by Anita Claire
The woman I run into is so strong and stable; I have no effect on her. Conversely, I’m face up on the ground with the wind knocked out of me. My entire body pulses in pain. I’m unable to breathe or move. My eyes are squeezed shut while I mouth the word, “ouch.”
With my eyes closed while lying on the ground paralyzed in pain, I can hear a woman’s voice asking, “Are you OK?”
Then there are some male voices asking if they can help. My body is still buzzing with pain; I wonder how I’m breathing.
Now I hear people worrying about me, including a teammate’s grumbling about the rough play from the other team’s player. All I’m thinking is how to master my pain.
One woman is ranting. “This is a club game; there’s no reason to try to take out an opposing player.”
The painful hum starts to subside. Taking a deep breath, I try to relax and breathe slowly. Finally, I open my eyes to concerned faces.
“Juliette, can you hear me, Juliette are you OK?” Isabelle’s worried tone floats over me.
I search for her face and find it. It relaxes me some. Then I lift up my index finger to show that they need to give me another minute.
I hear someone else say, “she’s conscience,” as I’m try to sit up.
One of the women says, “Remain lying down; you might be injured.”
The full body buzz is now changing into a slow body ache.
Now I force myself to sit up and take inventory of my body. My head wasn’t hit, so hopefully there’s no concussion. As I “survey” down my body, I shake out my arms, then legs. Finally, I feel ready. I ask my audience, “Can someone give me a hand up?”
A strong hand holds me under my right armpit while using their other hand to grab my left arm. A deep masculine voice next to my ear says, “Slow it down. Are you sure you’re ready to get up?”
I rub my hands over my eyes and temples, while I start cataloging my body parts: my head feels fine; my neck is good; and shimmying my shoulders leads me to believe that my torso and arms are OK as well. I’m still a little out of it when attempting to stand, which makes me lose my balance.
The strong hands hold me up. The deep voice says, “Easy now, not so fast, give yourself some time.”
Ignoring him, I try to stand but still am having a problem with my balance. He catches my weight. Slowly I put weight on my legs; they hold as I continue to gain my balance.
Strong male hands support me while I’m limping off the field. I’m too disoriented from the impact to feel embarrassed. My mind jolts into the present as I feel the warmth and strength of the man’s chest against my face; his shirt smells good, fresh, masculine. He helps me over to the sidelines and maneuvers me so I’m sitting on a blanket.
He quickly unlaces my shoe, and then pulls it off along with my shin guard and sock. With both hands, he starts feeling around my ankle joint. “Does this hurt?”
I’m still a little bewildered from my collision. As his hand slowly moves up my shin to my knee, I get a jolt of reality. Suddenly I’m aware of what he’s doing. “Wow, wait a second buddy…. Just because I might be injured doesn’t mean you can feel me up.” I exclaim.
A serious looking pair of crystal blue eyes stare from under dark eyebrows. In a calming tone, he says, “I’m a doctor, orthopedics. I’m just making sure you haven’t injured anything.”
“Seriously, you’re a real doctor and not just some pervert?” I ask using my most skeptical tone of voice.
Now he’s kneeling next to me on the blanket. He rocks back onto his heels and gives me a crooked smile. “Seriously, I’m a medical doctor.”
“What, business is slow at the hospital, so you show up to women’s soccer games hoping to get some action?”
Now I get a full smirk followed by a laugh. “Only soccer games my kid sister plays on.”
Still, I’m not sure if he’s a perv or a good guy. “So, who’s your sister?
The grin moves across his entire face and into his eyes. “The player who took you out.”
“What! Does she bring you for backup when she attempts to kill opposing players?”
His eyes twinkle as he says with a chuckle, “You’re as pugnacious off the field as you are on. Who’d think such a cute little thing could be so tough.”
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or repulsed by that comment.” Shit, did I just say that out loud?
