Page 77 of The Pucking Player

Right. Or did I imagine that conversation altogether?

Focus, Sophie. Stanford interview prep. Remember? Youractualfuture?

I grab the Columbia acceptance letter, running my fingers over the embossed letterhead. Full acceptance, partial scholarship. NYU’s is even better—tuition free all the way. Dad practically burst with pride when I called him yesterday.

“Did I mention Stanford’s interview is on February thirteenth?” I’d asked him.

“Only about twelve times, sweet pea.” He’d laughed. “And don’t worry about the money. You just focus on nailing that interview.”

Yeah, because the interview’s totally what I’m worried about. Not the fact that it’s on the day before Valentine’s Day and my maybe-boyfriend-maybe-PR-stunt hasn’t said a word about it.

My phone buzzes, and my heart does this pathetic little jump. But it’s just Jessica.

“Hey, baby sis,” she chirps when I answer. “How’s the future Dr. Novak?”

“Buried in interview prep,” I say, kicking a stack of medical ethics essays. “What’s up?”

“So, Valentine’s Day...”

My stomach clenches. “What about it?”

“The PR goddess in me is thinking it would be perfect for a public date with Liam. You know, romantic dinner, maybe that new rooftop place in Manhattan? The press would eat it up.”

“Has,” I swallow hard, “Liam mentioned anything about it?”

“Nope. They had a few important games last week, so I’m sure he’s just distracted. But don’t you worry, my office will take care of all the details.” Jessica pauses. “Everything okay with you two?”

“Fine,” I lie, staring at his last brief text. “Just busy with med school stuff. It’s all happening at once and coming my way real fast. A bit overwhelmed, that’s all.”

“Right. Is he giving you the space you need to focus?”

“Totally,” I say, but my voice sounds fake even to me. “I should get back to prep. The Stanford interview?—”

“Is next week, I know.” I can hear her smile. “You’ve only mentioned it about?—”

“Twelve times?” I finish weakly.

“Try twenty. Love you, sis.”

I end the call and flop back on my bed, sending interview notes flying everywhere. One lands on my face: “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

Definitely not pathetically checking my phone for texts from a hockey player who’s clearly lost interest.

I knew it would happen.

I warned myself about it.

Then went for it anyway.

The door bangs open, and Jenna bursts in, practically vibrating with excitement. “You will not believe what Marc just texted me about Valentine’s Day!”

Great. More reminders of the holiday-that-shall-not-be-named.

“He’s taking me to that new speakeasy in Manhattan,” she gushes, flopping onto my bed and scattering my Stanford notes even further. “The one with the hidden entrance through the bakery? And then—” She stops mid-sentence,finally noticing my face. “Oh shit. Has Captain Hotness still not mentioned V-Day?”

I busy myself gathering up my scattered papers. “We’re keeping things casual, remember? Focusing on our careers?”

“Right.” Jenna rolls her eyes. “That’s why you’ve been staring at your phone like it holds the secrets to the MCAT.”

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