Page 9 of The Goalie in Room 1

Decades spent becoming one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the country.

And to Phoenix, I was apparently a charitable prescription pad with legs.

Me

Asshole.

Phoenix

Don’t forget a pen.

Me

Oh, I won’t. All of yours are probably infected with the crud.

I’m billing you someday.

Phoenix

Send it to Halo House’s accounting department.

Me

That’s literally you.

Phoenix

Exactly. Good luck collecting.

I laughed and tossed the phone onto the bench long enough to pull my shirt over my head.

Phoenix knew damn well I wouldn’t take a dime.

Not from him.

Not from Halo House.

Not from anyone living there.

I’d started helping after the first charity event. Phoenix approached me, saying he needed a doctor he trusted to oversee medical care. Someone who wouldn’t look at the people who walked through Halo House’s doors and immediately start making assumptions about who they were, what they’d done, or how they’d ended up needing help.

One middle-of-the-night phone call led to my increasing involvement until I took on the role of Chief Medical Officer. Anything that I couldn’t treat—physicals and vaccines and prescriptions and referrals and the occasional panicked text about a rash that turned out to be new laundry detergent were all well and good—got sent to a doctor in the network I’d built for Halo House over the years. Plus, some residents had more specialized needs.

But no matter what, they all received the treatment they needed.

For free.

Whatever the doctors and clinics couldn’t write off as pro bono, I covered. Which either made me crazily philanthropic or a fucking terrible businessman. Probably a bit of both. But so be it.

My phone buzzed again.

Phoenix

Maxie says you’re not allowed to poke him with anything.

I buttoned the shirt I pulled on and grabbed my jeans before replying.

Me