He shakes his head, but has a hard time camouflaging his smirk as he grabs my knee and starts twisting it around. Suddenly it hits me—some cute, young doctor is touching my legs. When was the last time I shaved? I think with alarm. Did I use any lotion on my legs today or are they a scaly mess? He must have read that frightful look on my face wrongly.
“I think you got the wind knocked out of you. Nothing feels wrong. Rotate your ankle for me.” He requests.
While maneuvering my ankle around, he pulls a penlight out of his back pocket. With a smirk, he says, “Look at my eyes.”
While admiring his crystal blue eyes, he blinds me with a penlight.
“Yeah, it doesn’t look like you have a concussion, and the ankle looks like it’s OK.”
“Don’t you need x-rays or an MRI to know if there’s a problem?”
“If I thought there was a problem you might need an x-ray or an MRI. But I am looking at a perfectly fine pair of legs.”
Is this guy flirting with me now? Do I like that this guy is flirting with me? Having no idea where to go with that, I decide to get some more free medical advice.
“How do you know that I don’t have any damage to my spine?”
“How does your body feel?”
“I haven’t tried to stand, but sitting here now feels normal.”
“Why don’t you try to stand?” He takes hold of my upper arm to support me as I stand.
Carefully, I stand up. My legs are now supporting my weight while wiggling around, and I’m shaking my body to check to make sure everything is working right. Looking around it’s apparent that the teams’ friends and family have been watching this little dance. I’m getting thumbs up from some of the onlookers, so I return the thumbs up with a smile.
Looking at Dr. Helper, or Dr. Perv, still not sure where he falls, I say, “I don’t even know your name—to say thank you.”
With a small grin, and a level look, he says, “Nate, Doctor Nate Lombard.”
“Well, Doctor Nate Lombard, thanks for helping me.” I say with sincerity.
With a renewed look of interest, he follows up with, “Juliette—whose last name I don’t know—I’m glad my little sister didn’t hurt you. “
“Cole, my last name’s Cole.” the words stumble out of my mouth.
“Juliette Cole, I am glad my little sister didn’t hurt you.”
“So, I’m free to go?” I question.
“I would take it easy for the rest of the day. Ice your ankle if it bothers you. It might be a good idea to take a couple Aleve when you get home.”
Suddenly, I feel a crowd around us. The game is over. We won 2-0. Nate continues to look at me. His arms are crossed, hands under his armpits. He’s cute, in an athletic, clean cut, Boy Scout sort of way. I bet he has to deal with crushes from the single nurses and his female patients. Cocking my head, a small smile escapes. “Thanks.”
With strong eye contact, he nods his head maintaining a half grin.
A woman from the other team joins him by placing her hand on his arm. Feeling a twinge of jealousy, I wonder if he’s flirting with me in front of his girlfriend. Then I realize—no, this is his sister. They are of a similar height, she looks to be about 5’ 9.” He might be a few inches taller, maybe six feet. They both have stocky well-toned bodies, brown curly hair, with crystal blue eyes that look out of a square-shaped face.
Nate’s sister knits her eyebrows, then gives me a long look, finally saying, “Sorry about taking you out, you’re a good player. I was just trying to get the ball away from you. I hope my brother wasn’t a jerk too.”
With a
n easy smile, I say, “No problem, good game…and your brother was kind.”
Nate’s still watching me. Now I wonder what else I should say. I’ve already thanked him, but he’s looking like he wants to say something else. Isabelle interrupts this thought as she taps me on the shoulder. I turn my head to talk to Isabelle. When I turn back, Nate is gone.
Chapter 18
After Isabelle drops me off at home, I shower and head over to my parents, since Cassie is out and I don’t want to be alone. I’m very close with my parents even though I like the independence of living with Cassie. My grandmother and I always join them for dinner on Sunday night.
My mom and I talk or text often. My older sister, Leigh, lives in New York City. We text each other at most a couple of times a week. My goal is to control my communication with Leigh, since she is bossy and condescending. Leigh is constantly texting and calling our mom. My mom refers to her phone as the 3,000 mile long umbilical cord whenever it’s buzzing with Leigh “incoming.”
