"Of all the stupid things you could do—you knew you had a game this Sunday, and yet you got yourself injured. And on your hand, of all places!" Peter scolded as he paced the hospital room.
Dranred sat quietly on the bed, his right hand wrapped in gauze. He had been rushed to the hospital after saving a child who nearly got hit by a car. The incident had left him with a sprained wrist—and a swarm of fans gathered outside, flooding the hallway with camera flashes and anxious chatter.
"What's taking the doctor so long?" Peter muttered impatiently. "Don't they know who they're keeping waiting?"
"Relax," Dranred said calmly. "You can't rush the doctors. I'm not their only patient here—and besides, it's just a minor sprain. I'll still be able to play on Sunday."
"That attitude of yours drives me crazy," Peter sighed, throwing his hands up.
Just then, the door opened. A doctor entered, followed by a nurse.
"Finally! Do you have any idea how long we've been waiting? I was starting to think—"
"Peter. Stop," Dranred interrupted firmly. Then he turned toward the newcomers. "My apologies, Doctor. My fri—"
His words trailed off.
The nurse had lifted her head. Their eyes met. For a moment, everything in Dranred's world seemed to still.
Estelle.
She looked exactly as he remembered—only quieter, her expression composed, distant. If she recognized him, she didn't show it. She moved efficiently, her tone polite but detached, as though he were just another patient.
Peter glanced between them, puzzled, then remembered a text message he'd once glimpsed on Dranred's phone—a charity event invitation. The name had stood out to him back then.
Estelle Christopher, R.N.
A week earlier, Dranred had nearly ignored the same message, just another formal invitation from a local medical foundation. But the organizer's name stopped him cold.
The memory of that moment returned vividly: the hospital corridor years ago, Estelle crying silently, refusing to meet his eyes, her hands stained with someone else's blood.
Fate, he thought, had a cruel sense of humor.
And now, here she was again—standing only a few feet away, acting as though the past had never happened.
"Sorry for the delay," the doctor said, approaching the bed. "Let me check your hand."
While the doctor examined him, Dranred's attention drifted to the nurse standing quietly beside him. Ten years. Ten years since he had last seen her — and somehow, she looked even more beautiful now. The crisp white uniform suited her, though it also made her seem distant, unreachable.
"Nurse Estelle, you can finish up," the doctor said at last, then turned to Peter. "He needs to rest that hand for about a week. No heavy activity — let the sprain heal properly."
Once the doctor left, only the three of them remained. Estelle moved wordlessly, wrapping the bandage and fitting the cast with practiced precision. Her face was calm, professional — unreadable.
"You heard what the doctor said," Peter muttered. "No training, no practice. What about your game on Sunday?"
Dranred didn't answer. His gaze never left Estelle.
"How are you?" he asked softly. "It's been ten years. How's James? Rosette? Are they okay?"
Peter glanced between them, sensing the weight in the air.
"I see you really did become a nurse — just like you told me back then." Dranred gave a faint, almost nervous smile. "I can't believe we're meeting like this. I'm happy to see you. I was—"
"All done," Estelle said briskly, cutting him off. She handed him a sling. "Keep your arm in this to avoid strain. Follow the doctor's advice and you'll recover in about a week."
She began packing her things.
"Hey," Dranred said, reaching out and gently touching her arm. She froze for a moment, her eyes flicking down to his hand.
"Are you still angry with me?" His voice softened. "Please… can we talk? There's so much I want to say."
"I'm sorry," she replied, her tone firm but quiet. "I'm at work." She pulled her arm free.
"Then after your shift — when you're off duty. What time do you finish? I got your message about the charity event; maybe we can talk about that?" he pressed, hoping the familiar subject would open a door between them.
Estelle paused, then turned to him with calm detachment.
"I don't make a habit of getting close to my patients," she said. "Even outside of work. Especially not with strangers."
She picked up the medicine box and walked out, leaving the room heavy with silence.
Peter and Dranred exchanged a look — both caught between confusion and disbelief at the coldness of her tone.
"Do you know her?" Peter asked, still staring at the door where the nurse had gone.
Dranred's gaze remained fixed on it. "She was my ex-girlfriend. Her brother was my best friend."
Peter blinked. "Wait—the same friend who got you into basketball? The one you always talk about in interviews?"
Dranred nodded slightly.
"Finally," Peter said, excitement sparking in his voice. "Do you realize what this means? For ten years, your fans have been dying to know who that friend was—the one who inspired you. This story could—"
"Don't even think about it," Dranred cut him off sharply, standing from the bed.
"Where are you going?" Peter called, but Dranred didn't answer.
Out in the hallway, Dranred scanned every corridor, every wing of the hospital. He checked the nurses' stations, the waiting areas, even the stairwells. But Estelle was gone. She had vanished as if she'd never been there at all.
At the main nurse station, he approached the counter. "Excuse me," he said, trying to keep his tone polite. "Could you give me Nurse Estelle's address? It's important."
The young nurse behind the desk blinked. "I'm sorry, sir, but we're not allowed to give out personal information."
"You do know who I am, right?" he said, half-joking, half-serious. "Dranred Masterson."
"Yes, sir," she said carefully. "But hospital policy—"
"Dranred! What are you doing?" Peter's voice cut through the murmur of the station. He jogged over, shaking his head. "You're supposed to be resting, not stalking nurses."
Dranred ignored him, frustration simmering in his jaw. He wasn't about to give up.
Just then, Dr. Sandoval — the physician who treated him earlier — appeared. "Mr. Masterson," he said, approaching with calm authority. "Is there a problem?"
The nurse quickly explained. "Doctor, Mr. Masterson is asking for Nurse Estelle's address. I already told him we can't release it."
Dr. Sandoval frowned slightly and turned to Dranred. "Mr. Masterson, may I ask why you need it? We have strict privacy rules—"
"It's fine," Dranred interrupted, his tone tight. "I'll find her myself."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
"Again?" Peter groaned, bowing slightly to the doctor before hurrying after him.
Behind them, the nurses exchanged looks.
"Do you think he really knows Nurse Estelle?" one whispered.
"She told me not to give her address to any basketball player patient," another murmured. "Said it was important. Weird, isn't it?"
Dr. Sandoval gave them a brief, thoughtful glance — but said nothing. He simply watched the athlete's retreating figure disappear down the hall.