She’d never cared before when her patients rescheduled and had never taken it personally. So why now? What was different about this?
“Get it together,” Bette muttered under her breath, reaching for a patient file. “It’s nothing. Now stop thinking about it and focus on something productive.”
She was a professional after all. She had years of discipline, of keeping her personal life behind a wall so high a wrecking ball couldn’t even knock it down. Nothing was going to compromise that. Not even Dr. Emily Sharp.
Bette was just about to swivel her chair over to the filing cabinet to fetch a printed home program for Mr. Oakley, who was getting discharged tomorrow, when a knock sounded on her door.
“Come in,” Bette said, her tone more annoyed than she intended. But then again, she’d been rather short with everyone since Monday.
The door to her office swung open and Steven walked in. “The training thing starts in ten minutes,” he said, looking panicked as if he was terrified she might miss it. “It’s happeningin the conference room and apparently, they’re closing the doors if you’re late. You can’t be late.”
Bette had reluctantly delegated her afternoon responsibilities to Steven while she was forced to attend a team-building event the hospital had organized.
Apparently––according to the email sent out a few weeks ago––the aim of the event was to improve communication and collaboration between departments, a task that felt a little too much like being forced to join group therapy sessions. Bette knew it was just the hospital’s way of checking off a mandatory box, by creating synergy and boosting morale with activities that had as much depth as a kiddie pool.
She’d way rather participate in something real, something like the crisis management seminar planned for September, where training was focused on how to handle high-pressure emergency situations, like natural disasters.
“I’ll leave in a minute,” she sighed, glancing at the paperwork on her desk hoping it could somehow swallow her whole. The last thing she wanted was to force conversation with strangers. Even if many of those strangers were people she saw every day but never really spoke to.
Steven shifted his weight and looked ready to drag her out of the office if it came to that. Bette wasn’t about to give him the opportunity.
“Fine,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I’m heading out. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”
Steven nodded, looking both relieved and somewhat panicked. After all, he’d be juggling both in- and outpatients for the afternoon.
When Bette stepped into the large conference room five minutes later, a wave of voices and clinking coffee cups greeted her. Everything was exactly as she expected––bright lights, sticker nametags, and a horde of doctors, nurses, and alliedhealth who would rather eat the Carolina Reaper than spend their Thursday afternoon locked in a room being force-fed icebreaker activities and forced enthusiasm. The large table that usually stood at the center of the room was replaced by smaller ones, scattered across the space.
She scanned the room, not sure of who she’d recognize until her eyes landed on Emily.
Their eyes met––just for a second. A fleeting, electric sort of second that sent a weird jolt through Bette’s chest, like missing a step on the stairs.
Emily’s eyes widened slightly, her lips parting as if she might say something. And then—just like that—she looked away fast. Too fast, as though Bette was something she wasn’t supposed to be looking at.
Bette blinked, momentarily stunned. Was Emily avoiding her? And if so, why? Had she done something wrong?
Before Bette could even begin to piece it together, a microphone crackled to life, cutting through the noise. She tore her gaze away as Mark Reynold, the hospital’s head of administration, called out from the front of the room. “Thank you all for taking time off your busy schedules to be here this afternoon. Since we don’t have that much time, we’ll get right to it.” He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. “As you all know, collaboration is the backbone of any successful hospital. Every day, we rely on each other, not just within our departments but across specialties to provide the best possible care for our patients.”
Bette fought the urge to roll her eyes. She could almost hear the collective, silent groan rippling through the room. She stole a glance in Emily’s direction, but the surgeon was looking dead ahead, her gaze locked forward as if she was actively refusing to look anywhere else. It was strange, Bette couldn’t deny it.
“That’s why today’s event is all about strengthening that teamwork,” Mark went on, pacing in front of the crowd. “So, here’s the fun part. You’ll each be paired with someone from another department—someone you’ve probably never worked with before. We’ll be rotating through activities, and at the end, there’s a surprise for the winning team.”
Bette inwardly groaned.
Mark lifted a small basket filled with folded slips of paper. “To make things fair, we’re doing this completely at random. Everyone, come up and draw a number. That number will determine your teammate.”
There was a shuffle of movement as people made their way up to the front, murmuring and groaning as they pulled slips from the basket. Bette waited until the line dwindled—keeping her eye on Emily the entire time—before stepping forward. When it was her turn, she plucked a folded square and flipped it open.
Seven.
Bette glanced up, scanning the room for whoever else had the misfortune of drawing the same number. This, after all, was going to be a few hours of torture. She watched as people shuffled to their assigned partners, but no one seemed to have the same number as her.
Not until Emily held up her slip of paper, lifting it just enough for Bette to see the big, fat number seven printed on it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bette muttered under her breath. Of all the people in this room—the dozens of nurses, doctors, and staff—she had to be paired with Emily. The coincidence was absurd, like some twisted game the universe was playing. Though frankly, Bette didn’t believe in fate. It was a bullshit notion of romanticized serendipity. It was completely manufactured.
Her gaze met Emily’s, and Bette held up her slip of paper. The moment Emily saw the number her eyes widened, something unreadable flickering in them.
Bette’s stomach clenched, but before she could process whether or not Emily was disappointed, Mark clapped his hands. “Alright, once you’ve all found your partners and introduced yourselves, we’re going to kick things off with a little game called Back-to-Back Coordination.”