Walking through the back door of my parents’ house, I spot my dad sitting at the kitchen island working on his computer. He looks up and smiles. I give a small friendly wave.
“Juliette, your mom wasn’t expecting you this early. She is out running some errands.” He informs me.
Both of my parents are in their mid 50’s and work high tech. Dad’s an engineer; he runs a new technology group. Mom’s a VP of Marketing. My dad and I typically talk about the projects I’m working on. He helps me work through roadblocks; always being interested in the tools being used to solve problems. My mom is great to talk to about feelings, friends, and workplace politics.
We talk for a while about his latest project. After cleaning up after myself, I pull out my Droid, curl up on the family room sofa, open up my Kindle app, and read my latest downloaded novel. Times like these are great for recharging my brain.
I must have fallen asleep since the next thing I know my mom’s busy in the kitchen. She’s wearing yoga pants and sneakers. My mom and I are similarly built. She also runs and swims before work. We’re both 5’4” and wear a size 4. My closet is full of casual clothes, when I need to dress up, I come over and borrow one of her outfits. In fact, about half the clothes I packed for London were my mom’s. She smiles at me when she sees that I’m awake. “Juliette, do you want to take a walk with me?”
I know she’s concerned about what went down with Stephan and my decision to move in with Cassie. Cassie grew up around the block, our parents were never social with each other, but they have always been friendly.
Mom opens up the conversation. “I ran into Cassie’s mom last week. She’s thrilled to have Cassie back in town. I told Karen how beautiful her mom’s condo looks with you girls living in it. Karen is happy that you two are still friends. She’s glad that you’re living together.”
Typical mom, I knew this wasn’t just a walk. This is her way of getting me to open up.
It works.
“What I’ve really been struggling with is what happened in London with Stephan and me. Our relationship worked when he lived here. He seemed to miss me so much when he moved back to London. He spent my last quarter in grad school begging me to move to be with him. When I got there, he was preoccupied with his friends. He didn’t even try to integrate me with his family and friends.”
My mom thinks about what I said for a while. She knits her eyebrows and draws in a breath. Finally she responds with “It could have been that California changed him. When he first moved back to London he was lonely; he no longer fit in. But over time, he reverted; he connected with his old friends. By the time you came out, he was no longer lonely, you became the one that didn’t fit in.”
This is an interesting take on my situation; I’m going to need some time to reflect on it. While living with Stephan, I was too close to the situation to analyze our relationship. Any conversation with Stephan about this always turned into an argument. My goal is to learn from what happened and not make the same relationship mistake again.
Chapter 19
Monday morning comes all too soon. Today I need to show up at the big conference call. My idea of dressing up is to wear skinny jeans, boots, and a fitted, nicely pressed button-down shirt with a sophisticated paisley pattern. Yes, the button-down shirt’s what dresses up my outfit. Typically, I wear mascara and a little eyeliner, but today I’m making sure to wear lip gloss too. Laughing at my reflection, I can’t help but think that my idea of dressing up is more casual than Cassie’s idea of what you wear to watch The Kardashians.
Not wanting to be late, I head to the Tuolumne Meadows conference room fifteen minutes early. The lights turn on when I enter the room since I’m the first one there. Opening up my computer, I start checking e-mail. The next colleague doesn’t even enter the room until three minutes to eight. He gives me a strange questioning look.
Smiling I say, “Hi, I’m Juliette Cole.”
