Page 91 of The Pucking Player

ESPN ALERT: New York Defenders captain, Liam O’Connor, spotted at exclusive Manhattan restaurant...

I slam delete before reading the rest.

“That was about the Titans game,” I lie, shoving the phone in my desk drawer like it’s radioactive.

“Uh-huh.” Jenna returns to scrolling, but I catch her concerned glance. “So, about Miami. This other place has a swim-up tequila bar AND private cabanas. Perfect for avoiding all thoughts of a certain hockey-playing individual who shall not be named.”

“I thought we weren’t avoiding things?”

“Yes, we are avoiding thinking about people who don’t matter. And we are planning a strategic retreat to somewhere with margaritas and the potential for happy memories.”

My phone buzzes again from its drawer prison. I resist the urge to check it.

Mental toughness is a real thing.

“You know what?” I grab a handful of last year’s sundresses, tossing them on the bed. “Maybe Miami is exactly what I need. Sun, sand, and absolutely zero chances of running into any hockey player.”

“That’s my girl!” Jenna bounces on the bed, scattering my carefully sorted piles. “Operation: Hot Girl Spring Break is officially a go! Step one: acquire scandalous bikinis. Step two: post photos looking amazing. Step three: ignore all incoming texts from guys who clearly don’t deserve you.”

“Yes!” I fist pump dramatically. “Dolphins. Bikinis. Tequila. Definitely tequila.”

My phone buzzes a third time.

We both stare at the drawer for a while like it might explode.

“You know,” Jenna says carefully, “it’s also okay to not be okay.”

I focus very intently on matching bikini tops to bottoms. “I’m fine.”

“Sure, you are. That’s why you’re organizing bathing suits by grade of skin exposure and potential emotional damage.”

“I’m not—” I look down at the swimsuits in my hands. One still has the tag on—a tiny black number I bought in Hawaii last year when I thought my top priority was becoming a pediatric oncologist. But I’m getting back into that state of mind. And this excuse for a bikini will be just what this doctor-to-be needs.

“Okay,” I announce, shoving the black bikini onto the pile. “Show me more hotels. Preferably ones with extremely strict No Hockey Players Allowed policies.”

Jenna grins, patting the bed beside her. “Now you’re talking! Look at this one—it has synchronized swimming performers at the pool bar. Like, actual mermaids serving champagne!”

“That can’t be sanitary.”

“That’s not the point! The point is...”

My phone buzzes again.

This time, we both pretend not to hear it. But then my laptop pings with a new email notificationjust as Jenna’s showing me a hotel package that includes—I kid you not—underwater yoga.

“That’s not a real thing,” I argue, reaching for my computer. “That can’t possibly be a real?—”

I look at the incoming email as I talk, and the sender name stops me mid-sentence: Human Resources HealthFirst.

“Ohmygawd.” My voice comes out squeaky. “Ohmygawdohmygawdohmygawd.”

Jenna’s head snaps up. “What? Did Liam post something? Did that blonde bimbo post something? Do I need to create fake Instagram accounts to leave strongly worded comments?”

“Didn’t we just decide we will not spend our energy on people who don’t matter?” I wave her off. “It’s...it’s the internship. HealthFirst.” My hands are shaking as I open the email. “I interviewed with them a few weeks after the gala, remember?”

After that magical night when everything seemed possible. Before it all went to hell.

“The one where you charmed the pants off that CEO guy?” Jenna abandons her phone, scrambling across the bed. “Well? What does it say?”

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