Chapter 2 All hands on deck

One year later......

Vanessa's pov

"Another one?"

I stare at the chart in my hand and then at the nurse standing in front of me, hoping that if I look annoyed enough she might remember another resident who is free.

She doesn't.

"Dr Gabriel just assigned it to you. Room twelve," she says, already turning away. "He has been vomiting for the last hour."

"Of course he has." I mutter it under my breath, tucking the chart under my arm.

In St Patrick's General hospital, first year resident is another name for glorified nurse and we have become the ones everyone saves the unpleasant patients for, which means I spend an unreasonable amount of my working life dealing with vomit, diarrhoea, infected wounds, foul smells, and people who seem determined to leave every bodily fluid they possess on my clothing.

By the time I finish with room twelve, I have vomit on one sleeve and something I refuse to identify on the bottom of my shoe. I stand in the staff bathroom staring at myself.

“Seriously, Vanessa,” I mutter. “What possessed you to want to be a freaking doctor.”

The question hangs in the air unanswered. My shoulders ache, my feet throb, even my hair hurts pulled tight in a bun and I still have reports to write.

Jesus.

I reach up and the elastic band comes free with a satisfying pull and I run my hand through the red strand, massaging my scalp.

Small mercy.

I put on the tap and start to watch my hands. It’s times like this I wish I can just quit. I could travel, be a blogger, open a food truck, not that I can cook to save my life but I can master a recipe or two.

But I have come so far and none of these will help with my mountain of debts.

The door swings open just as someone calls my name. Sabrina Lance. Another first year resident. She’s breathing hard in a way that makes me dry my hands quickly.

“What?”

"There was a major accident. Trauma patients are coming in and all the other residents are tied up. It’s all hands on deck.” Her eyes narrow at me. “Tie your hair up, you look like hell.”

I want to scream but instead I groan as I walk towards her, tying my hair back up. “I feel worse.”

We hurry outside with two other residents. The automatic doors slide open as we reach the bay and several Nurses are already gathered, preparing for the chaos. I expect sirens, flashing lights, and ambulances. Instead, a sleek black luxury charter bus rolls into the entrance of our bay with the words WOODLAND HOCKEY, printed across the side in enormous gold letters. It carries the scent of pines and mountains.

Yeah, I kind of have a weird sense of smell.

Then the doors fly open and men begin pouring out.

Huge men.

Several of them are carrying injured people in their arms as if the victims weigh nothing. One broad-shouldered man carries an elderly woman against his chest while supporting a younger woman with his other arm, moving with such effortless balance that I just stare, frozen.

This isn’t protocol.

This isn’t how it’s done.

"Are these people insane?" I hear one of the nurses whisper.

"They brought them here themselves?” another asks.

That explains why the ambulance bay is empty, but it doesn't explain how a group of hockey players managed to transport this many injured people without waiting for emergency services.

An older man in a well tailored black suit, with pepper-and-salt hair, steps through the chaos, with the type of authority that parts crowds.

"Who's in charge here?"

I look towards my fellow resident. Sabrina looks down, none of them making a move. The attending physician and other residents are all attending to other messes. That leaves us.

"I am." I step forward, already pulling on gloves. "My name is Dr. Vanessa Wells. What happened?"

The man extends his hand. “Ronald Wolfe. Coach of Woodland Hockey.” I take his hand as he gestures towards his team. “We were returning from a game when we came upon the accident. Multiple vehicles were involved. Our bus was first on the scene, so we got the injured out and brought them here."

"You should have contacted emergency services and followed their instructions before transporting patients yourselves."

His expression tightens. "We couldn't leave them there."

I glance past him at the injured people being carried inside. He's right about one thing. Whatever happened out there, these people need help now.

"How many?"

"Twenty-three that we brought in."

I turn toward the nurses. "Separate them according to acuity. Anyone with uncontrolled bleeding, breathing difficulty, altered consciousness, or signs of shock comes straight through to resus. The walking wounded go to the secondary area, and I want vitals on everyone before anyone disappears into another room." I turn back to the coach. “We will take it from here.”

He nods and starts barking orders at his team. The hockey players all move with surprising coordination, following my orders without question. They’re used to taking orders, I realize.

It shows.

I ignore all my aching parts and slip into the part of myself that has always known what to do when everyone else is panicking. I check pupils, press fingers against pulses, assess wounds, ask questions, give orders, and move from one patient to the next while the emergency department fills with blood, antiseptic, fear, and noise.

I look up from giving a nurse instruction and notice a man limping through the doors carrying an injured man over one shoulder. He doesn't look like someone who should be carrying another grown man. He has a long tear across his trousers near his thigh, and blood is running down his leg, yet he doesn't seem concerned about it.

He lowers the injured player onto a bed.

"Hey, you."

He turns and I get my first proper look at him.

His black hair is long reaching his shoulders and he has a baseball cap over it. He must be like six feet tall, lean muscles, broad shoulders tapering down to a small waist. A strong jaw, and the kind of face that probably gets photographed far too often, but it’s his eyes that catch me off guard.

Brown.

Almost reddish brown.

And for one second, I could swear they glow under the harsh hospital lights.