Page 5 of Doctor’s Forbidden Match

“What’s the plan for the weekend?” Adam, my assistant surgeon, asks.

My eyes stay focused on the ACL reconstruction, hands steady as I work. The smell of burnt protein fills the operating room, a scent others find off-putting, but I’ve become immune to it.

Being a successful surgeon requires concentration, and as I test the tension of the graft, flexing and extending the knee to ensure stability, I’m exactly where I need to be. The joint moves smoothly under my gloved hands. Satisfied, I lower the leg and move on to removing tools, flushing the joint with saline, and closing the incision with careful sutures.

My weekends, when I’m not working, are filled with friends and fishing. Sometimes with them, sometimes alone… it depends on how much social interaction I’ve endured during the week. Sometimes, I need the space and the quiet of just the birds, the whir of the fishing reel, or the occasional splash of water breaking the lake’s surface.

I call home occasionally, but my family is a lot. Well, to me anyway. They’re loud, talkative, and in your face. Just like Adam, who’s taken it upon himself to tell me what his weekend plans are. I wish he’d be silent, but I also prefer him talking over asking me personal questions I have no desire to answer.

“I’m heading to Bali for a vacation. I wanted somewhere hot, healthy, and with overall good vibes.” He says it with that eager undertone of someone trying too hard.

He means he likes to party, but he knows I’m not some young guy interested in clubbing, so he’s one of those new surgeons trying to impress me. Adam isn’t a bad guy, but I don’t care what he does in private. As long as it doesn’t affect me or his work, live the life you want. I’ve done it all my life; followed what I want to do. It doesn’t mean my life has been smooth sailing, but it’s a life I like.

I move to apply a sterile dressing, and Adam grabs the brace. Together, we secure it around the patient’s knee. I accept the help because the quicker we do this, the quicker I’m back in my office alone with a coffee and a pile of paperwork.

When we’re done, I head out to the scrub room and wash my hands. The water runs hot over my skin as I work the surgical soap between my fingers and over my palms. “Great job in there,” I say to Adam as he joins me at the adjacent sink.

“Thanks for your guidance in harvesting the graft.” He grins.

What he doesn’t know is that I wanted to get in there and do it myself because I’d be quicker and more efficient with my experience. I’ve been an orthopedic surgeon for over a decade, specifically a senior surgeon for eleven years. At forty-five, I just want to teach him to be a great surgeon, and I believe showing is the way to do that. Lead by example. Let them make mistakes—nothing costly to patients, obviously—but I’m right there giving directions as they look at me with the stupid grin I used to have with my mentor, who sadly passed away years ago. That’s why I wanted to be a senior doctor. To be seen for who I actually am. And not someone’s son, someone’s mistake, someone’s liability.

“You were ready to do something more technical. I’ve allowed you to do a few of the basic ACLs, so it was time to start giving you more technical parts.” I dry my hands and toss the paper towel into the trash.

“Soon, I’ll be doing everything, and you’ll be sitting back and watching.” His confidence borders on cockiness. I don’t like that. Other surgeons would probably love the idea of a younger surgeon doing all the work while they handle the easy parts, but if I hated this job, I would’ve already left.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Nice try. But no chance. Get changed, and I’ll meet you in my office to write up the notes.”

“Sure thing, boss.” He shoots me a mock salute that makes me shake my head.

Inside the locker room, I strip off my scrubs and check my phone.

There’s a message from my sister.

Bri: You alive? Haven’t heard from you in days. Text me back or I’m telling Mom.

I shake my head, but I’m smiling. That’s Bri, straight to the point with a threat attached.

Me: Alive but busy.

Then I open the next message.

Hope Town dropouts group chat:

Jameson: Did you see the fishing score?

Emmett: No, some of us have jobs.

I suppress a smile. Here we go. Emmett’s in fine form today.

Jameson: Fuck you. I work too.

Emmett: Owning a mechanic shop isn’t really difficult when your grandfather passed it down to you.

Emmett doesn’t mean it maliciously; this is just him. But Jameson’s always been sensitive about proving himself, about not being seen as just inheriting his family’s business. I should probably throw in a joke to lighten things before this spirals.

Me: What was the score?

Jameson: Rowan blew the competition out of the water. Bass tournament. Caught three fish over 6 pounds. (emoji laughing face)