Page 1 of Boss Abroad

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.

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