Page 50 of Doctor Second Chance

His reply is almost instant.

Hell yeah! Got two more appointments but can meet at The Collins Bar after. You down?

I grin, relieved to have plans for the evening.

Perfect. See you there. I'm going to the gym and will head there. Just come when you're done. Don't be a douchebag and wear your scrubs.

World's biggest douche, I can't help help it. You do you, brother.

I laugh out loud.

With extra time to kill before meeting Buster, I’m looking forward to hitting the gym. It's been over a week since I've had a proper workout, with Ari's disappearance and Elle's medical crisis. My body feels stiff and restless from the neglect.

I head to the locker room at UAB's fitness center, changing into my gym clothes. As I warm up on the treadmill, my mind wanders to Elle. I haven't seen her since that day in her hospital room, and the image of that guy holding her hand still stings.

Shaking off the thought, I move to the weight machines. I push myself harder than usual, relishing the burn in my muscles. It feels good to focus on something physical, to let the past week’s stress melt away with each rep.

By the time I finish my workout, I'm drenched in sweat but feeling more centered than I have in days. I shower quickly and change into my street clothes, ready to meet Buster for that long-awaited beer.

Collins Bar, Downtown Birmingham

5:03 pm

I arrive at the bar early, eager to unwind after the rollercoaster of emotions I've been riding. The bartender slides a frosty mug of beer my way, and I take a long, satisfying sip. As I set the glass down, my eyes drift to the end of the bar, and my breath catches in my throat.

It's him. The guy from Elle's hospital room. The one who was holding her hand.

A wave of something hot and uncomfortable washes over me. Is this... jealousy? I've never been the jealous type, but seeing this man here now makes my stomach churn.

I grip my beer tighter, debating what to do. Part of me wants to march over there, and just sucker punch him in the nose. But he hasn’t done anything wrong. He probably doesn’t even know I exist.

Perhaps an interrogation is the best way to get some answers. Who is he? What's his relationship with Elle?

None of those scenarios are plausible or involve something a confident, mature man would do.

Instead, I study him from afar. He looks tired and worried. Is he here drowning his sorrows over Elle's condition? The thought makes my jaw clench. “Where were you when she was staying at my house?” That is what I really want to ask him.

I consider approaching him casually, maybe striking up a conversation about the hospital. It would be easy enough to pretend I recognized him from there. But what would that accomplish? It feels dishonest, manipulative even.

In the end, I stay rooted to my seat. I have no right to interfere in Elle's life, especially when I don't know the whole story. But I can't shake the gnawing feeling in my gut.

I drain my beer faster than intended, motioning for another. As I wait for Buster to arrive, I can't help but steal glances at the man down the bar, wondering what he means to Elle and why his existence bothers me so damn much.

Buster walks in, his usual cocky grin plastered across his face. He claps me on the back and slides onto the stool beside me.

"Shep, my man! Ready to get this party started?”

Before I can answer, he's flagging down the bartender. "Two shots of tequila, pronto!"

I groan inwardly. This is classic Buster—constantly pushing for that extra edge. But I know better than to argue. You’re in for a wild ride when you’re out with Buster. Especially these days.

The bartender sets two shot glasses in front of us, filled to the brim with clear liquid. Buster raises his glass, and I follow suit.

"To... hot nurses and steady hands!" Buster proclaims.

We clink glasses and down the shots. The tequila burns a fiery path down my throat, and I chase it quickly with a swig of beer.

"So, what's new in the world of brain surgery?" Buster asks, signaling for another round of beers.

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