"Of course." I gesture to the chair across from my desk. "What can I do for you?"
She closes the door before sitting down, which immediately puts me on alert. This isn't a casual visit.
"Quite a show last night," she says, her expression neutral. "How's A-Stag's jaw?"
"Bruised, but not broken." I keep my tone clinical. "He'll be fine."
"Good to hear." She studies me for a moment. "Just wanted to make sure. Can't have him taking more hits to the face while he's healing."
I nod. “He should be able to maintain his conditioning work."
Sarah taps her hands on my desk but makes no move to leave. "I’m Sorry I missed most of the excitement," she says after a moment. I was... held up."
Something in her tone makes me glance up. There's a knowing look in her eyes, almost a challenge.
"I noticed you arrived late," I say carefully. "Did you get caught in traffic?"
A small smile plays at her lips. "Something like that." She leans forward slightly. "Listen, not to pry, but?—"
A sharp knock interrupts whatever she was about to say. The door opens without waiting for a response, and Coach Thompson sticks his head in.
"Collins. Need you in the video room. Going over defensive strategies with the new rookie class.”
Sarah sighs but rises. "On my way." She turns back to me as she reaches the door. "Rain check on that conversation, Doc. Maybe coffee tomorrow?"
"Sure," I agree, curious despite myself.
She nods and follows Thompson out, but not before giving me a look that suggests she has more to say. I wonder what she was about to ask and why it required privacy.
My phone rings just as I'm gathering my things for lunch. My mother's name flashes on the screen, and I seriously consider letting it go to voicemail. But avoiding her will only lead to more persistent calls, so I answer with a resigned sigh.
"Hi, Mom."
“Lena Diane Sinclair." Her use of my full name immediately puts me on edge. "Would you care to explain why you're in the tabloids this morning?"
"The tabloids?" I repeat, confused. "I'm not?—"
"Pittsburgh Press-Gazette. Page six." I can hear the rustling of newsprint. "There's a photo of you crouched in front of that hockey player with your skirt hiked up. It's humiliating."
I pull up the newspaper's website on my computer and quickly find the article. Sure enough, there's a photo of me examining Alder's jaw in the museum hallway. The angle makes it look intimate rather than professional, my hand on his face, his eyes locked with mine.
What strikes me most about the image, though, isn't the suggestive framing—it's the tenderness in my expression, the care evident in every line of my body. I look like a woman in love, not a doctor treating a patient. The headline is all abouthis fight with Adam, but anyone with eyes should see that it’s me who is a goner for Alder Stag.
"It's not what it looks like," I say automatically. "I was checking his injury. It's my job."
"Well, you're certainly not dressed like you're doing your job," my mother sniffs. “We talked about plain black. That gown is far too revealing for someone of your size. Your chest is practically spilling out. What were you thinking, wearing something so inappropriate to a professional event?"
The familiar criticism stings, but instead of shrinking from it as I usually do, I feel a spark of anger ignite.
"What was I thinking?" I repeat, my voice rising. "I was thinking I wanted to wear something that made me feel beautiful. Something that celebrated my body."
"Lena, be realistic. Women like you need to?—"
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended, but I don't soften it. "I'm done with that kind of thinking, Mom. I'm done letting you make me feel bad about my body and my choices."
"I'm only trying to help you?—"
"By criticizing everything about me? By teaching me to hate myself? That's not help, Mom. That's cruelty."
