1. April

CHAPTER ONE

april

"Fuck you. You're not my boss."

My real boss murmurs my name in a reprimanding tone, but I barely register it. My best friend Callie, also an ortho surgeon, who has no business being here, can't stifle her laughter, so I talk louder and closer to the speakerphone to muffle the noise.

"I don't work for any of you. I'm acting in my patient's best interests. As I always have and always will."

We're gathered in Dr. Preston Jett's office discussing Max's recovery. More specifically, his place of recovery. Max himself lounges on an armchair to my left, looking less worried than he should.

"It's already been three months." The owner of the soccer team Max plays for in London speaks up again. His voice is joined by a cacophony of ‘yes', ‘that's right', and ‘exactly' in the background. "He needs to be in London, with his teammates, on the pitch." He carries on so unaffected by my outburst that I just assume he's used to being cursed at a lot.

Wouldn't surprise me.

"It's only been three months," I correct him. "He needs to be monitored by our team for longer than that."

What an ungrateful bastard. No one else had a good prognosis for Max. All the surgeons before me wanted to retire him. Even my mentor and head of orthopedics here at the Hospital of Special Surgeries, Preston Jett, a legend in our specialty, had to be convinced to take Max as a patient.

Fair enough, I guess. Max's legs have a record longer than a CVS receipt. His latest achievement being nothing less than multiple torn cruciate ligaments on his left knee. No sane surgeon wanted to promise him his career back after an injury like that.

But sanity didn't get me to where I am today. Sanity didn't get me out of a miserable house, nor did it emancipate me, or help me graduate from Mount Sinai School of Medicine—with distinction—at the age of seventeen.

So it was only fitting that I called Maxwell Sinclair, Europe's most expensive soccer player, and asked if he wanted to be the guinea pig for a new technique my boss and I invented.

Preston and I have been working for the last two years on a groundbreaking new surgery for ligament reconstruction that is going to change so many lives. It was time to put it to the test. Which we did, while the whole world watched. No pressure.

Max, drumming out a tune with his fingers on his knee brace, pulls me back to the present. I'm tempted to ask if we're boring him.

I mute our side of the conversation. "Maxwell, speak up," I urge him in a whisper, trying to get him to focus. "This is your life. They want you there to make appearances. We want you here to make sure you're okay."

"Dr. Hadden, I'm fine." Oh hell, no. Here we go again. I roll my eyes so hard at him, I almost see the inside of my head . "Yours and Dr. Jett's surgery? It's a freaking miracle. I'm good to go." The athlete who thinks he's Superman rubs his hands together in excitement. "Come on. Let me go home. I'm ready to get back on the field."

"It's settled then." Someone at the other end of the phone back in London, without a degree in medicine, celebrates too soon.

"What? You were not meant to hear that. And nothing is settled, mister." I take my frustration out on said mute button, pressing it too hard, too fast, and it beeps angrily back at me. Stupid, ancient phone. "Okay, now we're muted."

"You are not," one of the British clues me in.

Urgh! How can someone sound so arrogant with the briefest of sentences? Is it the accent? There are not enough syllables in there to carry so much disdain.

"Well, I'm a surgeon, not a phone operator. Wanna see me with a scalpel?" My spit lands on the actual mute button, and the sight of it makes me want to slam my head on the table.

"Not at this particular moment, no," the disembodied British accent replies.

Asshole.

Preston's hand goes up, halting my words, and my witty comeback to that man's sarcasm gets stuck in my throat. Fine, my shampoo bottles will hear it later.

"Our point is…" His smooth voice doesn't match his pissed off expression. He didn't teach me that talent. "... Maxwell is making a record-breaking recovery. He's at a stage you'd expect one to be after nine months of rehabilitation in only three. It's in everyone's interest that he remains under medical observation and in our care."

"Then you come with him."

Excu—Oh hell n—What th— I'm so shocked I can't even fully react.

"His sponsors are restless. If Maxwell doesn't come home now, he might not have many sponsorships to come back to. I'm just looking out for him." The nerve on this man. I don't give Preston a chance to silence me again with a show of his palm.

"First of all, we're surgeons, not your servants. Second, he's not our only patient. We can't up and leave at your command." My huff is loud and I couldn't care less if I offend any of them.

"But he's your most important patient at the moment. The one you need to keep a close eye on so you can deem your new surgery a success." Goddammit. I hate him even more for being right. And Preston's eyebrows for raising that high, challenging me to answer.

"How much longer do you need? A month?" Another faceless British man at the end of the phone pushes us further into a corner. I've lost count of how many people we're talking to.

