“The Wranglers sent them with him,” she answered.
“And why is this an emergency?” I questioned her. Sure, it was an uncomfortable injury, but standard procedure would be to discuss options with the patient, book an OR, and then perform surgery.
“The playoffs. This is Wes Blakefield’s right hand.” She looked at me as if I were supposed to realize the significance, which I did not. “His throwing hand.”
“So?” I crossed my arms. “I can see that it’s a right hand.”
“The Super Bowl,” she emphasized. “This may be the Wranglers’ only chance. You have to repair his hand and get him back on the field immediately.”
“But I haven’t even spoken to him. And it’s not my job to help him reinjure himself. He’s going to have to heal after this. He’ll need rehab, physical therapy.”
“We already prepped him. He said to do whatever it takes. The coach says the same thing.” She stared at me, then whispered. “He’s here in the waiting room. Coach Howell.”
“Good Lord.” I threw my hands in the air. “This is not the Pope or the Queen. It’s a quarterback? You all are acting like lunatics over a quarterback?”
“He’s the quarterback, Dr. Ashworth. And you’re the best surgeon. He wanted the best. The Wranglers wanted the best.”
I smiled at that, but the Wranglers meant nothing to me. When I lived in D.C., I knew Ben loved to watch the Sharks play football, but I never got into it. I couldn’t name a single player. To be honest, I had forgotten San Antonio even had a team. All of this meant nothing to me.
“I guess I should at least speak to the coach before I go in there. Any other relatives? Next of kin present?”
The nurse shook her head. “No, but they’re anxious for you to get started.”
“Well, they’re going to have to wait a minute. I’m not going into surgery rushed like this for a non-emergency. Let me take a breath.” My heart was racing as if this was a life or death situation. I needed to calm the environment around me.
I brushed past her and walked toward the waiting room. It wasn’t hard to recognize the coach. He was wearing a visor and a polo. He had an athletic look about him, even with a paunch belly.
“Coach?”
“Are you the surgeon?” He looked at me skeptically.
“Yes, I am. I have had a chance to review Mr. Blakefield’s x-rays and it looks like it will be a rather simple surgery.”
He scowled. “There’s nothing simple about putting my star quarterback under the knife.”
“I can understand your hesitation. But I assure you, I’ve performed this same type of procedure before and I expect it will be fairly smooth.”
“When can he play again?”
I stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“Play. When can I get him back in practice?”
“He has a fracture that will have to heal on its own, and moving bones back into place is going to also add to the healing process. I’d say with physical therapy and cooperation from the patient, he’s probably looking at eight weeks. That’s optimistic.”
“Eight weeks! We don’t have eight damn weeks.” The man’s cheeks turned bright red, and for an instant, I thought he might pick up one of the expired magazines and throw it across the room.
“Maybe it would help if you told me how the injury happened.” I still didn’t have any details after I was whisked from the fourth floor.
“We were running drills this morning. The boys had a rough night last night, so I was throwing it at them a little hard.” He hung his head. “Anyway, Wes slipped and the line ran right over him. Complete accident, but one of the cleats crunched his hand. Freak thing to happen in practice.”
“I see.”
The coach continued. “We knew when Wes stood up holding his wrist that it was serious. We did the x-rays on-site at our facility.”
That explained why some of the procedures had been completed before I was paged.
“Well, Coach Howell, I think he’s ready for surgery. I’ll give you an update as soon as we’re finished. Try not to worry. The good news is his life isn’t at stake, and he’s going to make a full recovery.”