The Pucking Player

31. Three Thousand Miles

31

THREE THOUSAND MILES

SOPHIE

T here’s something deeply satisfying about color-coding your closet when your love life is a dumpster fire. At least hangers don’t ghost you after weeks of intense pursuit. Sweaters don’t show up on Instagram canoodling with pop stars. And shoes would never pretend to be all in, then ice you out like a Zamboni.

“Oh my God, Soph, you have to see this!” Jenna squeals from where she’s sprawled across my bed, phone held aloft like she’s discovered the cure for cancer. “This hotel has a DOLPHIN BAR. Like, actual dolphins! Swimming! While you’re having your cocktail!”

I pause my aggressive reorganization of winter wear by shade and fabric weight. “Pretty sure that’s animal cruelty.”

“Pretty sure that’s paradise.” She scoffs and flips her phone around, showing me photos of an absurdly blue pool where actual dolphins appear to be participating in happy hour. “This is exactly what you need. Sun, sand, and marine mammals enabling your quarter-life crisis.”

“I’m not having a crisis,” I say, maybe a bit too defensively. “I’m decluttering. And I’m only twenty-one. ”

“Honey.” Jenna sits up, giving me her patented “who do you think you’re fooling” look. “You’ve rearranged that closet three times this week. Your notes are color-coded by subject AND emotional resonance. Yesterday you alphabetized the spice rack. The spice rack, Sophie.”

“My system makes perfect sense! It’s now super easy to find basil.”

“The system is your way of avoiding thinking about Liam O’Connor, who is a grade-A ass.”

I turn back to my closet, pretending the mention of his name doesn’t feel like a paper cut to my heart. “I’m not avoiding anything. I’m being productive. Getting organized before spring break. Making plans for summer.”

“Right.” Jenna’s voice drips skepticism. “And the fact that you’ve checked his Instagram seventeen times today is just...research?”

“I have not—” I sputter, but my phone chooses that exact moment to buzz with a notification.

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? ”

I scan the email, my heart pounding like a caged bird against my ribs.

“Dear Ms. Novak,” I read aloud, “I’m pleased to confirm your acceptance into HealthFirst’s summer leadership program...”

Jenna’s squeal could shatter glass. “ You got it !”

“...your discussion of healthcare accessibility initiatives particularly impressed our panel...”

“Of course it did!”

“...looking forward to your contributions to our pediatric outreach program...”

“Because you’re a freaking genius!”

“Jenna!” I laugh, shoving her as she attempts to strangle me with a celebratory hug. “Let me finish!”

“Sorry, sorry!” She’s bouncing on her knees like an overcaffeinated puppy. “But this is huge! This is exactly what you wanted!”

She’s right. This internship is perfect—prestigious, focused on pediatric care, and based right here in Manhattan.

Where Liam is.

No. Nope. Not going there.

“...program begins June fifteenth,” I continue reading, determinedly squashing that thought. “Please confirm your acceptance by...”

My voice trails off as another thought crosses my mind.

“What?” Jenna pokes me. “What’s wrong?”

I swallow hard. “I just remembered that they are the official healthcare partner of the New York Defenders.”

Because of course they are. The universe clearly hasn’t had enough fun torturing me yet.

“So?” Jenna grabs my shoulders. “Sophie Novak, do not even think about letting that puck-head heartbreaker affect this opportunity. This is your thing. Your future. Your dream.”

“I know, but?—”

“No buts!” She gives me a little shake. “You earned this. They didn’t offer you this internship because of who you were dating. They offered it because you’re brilliant and passionate and impressed them with your scary-smart healthcare policy knowledge.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “I might have gone a little overboard with the Medicare statistics.”

“You’re a badass.” She squeezes my shoulders. “Now, are you going to let some guy ruin this for you? Even if he does have unfairly good hockey hair?”

I glance at the drawer where my phone’s probably exploding with more ESPN alerts about Liam’s latest publicity stunts.

“No,” I say firmly. “No, I’m not.”

“That’s my girl!” Jenna releases me to do a victory dance lap in my bedroom. “Now reply to this email before I do it for you. And then we’re definitely getting you that red bikini I saw at Bloomingdale’s. The one that screams ‘too hot for your drama.’”

I turn back to my laptop, fingers hovering over the keys. This is what I wanted. What I worked for. A chance to make a real difference in healthcare, to start building my future.

A future that doesn’t include certain blue-eyed hockey players who clearly have their own plans.

“Dear HealthFirst Human Resources,” I type, my resolve strengthening with each word. “I am honored to accept...”

“With that settled, now all that’s left to do is decide which school to go to,” I sigh, while my friend waves me off.

“Choices, choices.”

The thing about having three acceptance letters from three 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 is magnetic. 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.”

“Columbia has that new neuroscience center.”

“Stanford has year-round sunshine.”

“Columbia has,” she pauses meaningfully, “bagels.”

I flop back to the floor and sigh. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m just saying, running away to California won’t fix your heartache. And we’d be closer to each other. Like a car ride away.”

“A long car ride. And I’m not running away! I’m making a rational, professional decision about my academic future. That has absolutely nothing to do with Liam.”

“There’s still hope I’ll get off the Stanford waitlist,” she chimes and turns to her toes again.

Meanwhile on screen, Liam scores a goal that makes the announcer scream like he’s being murdered. But it’s what happens next that makes my breath catch.

“Wait,” I sit up straighter, my hand unconsciously going to my left wrist. “Did he just... ”

“Did he just what?” Jenna’s focused on fanning her toes. “Score another impossibly beautiful goal while looking impossibly beautiful doing it?”

“No, after. His celly. Look at his hands.”

“His hands?” Now she’s interested, pausing mid-stroke. “What about it?”

I rewind the clip, my heart thundering. There it is—the quick touch above his left wrist before pointing skyward. The exact spot where he wrote his number on my arm at the hospital.

“I don’t get it,” Jenna squints at the screen. “Looks like a standard ‘thank the hockey gods’ gesture to me. He’s been doing that a lot lately.”

“He has?” The words come out embarrassingly breathless.

“Oh yeah. After every goal. The commentators think it’s his new good luck ritual or something.” She eyes me suspiciously. “Why? Does it mean something to you?”

I force my hand away from my wrist, where I can almost feel the phantom press of his marker.

“No,” I fib, reaching for Stanford’s brochure again. “Just...weird.”

On screen, Liam’s frozen mid-celly, his fingers pressed to his wrist, and suddenly, three thousand miles doesn’t feel nearly far enough away.