Chapter 5 — The Patient Who Wouldn’t Behave
1987 Words
Leo Reyes came out of anesthesia the same way he seemed to do everything else: unwilling to do it quietly.
Maya was at the nurses’ station outside recovery, reviewing his operative note. The appendectomy had gone well. His appendix had been severely inflamed but not perforated, which meant he had been lucky, irresponsible, or both. Given what she already knew about him, Maya suspected both.
She typed the final line.
Procedure tolerated well. No intraoperative complications. Transfer to recovery in stable condition.
Behind the glass, Leo shifted on the bed. One nurse adjusted his IV line while another checked his blood pressure. His lashes fluttered once, then again.
Maya stepped inside.
“Mr. Reyes,” she said. “Can you hear me?”
His eyes opened slowly.
For a moment, he looked disoriented. Younger, somehow. Without the grin, the stadium, and the cameras, he was just a twenty-eight-year-old man waking up after surgery with dry lips, messy hair, and a bandage beneath his gown.
Then his gaze found her.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
“Did I survive,” he asked, voice rough, “or is this the part where a beautiful surgeon welcomes me to the afterlife?”
The recovery nurse pressed her lips together.
Maya checked his pupils with a small light. “If this were the afterlife, Mr. Reyes, I would not be doing paperwork.”
“That is a bleak view of heaven.”
“I’m a surgeon. I have realistic expectations.”
He blinked against the light. “Did you save me?”
“I removed your appendix.”
“Was it dramatic?”
“It was inflamed.”
“That sounds like a medical way of saying dramatic.”
Maya looked at the monitor. Heart rate acceptable. Oxygen saturation good. Blood pressure stable. He was talking too much for someone who had just come out of anesthesia, but that was not technically a complication.
“Your appendix was close to becoming a bigger problem,” she said. “You should not have waited this long.”
“I had training.”
“You had appendicitis.”
“I had a semifinal.”
“And now you have three small incisions and a missing appendix.”
Leo considered this with tragic seriousness. “So I lost an organ tonight.”
“A small, useless one.”
“That is exactly how my last coach described my defensive skills.”
The nurse laughed before she could stop herself.
Maya did not smile.
Almost, but not quite.
That had been happening too often since he arrived. Almost smiling. Almost laughing. Almost forgetting, for three dangerous seconds, the image of Noah and Sienna beneath gold lights, with a caption about stories finding their way back to where they belonged.
Maya had no intention of being charmed by a man whose primary coping mechanism appeared to be joking through fever.
Especially not tonight.
The curtain opened, and Leo’s manager stepped in with the urgency of someone who believed fame should rearrange hospital policy.
“Leo,” he said. “Thank God. How are you feeling?”
“As if someone removed a small useless organ from my body.”
The manager looked alarmed.
“He’s recovering appropriately,” Maya said.
The manager turned to her. “Doctor, I appreciate what you’ve done, but we need to discuss next steps. The club has a private medical team. We can arrange transfer tonight.”
“No.”
The answer was so immediate that he blinked.
“No?” he repeated.
“No. He is staying here overnight for post-operative observation.”
“With respect, Dr. Bennett, Leo has a semifinal in four days. We need him in the best possible environment for recovery.”
“This is a hospital. It was designed for that.”
“Our facilities are excellent.”
“I’m sure they are. Do they include the surgical team that operated on him less than an hour ago?”
The manager’s jaw tightened. “You have to understand the pressure we’re under.”
“I understand he is a post-operative patient, not a press release.”
Leo’s eyes moved between them with growing interest.
The manager took a breath. “The media are already outside. His absence from the semifinal will create a national discussion. We need a clear recovery timeline.”
“Tonight, he stays in recovery and then the surgical ward. Tomorrow, we reassess pain, fever, labs, diet tolerance, and mobility. After that, we discuss discharge. Football comes after physiology.”
“Doctor, with respect, you may not understand the scale of—”
“I understand perfusion, infection, wound healing, and complications. Those are currently more relevant than ticket sales.”
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Leo raised one hand slightly from the bed.
“I vote we listen to the woman who just won an argument with my appendix.”
His manager closed his eyes. “Leo.”
“What? She makes a strong case.”
“She is telling you that you may miss the semifinal.”
“My appendix started that conversation, not Dr. Bennett.”
Maya glanced at him despite herself.
There it was again. That bright, careless warmth, the kind that made tension loosen around him even when he was lying in a recovery bed with three fresh incisions and a hospital gown. He did not look happy about missing the match. Maya could see that. His mouth was joking, but his eyes flickered when the manager mentioned the semifinal. It mattered to him.
But he did not punish anyone else for it.
That, Maya admitted privately, was something.
Not enough to mean anything.
But something.
Maya turned to the nurse. “Call me if his pain worsens, his fever rises, or he tries to negotiate his discharge.”