He doesn’t introduce himself but just nods. Could this be the wrong room? At about one minute before eight, a guy I’ve never seen before enters the room without acknowledging anyone and dials into the system. The screen shows the employees gathered in the New York office. They’re all wearing conservative suits. Now I wonder if I’m dressed appropriately. The New Yorkers are talking between themselves but without sound I have no idea what they’re saying, though it’s obvious they’re grumbling. It may be that they like to start their meetings on time. At about five minutes after eight, another three people come into the room. A few more people straggle in every minute. At around ten after eight, a guy in his early thirties—wearing jeans and a well-pressed light blue button-down—walks swiftly into the room. He’s about six feet tall, with slim hips and well-built shoulders, dark hair and gray-blue eyes. With a serious demeanor, he immediately starts asking questions. He must be the person responsible for running the meeting.
Looking around, I see there are about twenty people in the room. Other than me, there are only two women. One woman is Asian; she looks to be in her mid-to-late thirties. The other woman is petite, with long blond wavy hair, a round face, and big, round blue eyes. She looks to be around thirty, which results in me giving her the nickname, Goldilocks. Fewer than half the people in the New York office are women. A few of the people in our room look familiar; I’ve probably seen them in the company’s cafeteria.
The guy running the meeting looks around the room. His eyes rest on me momentarily; I give him a friendly smile, he glowers and continues looking around the room. Then he looks down at his iPad. “Where’s Roger?” he grumbles.
Slightly raising my hand, I stammer out, “Roger sent me to represent our group.”
He looks up and gives me another frown, followed by an eye squint. This guy’s definitely not a morning person.
“What do you do?” He barks.
Hesitantly, I blurt, “I develop analytical tools.” What else would he think I would be doing? Everyone in Rogers’s group develops analytical tools.
His glower goes deeper. as he starts interrogating the New York people about the technical status of our customer installations. He doesn’t ask my name and doesn’t tell me his. No one in either office introduce himself or herself. Everyone in New York and in our room defer to him, so he must be important to the company. To keep occupied, I try to follow the conversations. It’s hard to keep track of what’s happening at the meeting since everyone is new, even so, I take notes.
At some point, someone refers to the guy running the room as “Flint.” I’m not sure if that’s his first name, last name, or a nickname. Channeling Cassie—under the “People” section of our company’s intranet—I type in “Flint.” What pops up surprises me: “Matt Flinter,” Co-Founder, Chief Technology Officer, thirty-three, PhD in Electrical Engineering from Stanford University. Well, that’s why they’re all differential to him.
Periodically, someone calls someone else by name. Using the people finder, I’m able to find several full names, departments, and titles. I’m usi
ng this information to update my notes.
About forty minutes into the meeting, a question arises on the status of analytics. Raising my hand—and in my most serious voice—I recite, “Our senior guys are on this. We are close to a resolution. We’ll notify you as soon as we get everything working.”
One of the New York guys asks, “Who are you?”
Trying to maintain my serious voice, I continue, “Juliette Cole. I work in Roger’s group developing analytical tools.”
The New York guy starts grumbling, “What, Roger doesn’t want to give us a real status, and so he sends us some junior person, instead?”
Under different circumstances, I would have been upset for being dissed, but the guy is right. Roger doesn’t want to give them a detailed update…so he sent me. Flint ignores the outburst and continues with his agenda. After doing what I was supposed to, it’s apparent why Roger didn’t want to wake up early for this meeting.
When the meeting is over, as people are leaving the room, Flint points to me, and asks, “Are you going to be attending this meeting in the future?”
I’m really not privy to Roger’s plans, but there’s no reason for him to attend this meeting, so I respond, “I assume so.”
Peering at me, Flint says, “OK, Juliette Cole, I’ll add you to the meeting list.”
After returning to my desk, it’s now a few minutes after nine; no one else in my group is yet in. Setting up my development environment, I enjoy the temporary peace and quiet. Once Mark gets in, I’ll corner him for the backstory of the people who attended the meeting. Before I even have a chance to approach, Mark, Roger shows up.
From his office, he calls, “Juliette, come here.”
As I get to his doorway, he questions, “Did you go to the Tiger team meeting this morning?”
Although I have no idea what a tiger team is, I figure he must be referring to the 8:00 a.m. meeting, so I answer, “Yes.”
