Page 21 of Doctor Charmer

I feel my brow lift. Her move is unexpected. The couch is small, intimate even. It is literally called a love seat. It fits two people, barely. I nod my approval.

She slips down onto the couch, placing her soda on the floor by her feet, twisting slightly to face me.

“Speaking of history…” I pivot the conversation to a topic I’m curious to learn more about. “How did you become a volleyball coach?” It’s just one of the many questions I have for the woman who had literally dropped into the middle of my world.

She leans back, her eyes flitting up to the ceiling as if weighing her words. “My dad played basketball professionally.” She starts in a place I didn’t expect. “Never made it to the NBA but winded up playing seven years overseas in Israel of all places. Can you picture a six-ten Black man speaking Hebrew?” She laughs at the happy family memory. “He’s never been afraid of stepping out of his comfort zone. He developed a thick skin and a quick wit to deal with life.”

“And the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” I say.

She laughs, her hand landing on my knee, a tingle racing up. “So you’re not only obsessed with me but with apples too.” Her light touch disappears, and she continues. “I grew up a tomboy, me and my brother climbing trees, jumping in lakes, biking through the woods. I ran track, played basketball, softball, but I excelled at volleyball.”

I unwrap my sandwich and take a small bite, enjoying the relaxed, not-focused-on-anyone-but-herself version of her. “When my middle-grade coach told my dad how good I could be,he signed me up for travel teams, got me lessons with coaches, and moved us to California so I could play year-round.”

Every spring, we get a few cases in the ER of kids being pushed too fast, too far, by parents trying to live their dreams through them. Two minutes with some of the kids is all it takes to see how miserable they are, trying to fulfill the dreams of someone else. “Did you enjoy it?”

Her momentary smile bursts into technicolor. “I loved it more than breathing.” The light in her eyes dims, and she mumbles, “Especially in the beginning.” She takes a sip of her soda before continuing. “Me and my friends on the beach in San Diego, playing in tournaments across the states. I pictured doing nothing else the rest of my life. My high school was nationally ranked. I got a full scholarship. Tapped to play at an invitational in Vegas for the top prospects nationwide.”

The cadence of her voice slows, and I sense what comes next.

“Made it to the final round of the Olympic qualifying team selection when I got injured.” She pauses, and I doubt she realizes her gaze lowers to her T-shirt. The one with the Olympic rings on it. “I had never been injured in my life. Thought I was invincible. Pushed myself too hard, too soon, and caused permanent damage. Goodbye Olympics, goodbye pro ball, hello small-town coach.” Self-consciously, her hand presses to her hip, and my medical mind begins to speculate. It can’t be that simple. Not for someone with her relentless drive.

She gives me a quick headshake. “Enough about me. What’s your deal? I’ve seen how every woman in the building looks at you, yet no ring.”

I make note of her deflection and chew on my sandwich. My past is complicated. Only a handful of people know my entire history. “Story as old as time. Married to the job.” I give her the version I feed most people. It’s not a lie but summarizes whereI’m at but not why. “Difficult to compete with a career that has no boundaries. Emergencies can’t be predicted nor ignored.”

“Sounds just like a spouse to me.” She looks over the top of her soda can as she takes a swig. “Unpredictable, enchanting, and hates to be ignored.” She pauses before taking another swig. “Hell, sounds a lot like me.”

I’m sure you are. I keep my comment to myself and hide my reaction behind a large bite of my sandwich.

“When the right one comes along…”

She continues to paint a picture, the hint obvious. That’s what I always believed. I found out in heart-wrenching fashion that it takes more than finding the right one. It has to be at the right time, and most importantly, they have to carry those same feelings.

“You like what you do?” She takes another tiny bite of her sandwich and begins to roll it back into the wrapping paper. She’s eaten less than a third of the sandwich.

“It’s what I was meant to do.” My heartfelt words come out intense, a bit of pride filling my chest. “I. Save. Lives.” I point to the three pieces of wood on the wall next to my certifications, diploma, and awards, the words burned into a mahogany wood art piece. Three of the most powerful words any person could ever claim.

She stands and walks toward the piece, and I get to admire her profile from a different angle. There’s no denying her beauty. A dark-skinned beauty with long legs and curls I want to run my hands through every time I see her. I’m wise enough not to. Angie’s words of wisdom offered to me over half a dozen years ago:Never touch a Black woman’s hair.

“A real-life superhero,” Ivy says with the sound of awe in her voice. My sister once said the same words to me, a similar sound of wonder in her voice.

“Without the secret identity.”

She turns and inspects my lab coat hanging on the door. “But you do wear a cape.” She lifts the coat off the hook and slips her arms through the sleeves. “I dig a man in a cape.”

I stand, and she begins to roll up the sleeves of the lab coat, which practically swallows her. I step toward her, reaching for the back of the collar, which is folded behind her. My hands lift her hair, and she tilts her head down to accommodate me. I prop up the collar. “You look like a kid playing dress-up.”

She tilts her head up, our noses nearly touching. “You would love seeing me playing dress-up.”

I feel the heat from her breath on my neck. “I bet I would.”

“Dr. Reggie? Are you into role-playing?”

Something about the way she calls me Dr. Reggie whips my head into a frenzy. It’s different from any way she’s ever said before now, a sexy twang in her voice.

“You should come to the holiday mixer I host for the staff tomorrow night.” The invite is out of my mouth before I’ve thought about the implication.

“Is it a costume party?”

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