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I’ve known I wanted to be an ophthalmologist since I was 8. Odd, you say? Focused, I’d argue. I put in the hard work, made the sacrifices, and now I’m in line to take over the practice I’ve always wanted.
When your baseball metaphor-spouting mentor brings in a new surgeon and asks you to train him, you smile and nod. Teamwork and all that crap. Except the “rookie” turns out to be the cocky bastard you loved to hate back in residency—emphasis on hate—and his presence now threatens every plan you’ve made.
So there might’ve been a hookup or two in a hospital supply closet years ago. No way am I repeating that mistake again. Even if Dr. Hotshot insists he’s up to the challenge of winning me over.
It’s the bottom of the ninth, time to swing for the fences—yeah, I don’t really know what that means.
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