TEN YEARS in the medical field, and I’m still not used to getting shit on me.
“I’m so sorry.” Archie Greenburg’s mother looks at me, horror-stricken. Her eyes dart to my cheek, then my forehead, and I let out a tiny huff. “He’s had no problems with diarrhea. Especially not the explosive kind,” she says.
“Really? Interesting.” I grab a paper towel and wipe the fecal matter off my skin, counting down the seconds until I can shower and disinfect every inch of my body. I offer her a strained but understanding smile. Infant bowel movements are, unfortunately, part of a pediatrician’s resume. “Don’t worry about it. It happens all the time.”
“All the time?” she repeats, and I don’t think I’ve made her feel better.
“Yeah. It’s no big deal.” I stand and wash my hands in the small sink to the left of the examination table. I lather my arms up to my elbows and scrub until my skin turns red. “The good news is Archie is doing great. He’s in the ninety-nine percentiles in height and weight. No developmental delays, and, as of today, he’s up to date on all of his immunizations. You’ve got a healthy baby, Linna. We’ll see him soon for his nine-month checkup.”
“Are you sure?” She collects Archie in her arms and holds him close. I watch as she fixes the blanket around his torso and gives him a kiss on his nose. “We’ve been worried about him. He screams so much, and I don’t think we’ve slept through the night since he’s been born.”
I glance at the young woman over my shoulder. I notice the bags under her eyes and her pale, sunken cheeks. There’s dried spit up on her neck, and her hair sits in a tangled knot on top of her head. My smile eases into one of respect, of awe and admiration for tackling the difficult role of motherhood.
“Linna,” I say gently. “You’re not doing anything wrong. Infants approximate a sleep schedule similar to adults anywhere from three months old to a year. He’s not behind; he’s just taking his time. When I see you again, I’m sure Archie will be a totally different baby.”
“Thank you, Dr. Daniels.” She breathes out a sigh of relief and stands. “There’s a reason you’re the best pediatrician in the D.C. area. Why people put their names on the waitlist for your practice months before their baby is born. You’re so good at what you do. Thank you for taking care of us. Thank you for looking at me like I’m a human and not someone who’s trying their best but coming up short.”
“Hang on.” I rip off a paper towel and dry my hands. I lift my chin toward the colorful sign tacked on the wall. “What’s number three?”
Linna dips her head and recites the line I make all the parents I work with say when they’re in the building. “No self-deprecating. I’m doing an amazing job as a parent.”
“And you are. But don’t forget to take some time for yourself too, Linna. Your health is just as important as Archie’s.”
“You’re right.” She nods and buckles her baby in his stroller. “We’ll see you in three months?”
“Shay and Lindsey will get an appointment on the books for you,” I say.
“I’m sorry again about the…” she gestures to my face, and I laugh.
“Shit happens. Means he’s doing just fine.”
I usher her out of the room and wave off her second apology. I pull off my coat and walk down the hall to my office, slipping inside the private bathroom and locking the door.
Before I have a chance to hop in the shower and douse myself in blazing hot water, my phone rings in my back pocket. I answer and put it on speakerphone.
“Hey, Mags,” I say, and I unlace my sneakers. “What’s up?”
“Two questions for you,” my best friend says, sounding out of breath. She must be heading out of the hospital next door where she works as a neurosurgeon, huffing and puffing as she climbs up the steep incline of the parking garage. “Are you coming to dinner tonight?”
“Yeah. I wouldn’t miss our weekly tradition.” I shimmy my scrubs down my legs and kick away the dirty cotton. I pull off my top and bra, dropping the clothes in the sink with two scoops of laundry detergent. “What’s the second question?”
“Are you coming to Shawn’s game on Sunday?” she asks. “Maven is bringing some friends for her birthday, so instead of sitting in the front row like normal, we’re doing a suite. It’s going to be a surprise.”
I grin. “You’re giving me a chance to embarrass my niece while eating unlimited food in a heated room? I’m in.”
“Okay, good. We can talk about it more tonight. Aiden is all sentimental about his only daughter turning eighteen. He teared up last night when he asked Shawn if he could put us in a suite, Lace.”
“That’s because I’m not convinced Aiden is real, Mags. No male is that kind-hearted and genuinely nice. Are we sure he’s not a serial killer?” I ask.
“You’d think after a year and a half of dating, I’d know if he was a serial killer.”
“Not true. Look at Ted Bundy. That dude fooled people for years.” I turn on the shower and put my hair in a bun. “Aiden could be fooling you, too.”
“Can we not compare the love of my life—who is absolutely wonderful, by the way—to someone who used meat cleavers on people? And where the heck are you? Is that a shower?”
“A patient had explosive diarrhea, and I’m trying to clean up before my next patient,” I say. “They really should disclose the ratio of the days you get shit on versus the days you don’t in medical school.”
“If they did that, there wouldn’t be any pediatricians. Thanks for the reminder about why I’m glad I operate on people’s brains.” Maggie laughs. “We’ll see you tonight. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mags. Text me if you need me to bring anything.”
I step in the shower and groan at the heat on my skin. My muscles relax under the steady stream of water and I sigh, grateful for the brief moment of self-care after six hours of being on my feet. I grab a bar of soap and lather my limbs, cleaning every crevice of my body while trying not to fall asleep standing up.
Ten minutes later with a room full of steam and pruney fingers, I wrap a towel around myself.
“Shit,” I curse, realizing I didn’t bring any clean clothes in with me. I open the door back to my office and shiver at the change in temperature. It’s colder out here, and goosebumps pebble my arms.
