that simple, Tanner.”

  “Well, let’s make it simple.”

  “Oh! There’s a marathon of Downton Abbey on right now!” Belle crows, interrupting our discussion again.

  I look over to see she’s kicked off her heels and pulled back the blankets on the bed to tuck her feet under the covers.

  “Have you seen this show, Sedg?”

  “I can’t say I have,” he says and moseys over to stare at the large telly. “I do like the odd historical documentary from time to time, though.”

  “This is basically the same thing,” Belle says, popping one of the pillow mints in her mouth like she owns the joint. “Come. Sit. You’ll love it.”

  I can’t believe my eyes as I watch Sedgwick and Belle sidle up next to each other and watch the show. She mindlessly hands him one of the pillow mints and he takes it without a word. I drop down on the desk chair feeling a bit in the way and a lot out of sorts.

  Later, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Can you get that, Tan?” Belle asks, barely looking at me as she shortens my name like she’s a member of my family or something.

  I shake my head and do as I’m told, opening the door to a hotel staff member with a rolling cart. It looks like Belle ordered enough food to feed a small family. I generously tip the man and bring the cart in. “Anywhere in particular, miss?”

  She looks up at me and smiles, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “That looks like a good spot. You want to grab us some drinks, too, while you’re up?”

  I look at Sedgwick, whose eyes are still glued to the telly. I walk over and grab three fizzy drinks and set them on the cart. Belle gets up and comes over to me, pulling off all the tray lids and smiling like the cat that got the cream.

  “How can you be hungry?” I ask her softly. “I’m not judging. I’m just incredibly impressed.”

  “I’m not.” She smiles widely at me and then her face suddenly falls. “Oh, Tanner, I’m not feeling well.” She rubs her forehead and places a hand on my chest for support. “I feel a bit queasy and faint.”

  Sedgwick peels his eyes from the show and looks over at us with concern. “Are you all right, love? Maybe you need to eat something.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s it. My roommate came down with a sore throat a couple of days ago. I wonder if I’m getting that.” She winks at me and I finally get the clue.

  “Oh yeah, Indie was telling me how awful she felt.” I nod with sympathy. “I better get you home.”

  She begins walking toward the door and casually calls over her shoulder, “Sedg, can you eat some of that food? It’d be a shame for it to go to waste.”

  He stands up from the bed, glancing down at the food. I swear I see him inhale deeply, relishing in the scent of greasy room service.

  “I’m sure I can manage, love. You just take care.”

  I nod at him and move to help Belle out the door. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and let you know how she’s doing.”

  “That’d be nice, Tanner. Take good care of her. A nice steamy shower is good for a sore throat.”

  “You hear that, Belle? I get to give you a shower.” I smile and give her waist a cheeky squeeze. She rolls her eyes and shoots me a secretive glare that goes unseen by Sedgwick.

  When the door closes behind us, I can’t help myself. I lean down and kiss Belle on the cheek. “You’re a goddess.”

  She smiles back. “I know.”

  FOETAL SURGERY. IT’S NOT EVEN a specific specialty you can focus on in med school or during your residency. Rather, it’s something you come into after mastering obstetrics and paediatrics. There are few doctors who are skilled enough to operate in-utero, so the ones who are doing it are extremely busy, highly coveted, and geniuses in their own right. But the medical industry not only needs them to save these tiny babies that have yet to leave their mothers’ wombs, they also need them to pass on their skills. Their knowledge. And not only in medical publications and research, but through hands-on, surgical training. They have to pass on their legacy.

  So, to be twenty-seven and shadowing none other than Dr. Elizabeth Miller—who has more abbreviations in her title than I thought possible—is the stuff professional dreams are made of. I thought for sure I’d be booted out of the fellowship programme after week one. Now, here I am, two months in and still treading water.

  Dressed in a pair of green scrubs, I stride into Dr. Miller’s office, steeling myself to be calm, cool, and collected despite my imminent fear that she’s asked me to come in here to discuss the events of the past two days. The photos that surfaced of me throwing my wine in Tanner’s face last night were not ideal. No one got an action shot of the actual toss, thank God, but the images of us arguing were quite mortifying. Thankfully, the alley was too noisy for the videos to capture any credible audio of our fight, or I’d be a lot more scared than I am now. The only saving grace were the ones of us kissing. We looked quite…passionate.

  Dr. Miller lifts one finger to tell me she’ll be another minute and gestures for me to take a seat. She’s been working in London for over ten years, but her American accent is clear as day as she soothes a worried patient over the phone.

  Looking at her objectively, you’d never know she’s the miracle maker the whole medical industry marvels over. She’s got more of a cosy, cake baker look about her than a baby saving, surgical bad arse look. She’s around sixty years old and wears trainers with a pencil skirt every single day. The only doctor-labeling characteristic about her is the white lab coat that pulls tightly around her thick arms.

