Page 80 of The Pucking Player

“Miss anything important?” I ask, sliding into my chair with a smile so fake, it hurts my face.

“Just Taylor finally understanding substrate-level phosphorylation,” Priya jokes tentatively.

“Hey!” Taylor protests with a shove to her arm, and just like that, we’re back to biochemistry.

For the next two hours, I throw myself into metabolic pathways with the kind of intensity usually reserved for Olympic training. Every formula memorized is one less second spent thinking about Liam’s hand on Olivia’s back. Every reaction chain mastered is another brick in the wall I’m building around my heart.

Sometimes your gut tells you something’s wrong, and you’re an idiot not to listen.

My phone buzzes. Jessica again.

[Jessica]:Have you seen the photos? We need to get ahead of this PR nightmare. What’s going on???

Heat flares in my chest.

[Me]:Not my problem. Ask your star player. I’ve got a Stanford interview to prep for.

[Jessica]:Sophie...

[Me]:Look, I was happy to help with the team’s image, but I’m done. I need to focus on my exam and the interview.

There’sa long pause before her reply comes through.

[Jessica]:You’re right. Focus on Stanford. I’ll check in with you later.

Well,that was easy.

Another hour later, my brain is fried, and I pack up my study materials to head back to my dorm. The Stanford prep materials are right where I left them, scattered across my desk like academic confetti. I should review the sample questions again. Practice my “why medicine” speech. Maybe work on?—

But my thumb betrays me, opening Instagram before Ican stop it. The photo’s still there. Liam and Olivia. His hand. Her smile. His familiar smirk that made my knees weak but now just makes me feel stupid.

This is better, I tell myself, closing the app with shaking fingers.Better now than later. Better before I got in any deeper.

But as I stare at my interview notes, the words blur together until all I can see is his face, his hands, his?—

Focus.

Where do you see yourself in ten years?

Definitely not here, sitting in my dorm room with a broken heart while Liam O’Connor wines and dines his way through Manhattan’s A-list.

Then get to work, Novak.

Because Stanford isn’t going to accept me based on my ability to fall for hockey players with wandering eyes.

28

FATHER KNOWS WORST

LIAM

The Defenders’ weight room is usually my sanctuary. Just me, the weights, and the gentle hum of the air conditioning. Except today it’s not working. Every rep feels like penance, every burn in my muscles a reminder of Sophie and what she must be going through since those photos with Olivia hit social media.

You did this to protect her.

But knowing that doesn’t make it any easier. Doesn’t stop me from imagining what she must think—that I got bored, that I went back to my player ways, that everything I told her was a lie. The tabloids are having a field day: “Bad Boy of Hockey Returns to Form.” “O’Connor Spotted with Pop Star.” “Sophie Who?”

Good. Let them think that. Let everyone think that.

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