Page 79 of The Pucking Player

My friends exchange looks that scream “we’re not buying it,” but bless them, they drop it. We dive into metabolic pathways and enzyme kinetics, and if my voice is a little too bright, my laugh a little too sharp, no one mentions it.

This is good, I tell myself.Space to focus on your future.

But as Taylor walks us through electron transport chains, all I can see is Liam’s hand on Olivia Carrington’s back, that same hand that held me like I was precious, that traced patterns on my skin in the darkness of his bedroom.

“Sophie?” Priya’s voice breaks through my spiral. “You okay? You’ve been staring at that same diagram for ten minutes.”

“Yeah, just,” I gesture vaguely at my notes, “complex IV is giving me trouble. I need coffee.” I stand up abruptly. “Anyone want anything?”

They all shake their heads, concern written all over their faces.I try not to cry.

I rush to the bathroom and lock myself in the biggest stall, sliding down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor. My legs won’t hold me up anymore, so here I am, having a good old-fashioned breakdown. At least it’s a clean-ish bathroom—the one where future doctors stress-cry between exams.

I must look pathetic, my mascara creating tribute art toJackson Pollock as it runs down my cheeks. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and for one stupid, heart-stopping moment, I think it might be him.

It’s not.

Stanford Medical School

Interview Confirmation

February 13th, 9 AM PST (virtual)

The email I’ve been refreshing my inbox for all week. The interview that could decide my entire future. My dream school.

A laugh bubbles up, the kind that sounds worryingly close to a sob.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Here’s my shot at everything I’ve worked for, and all I can think about is Liam O’Connor’s hands on another woman’s back..

I swipe angrily at my cheeks. This is exactly why I didn’t want to get involved. Why I tried to keep my distance. Med school applications, interviews, my future career—these are the things that matter. Not some hockey player with a revolving door of gorgeous women that will swallow me whole.

I lean my head back against the bathroom wall, closing my eyes. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, steady and unchanging, unlike everything else in my life right now.

“Get it together, Novak,” I mutter to my reflection as I finally stand up. “You’ve got an interview to prep for.”

My phone buzzes one more time. It’s Jenna.

[Jenna]:You okay in there? Need me to come stage a rescue?

[Me]:All good. Just got confirmation for my Stanford interview.

It’s not exactly a lie.

It’s just not the whole truth.

Kind of like whatever Liam and I had.

Or didn’t have.

Or...whatever.

I splash some cold water on my face, wipe away the smeared mascara, and straighten my shoulders.

Time to go memorize the Krebs cycle. At least biochemistry makes sense. Enzymes would never ghost you for a pop star.

When I return to our study spot, my friends are deep in discussion about ATP production, but their eyes track me like I might shatter at any moment.

---