Page 78 of The Pucking Player

“Speaking of which,” I say, desperately changing the subject, “we should head to the library. The biochem exam is going to destroy us if we don’t start reviewing metabolic pathways.”

“Smooth subject change, Novak.” But Jenna’s already grabbing her backpack. “Fine, let’s go be responsible students. The study group’s probably waiting anyway.”

As we trudge across campus through the February chill, I give myself a stern mental lecture to get it together.

I’ve got my Columbia acceptance. NYU’s a full ride. Stanford interview next week. This is everything I’ve worked for. It’s happening.

So why does it feel like something’s missing?

Because I let myself get distracted by a pair of blue eyes and a hockey player’s smile, that’s why.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Earth to Sophie!” Jenna waves her hand in front of my face. “You just walked right past the library entrance.”

“Sorry.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Just...thinking about enzyme kinetics.”

“Sure, you are.” Jenna links her arm through mine. “And I’m thinking about the Krebs cycle, not Marc in a suit.”

I manage a weak laugh as we head for our usual study spot. Time to lock these feelings down and focus on what matters.

The med school library’s study room is our second home these days. The whiteboard’s covered in biochemicalpathways that look like a drunk spider tried to play Pictionary. Empty coffee cups and highlighted notes litter the table where our study group—me, Jenna, Taylor, and Priya—hunker down for another marathon session.

“Okay, but can someone please explain why glycolysis produces a net of two ATP when—” Taylor stops mid-sentence as Priya’s phone lights up and she lets out a gasp that could wake the dead.

“Oh my God.” Priya’s eyes are wide as saucers. “Sophie...um...”

My stomach drops before I even look at her phone. Something in her voice.

“What?” Jenna leans over, then sucks in a sharp breath and looks at me with terror in her eyes. “Holy shit.”

I force myself to sound casual. “What’s the drama?”

Priya slides her phone across the table like it’s a bomb. “DeuxMoijust posted this.”

The photo’s grainy, typical celebrity gossip quality, but there’s no mistaking Liam’s broad shoulders or the way he’s guiding pop superstar Olivia Carrington into Catch. His hand rests on her lower back, familiar and intimate in a way that makes my insides twist. She’s glowing up at him, all perfect teeth and glittering eyes.

Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

“Maybe it’s not what it looks like?” Taylor offers weakly.

“Wait, there’s more.” Priya swipes to another photo. This one’s from Olivia Carrington’s Instagram story—a perfectly manicured hand wrapped around a martini glass, NYC skyline in the background. The caption reads “Reunions are sweet.”

Reunions. As in, they have a history.

But I knew that.

“Soph,” Jenna starts, her voice gentle.

I slam my biochem book open with more force than necessary. “It’s fine. We’re not exclusive. Hell, we’re barely even dating. It’s just PR.”

“But—”

“Really.” I start taking out notes from my bag, proud that my hands aren’t shaking.

Much.

“We should focus on this exam. The citric acid cycle isn’t going to learn itself.”

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