Winger

-- OKay. See you there. Promise. RD

Chapter Seventy-Seven

I COULD NOT BELIEVE IT: her name was Hickey.

She leaned over me, so close her breath tickled the hairs on my eyebrow as she looked at the stitches there. My eyes just kind of naturally fixed straight ahead to the points of her boobs, which is when I noticed her name tag: D. L. HICKEY, R.N.

And I thought, what an awesome name. Of course, I also tried to make up as many perverted words beginning with D and L that I could stick before a hickey:

Does Love

Delivers Luscious

Daringly Lewd

Delightfully Located

And I was on about the seventeenth set, sweating in my collar, when she said, “Are you hot, Ryan Dean?”

Which almost made me start hiccupping again.

“Just a little.”

“Here.” Nurse Hickey loosened my tie and unfastened my shirt’s top buttons. Any more of that treatment and those stitches would have popped out by themselves. “Why don’t you lie back here, and I’ll get those right out.”

I put my head down on the paper-covered pillow on the bed and stared up as she snipped and pulled those stitches from my head, one by one.

“There,” she said. “All perfectly handsome again.”

Then she brushed her fingertip across the line over my eyebrow.

Whew. It was official. I could have asked her to write a note for Annie: Ryan Dean West did not lose the sexy.

I couldn’t move. Something behind my zipper would definitely have broken if I did.

When she finished, she put her scissors and tweezers-things down on a metal tray beside the bed and began scribbling something on my patient chart.

Then she got this puzzled look and she turned toward me, half smiling.

“You were in here two days in a row last week?”

“Uh, I was?”

She said, “Your chart says you came in with a laceration on your . . . scrotum.”

Oh, God.

They actually write stuff like that down?

Scrotum?

What a ridiculous word. If I ever became a doctor, I swore to myself then and there, I would legitimize the use of the word “ballsack.”

“Oh.” I cleared my throat. I felt like I was going to pass out. “Um. Yes.”

“From rugby?”

“Uh.”

And then I realized . . . score! I was getting Nurse Hickey to talk about my balls. What could be better than that?

“Have you ever thought about going out for the tennis team instead?”

“I love rugby. Nurse Hic . . . Hickey.”

Goddamnit. Hiccups.

“And how’s that healing up?”

Whoa.

Opportunity of a pathetic lifetime.

So I said, “I think it’s kind of buh . . . bothering me.”

“Here.” She set my chart down on the tray. “Stand up and drop your pants.”

I love America. Dreams do come true here.

Okay. I’ll be honest. She actually did tell me to stand up and drop my pants, which made it a milestone in my life, being that Nurse Hickey was a smoking five-out-of-five-toothless-one-eyed-hillbillies on the Ryan Dean West Drop-Yer-Pants-Boy Tote Board. Better still, she was now the third female with such a rating to make that demand of me in the past few days (counting Annie and Doc Mom, when they were fixing my trousers).

Well, needless to say, standing was a bit . . . uh . . . problematic for a couple reasons, probably the least of which was the woozy head rush I got when my feet hit the floor. But I bravely did as Nurse Hickey asked. Unbuckled and unzipped, my pants went to my shoes, and then she laughed and said, “Are those Pokemon?”

Ooops. I forgot.

Well, they were comfy.

“How cute.”

I felt myself turning red.

What a loser.

I lifted up my shirttails, stuck my thumbs in my waistband, pulled, and . . .

“Hold on there, hotshot,” Nurse Hickey said. “Keep them up for just a minute. Doctor Norris will be right in.”

Then she turned around and walked out of the examination room.

NO!!!!!!!

I knew I deserved it, but come on!

I am such a pathetic loser.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

OKAY.

I need to vent.

So, after the lengthy and serious talk Doctor No-gloves gave me about how it’s perfectly normal for boys to get overly scared when they receive a catastrophic fucking penis injury, but that everything would be just fine and I should try to think of it in the same way I’d think about getting a cut on my elbow, which most boys normally don’t even think twice about (but my elbow isn’t my penis, you moron)—so just stop worrying, Ryan Dean, there is nothing wrong (except Doctor No-gloves got it ALL wrong about how the setup to the ballsack exam that Nurse D. L. Hickey was supposed to do happened in the first place); and, oh, I should probably start wearing boxer shorts instead of little-boy tighty Pokemon fucking briefs because my body was “changing,” and I would begin to appreciate the “growing space” and if I ever needed to talk to him about these kinds of things since my dad lived in fucking Boston, he’d be there for me, bare hands and all—I took my embarrassed, skinny (but now up to 157 pounds after Doctor No-gloves insisted on weighing me since I was fucking naked anyway) bitch-assed self out of that innermost circle of hell as fast as possible so I could take a quick shower to wash that bastard’s Old Spice smell off my scrotum and wait for Annie at Stonehenge.

Ugh.