  Not only does she look sweet and cuddly, but she acts like it, too. I expected her to be harsh and demanding when I first started here, assuming she’d bark out requests only Einstein could accomplish. This industry doesn’t have time for patience and she needs to pass the torch. But Dr. Miller has a soft, quiet way of empowering a person. She leads with her kindness and it’s inspiring on many levels.

  She hangs up the phone on her desk and her round blue eyes look softly at me. “Sorry, hun. I had to call that mother back. She’s a worrier.”

  I smile. “Most of them are.”

  Her brows climb. “Rightfully so. Our tiny patients are completely dependent on their mothers. So, by relation, the mothers are our patients, and mothers are worriers.” She laughs awkwardly and a strange pull begins around her mouth. Her smile turns to a frown and a garbled cry gushes from her throat. In seconds, she cups her face in her hands and launches into full on hysterics.

  I quickly
rush over to her side of the desk.

  “What is it, Dr. Miller?” I place a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What’s happened?”

  She sniffles and then clears her throat, sliding her hands off her face and smoothing them over her dark bob, stacked up short on the back of her head. “Nothing. Well, nothing yet. I erm…I have some happy news.” She plasters a smile on her face and it looks off. “I’m going to be a grandma!”

  My jaw drops and I force a similar off-putting smile, confused by the moisture in her eyes. “Well, that is happy news! Why the tears then?” I step back to give her some space, crossing my arms over my chest awkwardly.

  In the two months I’ve worked here, I’ve never seen her break down like this, nor have I ever touched her in comfort. And that’s even after losing one of our tiny patients, as she lovingly refers to them as.

  “Sit down, please. We have to talk,” she says, shaking her head and aimlessly shuffling some papers around.

  I make my way over to the chair. By the time I look up at her face again, I see her resolve climbing back to the surface.

  “There are two important matters to discuss. The first is that I want you to do a 4D ultrasound on my daughter.”

  “Okay,” I say slowly, feeling like this is an odd request.

  “I know we don’t specialise in standard obstetrics anymore, but I need this.” She swallows hard and rushes out, “She’s pregnant with triplets and she’s terrified.”

  “Triplets!” I exclaim with a gust of air rushing out of me. “Wow.”

  She turns away from me with closed eyes, almost as if my reaction pains her. She wrings her hands over and over as she adds, “She’s eleven weeks along and has already had one scan. They saw no complications. However, since she was a preemie quad, we are decidedly uneasy and would like a high-level scan to ensure there are no abnormalities or early markers of any problems. You are the only fellow I trust with this.”

  My jaw drops. I’ve researched this woman. I’ve researched her like crazy. All I found was that she had one daughter, a deceased husband from many years ago, and was recently remarried. How the fuck could I have possibly missed the fact that she’s a mother to quadruplets?

  I open my mouth to speak but she cuts me off. “Reyna was the only survivor. I lost the other three in the NICU.”

  I pull my lips into my mouth and nod, unsure if I should give her sympathy or professionalism. I’ve witnessed immense sadness in the medical field, but seeing a doctor lose three of her own babies would be near the top of my list.

  “I understand how important this is to you.”

  She looks at me and nods slowly, comforted by my response. In this moment, she’s no longer the bad arse foetal surgeon the world knows her to be. She’s a mother. A worried mother, whose daughter is venturing into a high-risk pregnancy.

  “I will not be present for the scan. Reyna won’t let me. So I need you to do this well, Dr. Ryan. It has to be thorough.”

  Her chin trembles and I want to reach across the desk and clutch her hand. Whatever history Dr. Miller has with her daughter must be heavy for her to deny her mother this. My relationship with my mother is extremely lacking, but would I refuse her this? I don’t know.

  “I will do my very best, Dr. Miller.”

  “Thank you. Now, on to other items.” Her face turns back into the woman I’m more accustomed to seeing every day. “The PR department sent me some very interesting and very recent public photographs of you.”

  My heart drops. I knew it was coming. Hospital gossip is always strong, but there was a delusional part of me that hoped maybe I would get by unnoticed considering the world of football and the world of medicine are two very different places. No such luck.

  “You are welcome to do whatever you’d like in your personal life, Dr. Ryan. I cannot stop you. But you did sign a morality clause in your contract. We operate here with a code of honour that we have to uphold. Our hospital has to maintain a good reputation. We have families that depend on us. When mothers and fathers walk in our doors, it’s because they have exhausted all their other options and they are looking to us to perform a miracle. Those tiny patients of ours need us to be mature.”

  “I know and I am so sorry,” I stammer, feeling utterly small. “The media twists things. They portray things in the worst way.”

