Page 6 of Under Southern Stars
Flustered, and a beat too late, I key the mic. “Medic 402, uh…Jack? Understood on the D50. Glad he woke up for you. We’ll have Trauma One ready. Any other immediate concerns en route?”
The second his name leaves my lips, I cringe internally.Jack?Over the open channel? Professional, Sophia. Real smooth. Across the charge desk, Maria, who truly hearseverything, slowly, deliberately, raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me over the top of her computer monitor. I can feel the heat creeping up my neck.
Jack’s voice comes back, all business, but perhaps with the faintest hint of extra warmth layered beneath the professionalism that only I, having listened to him for months, might detect. “None at present, Metro. Patient is stable and conversant. We’ll give a full bedside report on arrival.”
My brain snaps back into ER mode, though my cheeks still feel warm. “Copy that, Medic 402. See you in five.”
Internally, though, I am still replaying my idiotic slip that had just broadcast to every emergency department, ambulance, fire truck, and scanner nerd in a thirty-mile radius.
I’ll be hearing about this foryears.
And as if to bookmark my dismay, the radio channel—momentarily quiet—crackles to life again. An unidentified unit, voice tinny and amused, pipes up, “Sounding friendly there, Metro! He buy you dinner first?”
“Channel clear for priority traffic!” I snap, my voice sharper than I intend, cheeks flaming. Then, more calmly, “Metro General,outandclearat 1305.”
The implications hit me as I start assigning the incoming patient to a room and alerting Nathan. If McKenzie was on 402 regularly, that meant…more. More of him in my ER. More of that voice, those observant eyes. More chances for me to makean idiot of myself. My stomach does a complicated, unwelcome flip.
The bay doors hiss open, and they roll in—Jack and a paramedic I vaguely recognize as one of 402’s regulars; Rodriguez, I think. The patient, a man looking to be in his forties and decidedly sheepish now that he was wide awake, is perched on the gurney. Jack looks different than I remember from his brief stint with Mr. Henderson. He still has that underlying calm, but there is a new intensity in his stance, a focused energy that comes from running in a high-volume area.
He gives a quick, efficient handover to Nathan, who meets them at the door. “This is Arthur Smith, forty-two. As per my radio report, he was found down, unresponsive. Discovered to have a finger stick blood glucose of 18, and woke right up with one amp of dextrose. States he hasn’t eaten all day, had a couple of beers earlier. Denies any drug use, no significant medical history he’s admitting to right now. Said he woke up wondering where the biscuits were.” Jack delivers the last bit with a completely straight face, but his eyes flicker to mine for a microsecond, a glint of shared amusement there.
They transfer Mr. Smith to our bed. I am already thinking about labs, a full workup for the hypoglycemia, maybe a social work consult. In the organized flow, I am peripherally aware of Jack, not just hovering but seamlessly assisting where needed—helping Mr. Smith sit up, ensuring his equipment is clear. He moves with a quiet competence that is…impressive. Annoyingly so.
Once Mr. Smith is settled and Nathan is drawing blood, Jack steps back, stripping off his gloves. Our eyes meet for a split second across the room. His are serious as he glances at the patient, but as they flicker back to me, there is something elsethere too, a directness that makes my skin prickle, and maybe, just maybe, that knowing smile is back in their depths.
Later, after Mr. Smith is munching on a turkey sandwich and awaiting a consult, I see Jack by the EMS supply closet, restocking. I need to know.
“McKenzie.”
He turns, a faint smudge of something—pen ink?—on his cheekbone. “Why, Charge Nurse Mitchell. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Didn’t realize you’d transferred to 402,” I say, aiming for casual, professional curiosity. My heart, annoyingly, is not cooperating with the “casual” part.
A slow smile spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of those blue eyes. It is a surprisingly potent expression. “Figured it was time for a bit more…action.” He holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. “Needed the challenge.”
I just nod, not trusting my voice.Challenge, right.My internal bullshit meter is pinging, but another part of me, the part I’ve been trying to ignore for weeks, feels a ridiculous, treacherous flutter.
The rest of the shift is a blur of the usual ER madness, but under it all is a new, thrumming awareness. Jack McKenzie, the Kiwi paramedic with the warm voice and the surprisingly intense eyes, isn’t just a pleasant radio interlude anymore. He is on Medic 402. He is going to behere. A lot. And I’d just broadcast my unprofessional, first-name-basis slip-up to half the city’s emergency services.
Maria catches my eye as I am doing chart checks. “So, ‘Jack,’ huh?” she murmurs, not even looking up from her screen.
I just shoot her a glare.
My phone buzzes.
Madison: Dad's being a nightmare about this weekend. Says I can't go to the game. Can you fix it??? Pls mom!
Right. Real life. My actual, complicated, messy life that has no room for charming Kiwi paramedics who’d just decided to upend their careers, possibly just to get a bit more “action” in my ER.
Or so I tell myself.
