Page 93 of The Pucking Player

The thing about having three acceptance letters fromthree incredible medical schools is that it should feel amazing. Like pop-the-champagne, call-everyone-you’ve-ever-met amazing. Instead, I’m sprawled on my dorm room floor, surrounded by glossy brochures promising bright futures, while ESPN mocks me from Jenna’s laptop.

“And coming up next, an exclusive look at the historic showdown between the Titans and Defenders! Will New York’s team continue their record-breaking season?”

“Can we please watch literally anything else?” I beg, flipping over Stanford’s housing brochure.

“Nope!” Jenna’s painting her toenails “Miami Sunset Pink” with scary intensity. “We’re desensitizing you. Like when they make people with phobias hold snakes. You can’t avoid ESPN forever.”

“Watch me,” I mutter, picking up Columbia’s financial aid package. The numbers are incredible—half off tuition, housing stipend, even a research grant. NYU doesn’t charge tuition, so it’s just room and board. Stanford...

Stanford is Stanford. Dream school. Fresh start. Three thousand miles between me and any possibility of running into certain professional athletes at Moonbeans.

“In breaking news,” the ESPN anchor’s voice cuts through my thoughts, “Defenders’ captain Liam O’Connor could lead his team to franchise history tomorrow night...”

I chuck Stanford’s brochure at Jenna’s laptop. It flutters pathetically to the ground three feet short.

“Nice aim, Novak,” Jenna snorts. “Good thing you chose medicine over athletics.”

“I hate how stupid I am.”

“No, you just hate that he still looks criminally good in high-definition.”

She’s not wrong. The footage shows Liam at practice, all focused intensity. Even through the screen, his presence ismagnetic. The way he commands the ice, leads his team, that little half-smile when he...

Stop. It.

I grab Columbia’s course catalog, focusing on the class descriptions like they hold the secrets to the universe. “Introduction to Clinical Medicine... Molecular Mechanisms... Advanced Biochemistry...”

“O’Connor’s leadership has been crucial to the Defenders’ historic run,” the announcer continues. “Sources say he’s been practically living at the Defenders’ Tarrytown facility, pushing himself and his team alike.”

“Yeah, when he’s not pushing away girls he deflowered,” I mutter bitterly.

Jenna pauses mid-stroke, nail polish hovering. “You were overdue anyway.”

“True.” I sigh wistfully, and wave Stanford’s package like a shield. “Important decisions are waiting. Life-changing choices. Absolutely no time for hockey player bullshit.”

“And now to some statistics,” ESPN pipes up helpfully, “O’Connor’s scoring average since February has been unprecedented...”

“That’s it!” I scramble for Jenna’s laptop. “I’m turning it off.”

“Wait! They’re about to show the Titans’ defensive strategy!”

“Why do you even care about the Titans’ defensive strategy?”

“Because Marc cares. It’s called being a supportive girlfriend.” She pauses. “Also, their new defenseman is totally hot. Karl Strafer. Have you seen him?”

I groan, flopping back onto my pile of med school pamphlets. “I’m not looking at any hockey players ever again. Besides, you’re supposed to be helping me decide.”

“I wish I had their acceptance instead of being waitlisted. How divine would it be to go there together?”

“For sure. But I don’t feel sorry for you one bit, missy. Harvard med school is not too shabby.” I grin and throw a pillow at her.She ducks and catches it easily, throwing it back at me.

“We got shiny futures ahead of us, my friend.”

But instead of reveling in our wins, my eyes drift back to the screen where they’re showing highlights from the Defenders’ last game. Liam’s there, because of course he is, threading an impossible pass through the defensemen. The same intensity in his eyes that I used to see when he looked at me. Before something changed. Before Olivia.

“You know,” Jenna says carefully, “Columbia’s program is actually ranked higher for pediatrics.”

“Stanford has better research facilities.”

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