“Understood.”
Leo looked offended. “I would never do that.”
Maya raised an eyebrow.
He paused. “Not successfully, apparently.”
She left before he could say anything else.
In the hallway, Claire was waiting near the nurses’ station with her arms crossed and her face bright with unbearable interest.
“You were in there a long time,” Claire said.
“I was managing a post-operative patient.”
“You were verbally sparring with the country’s most beloved footballer.”
“He is not beloved by his appendix.”
“His appendix is gone. The rest of him seems very interested.”
Maya opened the chart and pretended to review it. “He is febrile, post-operative, and professionally charming.”
“Professionally charming is still charming.”
“It is also professionally irrelevant.”
Claire leaned one hip against the counter. “Normal people are allowed to enjoy harmless flirting.”
“I’ll inform them when I meet one.”
“You are impossible.”
“I’m busy.”
“That too.”
Maya signed another order and tried not to look toward recovery. She failed only once.
Through the glass, Leo was speaking to his manager again. The manager looked tense. Leo looked pale and exhausted, but he still smiled at the nurse when she adjusted his blanket. Not the stadium smile. Not the one meant for cameras. A smaller one. Quieter. Grateful.
Maya looked back at the chart.
Noah had smiled quietly too.
That thought arrived without permission, cold and sharp enough to cut through the strange warmth Leo had left behind. Noah had known how to be gentle. Noah had known how to look at her as if she were the only person in the world. Noah had sent “I love you” while wearing a watch she had given him and touching another woman.
A smile was not evidence.
A warm voice was not evidence.
A man making her almost laugh was not evidence of anything except her own exhaustion.
“Maya?” Claire’s voice softened. “You okay?”
Maya closed the chart. “Fine.”
Claire did not look convinced. “That word again.”
“It’s a useful word.”
“It’s a useless word.”
“Then stop asking questions that invite it.”
Claire studied her for a moment, but she was kind enough not to push. “Fine. I’ll go check on bed nine. Try not to terrify any more celebrities while I’m gone.”
“No promises.”
An hour later, Leo was transferred to a private surgical room because hospital administration had decided that keeping him in a shared ward would create a security event, a media event, or both. Maya disliked special treatment on principle, but she disliked chaos more, so she allowed it.
When she came to check on him, the room was quieter. The manager had stepped outside to take another call. The club doctor was asleep in a chair. The television was muted, replaying footage of Leo leaving the pitch earlier that evening.
Leo watched himself on screen with a strange expression.
“Does it hurt?” Maya asked.
He turned his head toward her. “My abdomen or my pride?”
“Both, apparently.”
“My abdomen is a six. My pride is critical but stable.”
She checked his chart. “Nausea?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
“Only when I remember you called me an appendix.”
“I diagnosed you.”
“Coldly.”
“Accurately.”
His smile appeared again, softer now. “Do you dislike footballers, Dr. Bennett, or am I receiving special treatment?”
“I dislike noncompliant patients.”
“So there’s a chance this becomes personal if I behave?”
“There’s a chance you get discharged without complications.”
“That sounds like your version of affection.”
“That sounds like my job.”
Leo looked at her for a long moment. For once, he did not immediately turn the silence into a joke. Maya felt the weight of his attention and disliked how steady it was. He looked amused, yes, but also present.
“You’re very hard to impress,” he said.
“I’m not here to be impressed.”
“No,” he said. “You’re here to keep me alive.”
“That is the general idea.”
“I appreciate it.”
The sincerity was simple enough that it caught her more off guard than all his flirting had.
Maya looked down at the IV line. “You’re welcome.”
She finished checking his dressing and turned to leave.
“Dr. Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“When I’m no longer your patient, can I buy you coffee?”
Maya stilled for half a second, then straightened. “No.”
Leo blinked. “That was fast.”
“I’m efficient.”
“I noticed.” His mouth curved. “Is the no because you don’t like coffee, or because you don’t like me?”
“I don’t date patients.”
“Good,” Leo said, settling back against the pillow with exaggerated determination. “Then I should focus on healing immediately.”
Maya should have ignored that.
Instead, one corner of her mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“Rest, Mr. Reyes.”
“Leo.”
“Rest, Mr. Reyes.”
He sighed. “You’re going to make me work for it.”
“I’m going to make you walk tomorrow to prevent complications.”
“Romance is alive.”
Maya opened the door.
“Dr. Bennett?”
She should not have looked back.
She did anyway.
Leo was pale, tired, and still too handsome for someone who had lost an organ before midnight. His smile was softer now, less performance than promise.
“I’m serious about the coffee,” he said.
Maya held his gaze for one second longer than necessary.
Then she opened the door. “I’m serious about the walking.”
She left before he could see that this time, despite herself, she almost smiled.
- Writer
