Page 69 of Saving Forever with the Hockey Captain

“I have charting.”

“You always have charting.”

“I have rounds.”

“You finished rounds.”

“I have—”

“A suspicious emotional attachment to an empty hospital room?”

I stare at her. Keisha grins. “Break room.”

Five minutes later, I’m sitting across from her at a tiny table with a paper cup of coffee I do not remember pouring.

The break room smells like burnt coffee, reheated soup and the lemon cleaner housekeeping uses on every flat surface in the building. Someone has left half a birthday cake in the refrigerator with DO NOT THROW AWAY written across the box in three different colors of marker.

Keisha peels the lid from a yogurt container and studies me over the rim.

I know that look. I’ve seen her use it on patients, residents and one surgeon who tried to discharge a seventy-eight-year-old woman without confirming whether she had stairs at home.

It means she is prepared to wait me out.

I take a sip of coffee. It’s terrible.

“Fine,” I say.

“I haven’t asked anything yet.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask whether you wanted some cake.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“No,” she admits. “I wasn’t.”

I set the cup down. “Jamie was difficult.”

Keisha waits.

“Stubborn.”

She takes a spoonful of yogurt.

“Overconfident.”

Another spoonful.

“He asked too many questions.”

“That’s usually a good thing.”

“Not when half of them are creative attempts to negotiate his way around medical restrictions.”

“Fair.”

“He thinks pain is an inconvenience instead of information. He apologizes every time he needs help. And he watches everything.”