Free Challenge by Amy Daws

everything in my career came to a crashing halt. My positive momentum, thwarted. What if I never operate the way I did before? What if this is a slow decline to a sad, pathetic end?
    At least if I stay broken there’s a reason for not playing well. If I’m fixed and sucking, then what?
    “Are you actually scared?” Indie’s voice is quiet in the darkness, but it’s a question that speaks volumes to my insides. She turns her head and eyes me from the chair.
    I swallow slowly before answering, “Yes.” It’s the first honest thing I’ve said in ages. I roll to my side so I’m facing her. I can barely make out the glossiness of her eyes.
    “Is it for more reasons than just the surgery?”
    Christ, it’s like she sees right through me. “Maybe.” The air is heavy with dread and fear and everything I’m too afraid to fully admit to myself.
    She remains silent for a few seconds and brings her feet up to prop on the side of my bed. Her bright white ankle socks glow in the dim lighting. It’s a small movement but it feels meaningful, like she’s trying to get closer but not make it obvious.
    “You don’t have a girlfriend, right?”
    My stomach shakes with a quiet laugh. It’s such an innocent question dropped into such a heavy environment. “No. I’m afraid I’m not the girlfriend type.”
    “I didn’t think so.” Her tone sounds relieved and it makes me scowl.
    “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?” I’m more than curious about Dr. Prichard and the way he watches her when she speaks and touches her whenever he gets the chance. Plus, how he calls her Indie in front of patients really grates on my nerves.
    I can see her smirk through the darkness. “No. You’re safe. It’s not a part of my plan. Not yet anyway.”
    “Your plan? This sounds interesting.” I grin and see her chewing her lower lip while her finger wraps around a loose strand of her hair.
    “Maybe I’ll tell it to you sometime.”
    It’s a promising sentence. “Let’s count on it.”
    Then, as if her presence soothes my insomnia, my eyelids begin to droop. I think I see hers close first, so I allow myself to drift off to sleep, enjoying the scent of lemons clinging to my bed sheets.

 
    M Y ALARM ROUSES ME AND I stretch, feeling blissfully rested. This is the first time in ages that I’ve been awakened without wanting to gouge someone’s eyes out. When I come to more, I see that I’m still in Camden Harris’ room. How is it possible I slept better in this chair than in the on-call room?
    I glance over at the bed to see Camden’s hand draped over my ankles that are propped by his side. It feels a bit peculiar—his large hands clasping my narrow ankles. Almost like cuddling, which is not something I’m at all familiar with.
    Growing up, my parents weren’t the snuggle in bed type. They are both archeologists who still spend all their time in the field, so I rarely see them enough to experience any type of genuine affection. My grandmother who raised me was the same. She believed sending me to year-round boarding schools was what was best, so I only went home a couple of times a year.
    Additionally, since my romantic relationships are extremely limited, sleeping with someone, even as innocently as this, is something that feels odd.
    I check the time and exhale when I see it’s not yet eight o’ clock. Reality casts over me, along with the light of day. Sickness settles in the pit of my stomach. I just slept all night in the room of a VIP, semi-famous footballer whom I’m supposed to operate on tomorrow. There is a definite blurring of lines happening here.
    I stare at his sleeping face and try to remember what possessed me to say yes to him last night, other than the fact that he’s a charming sod. Drunk on the cocktail that is the Camden Harris pheromones, maybe? I mean, honestly, as a twenty-four-year-old female with eyeballs, when a man like him asks you to stay, how can you resist?
    My decision to stay may have had