I put six fingers up, not trusting the phone to give us the privacy we need for this conversation. Max shakes his head in an exaggerated fashion, obviously dreading staying away from the field that much longer. Preston counters my offer with three fingers of his own and a soundless come on .

Callie chooses this moment to speak up. I didn't even see her move from where she was standing by the door and now she's behind my chair, leaning in closer to the speaker. "It's not only the matter of time but also how much you're willing to pay to have Dr. Hadden move to London for the foreseeable future to continue Max's care personally."

Excuse me? My head whips back so fast that my neck makes an audible crack. When did I volunteer as a tribute? I point at myself and Callie answers why me by lifting a picture from Preston's desk and turning it so I can see his very pregnant wife and small child.

If someone else but me is right again in this meeting, I'm going to snap.

Callie continues, "She's America's youngest orthopedic surgeon, as I'm sure you're aware." I squeeze my lips together and cover my mouth with my fist, not to laugh at this poised, collected woman who's possessed my best friend's body. Callie is giving a Merryl Streep worthy performance. "Due to receive the Greyer's Award in a months' time for her contribution to her specialty."

"Of course there's a price," he scoffs, sounding unsurprised, bored out of his mind.

My chin falls to my lap as I stare at my colleagues. His response makes me feel a tad dirty and maybe a little offended too. I check to see if his disdain is leaking through the speaker. "We'll pay her ￡200,000 a month and cover her travel and accommodation expenses. I'll even throw in a bonus if I can convince her to leave early." I stand corrected. Now I'm super offended. And my jaw dropped so wide that it must have dislodged from my face completely.

"We'll discuss if any of that is a possibility and come back to you. Bye for now." I hang up before they insult me any further.

Preston's eyebrows are challenging me again, taking residency high up his forehead. Callie is clapping, jumping, and giggling like a cheerleader. A middle school one. And poor Max is taking this as a win. Little does he know nothing is decided.

I need a minute to gather my wits after this conversation, to purge all the patronizing, arrogant, and, well, plain rude people I just had to deal with. I need a few breaths to recover from the shock of the indecent amount of money I've just been offered too.

But no, I'm not granted that courtesy. Max pivots my chair to face him and plants an idea in my already audacious mind.

"Doc."

I purse my lips and stare unimpressed at him.

"Sorry. Dr. Hadden." That's right. All my patients will call me by my title. Sport celebrities are no exceptions. "You think two hundred isn't much? Ask for more. Milk them. They'll give you whatever you want."

I study his face in disbelief. Isn't much? What world do these people live in? That's more than I make in a year. Keeping a straight face right now is actually painful. I have to breathe in the scoff that's climbing its hot way up my nose and breathe out a poker face.

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." Sure, that indecent amount of money threw me off and it's enticing. That's more than my bank has ever seen. More than I ever thought I'd see. More than enough to change my life and guarantee that the kids I'm never having would've been taken care of too. I'm not denying any of that.

But money is not what drives me. My career is.

So when I call them back after ping-ponging my ideas back and forth with Preston, and, of course, hearing the unsolicited but very entertaining and supportive advice from Callie, I have a full list of demands in hand. None of which will make me richer, but they make me feel wiser.

"Hi there. Let's start with the basics. I'll need a private physiotherapist to be at Max's beck and call." I don't waste time with pleasantries and neither do they.

"Your head of physio will come too. We want him to carry on with the work he's been doing," some Londoner is quick to answer. Their arrogance makes me sick and my lunch comes back to haunt me. I sneer at the phone, itching to argue, but what argument do I have to say they can't always get what they want?

"I'll need a license to practice medicine in the UK? — "

"We'll arrange your visa," he manterrupts me, which is not surprising in the least. "... your license and a placement at King Edward Hospital so you can continue your fellowship here." That addition stuns me. How on Earth did they find out I'm in the middle of the program? Nope. Scratch that, I don't want to know.

Feigning nonchalance, I set my next demand. The most demanding of them all. "As a show of good faith in embarking on this partnership, we'd like you to donate a sum for our lab. The one where we developed the technique that will give Max his career back." Before I can catch my next breath, he's agreeing to it, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

Not a genuine, happy one. Nope, a defiant one.

"We'll pimp your lab and your orthopedic wing, too. How about that? I'm feeling generous." Actually, sir, you sound high. "Now pack your bags, Doc. You're bringing my star player to London."

I hang up but can't join the celebration erupting around me. I'm finding it too hard to shake off this cautionary sense of defeat.

How the hell did he give me more than I asked for and still make me feel like I'm at a loss?