  She nods with sympathy. “I can understand that and if I didn’t see such great potential in you, I wouldn’t care. However, when you are working in a professional career, the company you keep can affect all that you’ve worked for.”

  I look down, picking at a hangnail on my index finger and ruing the day I met Tanner Harris. I’ve been a doctor for many years and have made some questionable choices regarding the company I kept. It was how I let off steam. It was how Indie and I lived our Tequila Sunrise mantra. But never has it turned into something I was forced to discuss with my employer. This is mortifying.

  Right when I’m about to come clean about everything to Dr. Miller, she begins speaking again. “The company you keep can also advance your career.” Her eyes narrow with a conspiratorial glint. “Connections, networking, funding. It’s all equally important in this field.”

  Frowning, I say, “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.”

  “I’m sure you’re aware of our Foetal Surgery Foundation benefit coming up in two weeks.” I nod. “This is the event that gets us money for research and training. The funding helps me hire fellows like you. It’s what keeps this specialty growing so that we can continue to identify abnormalities and create minimally invasive procedures to correct them. To save babies, Dr. Ryan.”

  “Of course,” I reply, my voice urgent with understanding.

  “Finding donors gets harder and harder every year, but a contact in the world of professional football could be wonderful for opening doors. England loves their soccer!”

  I smile politely as her unsubtle meaning becomes clear. It reminds me of exchanges I heard between my parents whenever a boujie family came into our lives.

  “You’d like me to try to get some of Tanner’s contacts to attend the event.”

  She purses her lips. “It would turn your lemons into lemonade, hon. And it would help the good work we’re doing here.”

  I swallow once, feeling a heavy sense of foreboding wash over me. “I’m sure I can arrange something.”

  She beams. “Oh, Dr. Ryan, that would be wonderful! This year’s event is sure to be the best one yet!” She gets up and twirls toward her filing cabinet. “Now, we’d better get a move on. You’re scrubbing in on a urinary tract obstruction today.”

  “SO LET’S HEAR IT. HOW’D it go?” Camden asks as I stride out of my bedroom, scratching my abs and beelining for the coffeepot.

  “How’d what go?” I grumble, pushing the messy snarls of hair out of my face.

  Having longer hair has made me far more sympathetic to women. It’s high fucking maintenance, and it’s not lost on me that I can no longer just roll out of bed and head out for the day. Now I have to tame the mane on a daily basis.

  But at least I’m not identical to Cam anymore.

  “How was the other night? I’m looking at the pictures right now.”

  I pour my coffee and exhale, shuffling over to his seat at the breakfast bar. Without asking, I snatch his mobile from his hands and flop my elbows down on the counter, lazily scrolling through the photos. Santino had sent me some links but I didn’t want to click on them. Knowing my brother is trolling the net has me curious, though.

  I’m relieved to see there are no shots of Belle chucking the wine in my face. And there are no shots of us going inside the hotel to visit Sedgwick. The photos also aren’t a glowing review of our fake relationship. We are clearly in the midst of a quarrel, but the kiss that comes after the sequence of fighting shots looks somewhat redeeming. The best shot is one of us back in the restaurant when she’s eating her dessert. I’m laughing at something and her eyes are practically twinkling with delight stari
ng back at me. If there wasn’t photographic proof, I’d hardly believe we looked at each other that way.

  “Harryn?” I groan. “They came up with a couple name for us already? This is fucking ridiculous.” I pause and try the word out a few more times in my head. “Harryn is the best they could do?”

  “It’s probably your beard,” Cam says over a mouthful of cereal, like a twelve-year-old boy with it dribbling down his chin. “What did you expect? You’ve been whoring yourself around London like a champion stallion for the last few months and now you’ve been seen with the same woman two nights in a row. They see wedding bells in your future.”

  I scoff, “This arrangement is going to be the death of me.”

  “Why do you say that? Belle’s not so bad. I thought you fancied her once upon a time.”

  “I did. I still do…a bit. But as a shag and bag type.”

  I hand his mobile back to him and hitch myself up on the counter, grabbing my coffee for comfort.

  “I see.” Camden stands up from his seat and stretches, a purple bruise colouring the inside of his bicep just below his ink—a result of his match yesterday, I’m sure.

  “Congrats on your goal the other day.”

  He gives me a small smile. One that looks polite and slightly uncomfortable. “It’s no big deal.”

  I frown, watching him walk around me to the sink and placing his bowl inside. “Of course it’s a big deal. This is your first season with Arsenal. You’re killin’ it, broseph.”

  “Yeah, but still. It’s just a game.”

  Just a game? What? Is he nuts?

  “Why are you being weird right now?”

  “I’m not being weird,” he defends. “I just don’t think we have to talk about football all the time.”