“There you are,” someone says, and I scream.
“What the hell, Shawn?” I ask, and I hold my towel tightly in place as I glare across the room.
Shawn Holmes, the youngest head coach in NFL history, current figurehead of the D.C. Titans—the hottest team in the league—and one of my best friends, grins at me from the couch beside my desk.
He’s wearing an outfit that tells me he’s either coming from or going to the stadium. Gray joggers. High top sneakers. A long-sleeved T-shirt with the D.C. Titans logo across his chest and a backwards hat.
He’d live in those clothes, if he could.
“Hey, Lace,” he says.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood. I brought you coffee.” He lifts the cup in his hands, and I spot the logo of my favorite local cafe. My mouth practically waters at the sight of caffeine. “Please tell me you were in the shower alone.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I was in the shower alone. It’s the middle of the day, and I’m working.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to be alone,” he says, and his grin turns sly and mischievous.
“Gross. I don’t need to know what you do in your office, and I’m never sitting in that chair that overlooks the football field ever again. Which is a shame, because it’s so damn comfortable.”
“Don’t worry, Lace. I don’t kiss and tell.”
My cheeks heat, and I fumble with the stack of clothes I keep in a duffle bag under my desk. I grab two shirts before finding a pair of pants. “Give me two minutes. Let me change,” I say, hurrying back to the bathroom and closing the door.
“Take all the time in the world,” he calls out. “You’re worth the wait.”
“Do you use that line on every girl?”
“You know there aren’t any girls.”
I pull on my clothes and take down my hair, shaking the dark brown waves free. “Remind me why there aren’t any girls?” I ask, and Shawn groans.
“I’m being a Good Samaritan and bringing you coffee. This isn’t supposed to turn into an interrogation about my love life,” he says.
“Non-existent love life,” I say. I open the door and lean against the frame. His eyes soften when he sees me, and he sits up on the couch. “What’s your ulterior motive with the drink?”
“Can’t a guy bring his friend some sustenance, needing nothing in return?” He holds out the cup to me and I walk toward him, gratefully accepting the beverage. “Got a minute to take a breather?”
“Literally a minute. Thank you.” I sit next to him on the couch and drop my head back against the leather. “Today’s been so hectic. I had a nurse call out sick, then someone had to leave early because of a puking emergency at their kid’s school. This pick-me-up is going to get me through the rest of the day.”
“Do you need any help? I’m free this afternoon,” he says.
“Are you qualified to administer shots to children? Immunizations, not alcohol. Can you also help a hospital that’s suffering from a lack of funding? Because we’re hurting as of late.”
Shawn chuckles, a deep, rumbly sound that makes my insides squirm. “I can type on a computer, believe it or not. If you need another body behind the front desk, I’m your guy.”
“That’s okay. The girls are handling the chaos, but thank you for the offer. You might turn this place into a circus if the moms get a sight of you,” I say. “The dads, too. One of People’s Sexiest Men of the Year in our midst and all.”
I glance over at him, and he’s watching me. I’ve tried to ignore it, tried to not think about it, but there’s no point in denying the obvious truth: Shawn Holmes is hot as hell.
Tattooed arms, dark hair, light eyes that border on gray. Six-foot-six, with muscles in places I didn’t know people could be strong. He’s all-around handsome, but his smile is his most devastating characteristic. Wide and bright, it stops you in your tracks. It’s genuine and a little shy, like he can’t believe he’s lucky enough to live a life like this.
I only know Shawn—a household name every football fan across America adores—because of Maggie’s boyfriend, Aiden. They’re best friends, and when she started dating Aiden after a one-night stand and a photo shoot that went viral, I met the very famous and very attractive Shawn Holmes.
I was expecting someone arrogant. Cocky. A self-centered guy who likes to dominate a room and conversations.
He’s not, though. He’s kind. Level-headed, thoughtful and patient. He’s good with kids and stops to sign autographs for people who ask, not ever complaining about how long it takes. He loves his job, but he also works hard, not letting opportunities be handed to him on a silver platter. Shawn wants to earn the things he’s given, and I respect the hell out of him for it.
We’ve gotten close over the last twenty-one months, honorary aunt and designated godfather to Aiden’s daughter, Maven, and the single ones in our little group. He sends me funny videos he finds, and I’ll text him when he’s on the road, staying up late to hear about his games and consoling him with a pathetically stupid joke when his team doesn’t play well.
If I fall asleep before him—which happens almost every night—I’ll wake up to a photo of a city skyline at night—Manhattan, Boston, Oakland—the words good night written on the glass of the floor to ceiling windows.
“You need to stop with the sexiest man thing,” he says, and he leans over to flick my ear. “It was a headshot photo of me on the second-to-last page in the magazine. I wasn’t on the cover, and I’m pretty sure they spelled my name wrong.”
“What did they call you? Shawn Helms? You’re not on the cover yet,” I say. “When you win the Super Bowl next year, you might be.”
“You sure I can’t help with anything?” Shawn asks.
“No. I only have four patients this afternoon. I should be able to power through.”
“You know where I’ll be if that changes.”
I turn my head and smile at him. “I do. Thanks, pal.”
“You’re welcome.” He ruffles my hair then squeezes my knee. “See you tonight.”
I bring the piping hot cup of coffee to my mouth, and I grin.
I don’t care about his money or his name. He might be a god in the football world, but he’s also the guy who remembers exactly how I take my coffee.
I like this side of him best.
