Jackson
I can’t stop thinking about her hands.
It’s been three days since the anatomy session, and I can still feel Priya Sharma’s fingers on my skin. Driving me absolutely insane.
I’ve been with plenty of girls. Had my share of hookups, a few short relationships, nothing serious. But I’ve never been affected like this by someone just touching my skin.
She was so focused, so serious, so completely in control, and I wanted to make her lose that control. I wanted to see her unravel, see what she looks like when she’s not being the perfect pre-med student.
The tattoo comment surprised me. She noticed. Actually looked at it instead of just seeing another hockey player covered in ink.
Most people don’t know I’m an art major. It’s easier to let them think I’m just another dumb jock riding an athletic scholarship. Easier than explaining that I paint until 3 AM most nights, that I’ve been accepted to RISD’s graduate program, that hockey is just my way of paying for my real passion.
My phone buzzes during practice. Text from Priya.
Priya: Tutoring session tomorrow 4 PM. Don’t forget we’re covering molecular orbital theory.
Me: Will I need to take my shirt off for that too?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Priya: No. And that was for anatomical study purposes only.
Me: Sure it was. See you tomorrow, Sharma.
No response.
Carter skates up beside me during a water break. “You’re distracted today. Is everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“You missed an easy pass in that last drill. You never miss those.” He studies me too carefully. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
“About?”
“None of your business.”
“Is this about that TA you’ve been complaining about? The one who’s supposedly making your life hell with Chemistry?” He’s our captain and he knows his players better that we know our selfs, it’s fucking annoying.
“I’m not complaining about her.”
“You literally said last week that she’s ‘an uptight know-it-all who acts like molecular bonding is more important than hockey.’”
“Yeah, well. She’s not that bad.”
Carter’s eyes narrow. “Wait. Do you like her?”
“What? No. She’s my TA and my anatomy model assignment. It’s professional.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” He grins. “What’s her name?”
“Priya Sharma. And before you say anything—”
“The pre-med student? Maya knows her. Says she’s brilliant but works too hard.”
“That’s her.”
“And you like her.” Carter jokes, and I want to punch him right now.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to. You get this look.” He claps my shoulder. “Good luck with that. She seems way out of your league.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Just being honest. She’s got a 4.0 and a future in medicine. You’re a hockey player who barely passes Chemistry.” Now that does piss me off, and before I can stop myself the words are out of my mouth.
“I’m also an artist with a full ride to RISD next year, but thanks for reducing me to my GPA.”
Carter looks surprised. “Wait, really? RISD? The Rhode Island School of Design?”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know you were serious about art.” Now he’s the serious captain, wanting to know about his player.
“Nobody does. That’s kind of the point.” I grab my stick. “Can we drop this?”
“Sure. But Jacks? If you like her, maybe actually tell her about the art thing. She might surprise you.”
The tutoring session the next day starts professionally enough that I can keep myself together.
Priya’s set up in the corner of the library reserved for TA sessions, textbooks and notes spread across the table in that organized chaos that somehow makes sense to her because to me it looks like a full mess.
She’s wearing glasses today, black frames that make her look even more serious. Her dark hair is pulled back in a bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She’s in scrubs from her clinical rotation, and somehow even hospital clothes look good on her.
“Molecular orbital theory,” she says without preamble. “Do you understand the basic concept?”
“Atoms share electrons to form bonds?”
“That’s molecular bond theory, which is different. Molecular orbital theory describes how atomic orbitals combine to form molecular orbitals that are delocalized over the entire molecule.”
I stare at her.
She sighs. “Okay, let’s start simpler. You know what an atomic orbital is, right?”
“The region around an atom where electrons are likely to be found?”
“Good. Now imagine two atoms coming together. Their atomic orbitals overlap and combine to create new molecular orbitals. Some are bonding orbitals, lower in energy, more stable. Some are antibonding, higher in energy, less stable.”
She’s drawing diagrams as she talks, her hand moving confidently across the page.
I should be paying attention to chemistry.
But I’m paying attention to the way her lips move when she explains things.
The way she tucks that loose strand of hair behind her ear.
The way her eyes light up when she’s talking about something she’s passionate about.
“Are you listening?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Then what did I just say?”
“Something about orbitals being bonding or antibonding depending on energy levels.”
She looks surprised. “Actually, yes. That’s correct.”
“I’m not stupid, Sharma. I’m just better at visual learning than memorizing formulas.”
“I didn’t say you were stupid.” She quickly tells me, and I believe her.
“You implied it.”
“I did not.” She pushes the diagram toward me. “Here. Draw the molecular orbital diagram for oxygen.”
I pick up the pencil and start drawing. It’s not perfect, but I get the basic structure right, atomic orbitals on each side, molecular orbitals in the middle, electrons filled in according to energy levels.
Priya leans over to check my work, and I catch a hint of her scent, something clean and slightly floral, like jasmine.
“This is actually good,” she says. “You just had the antibonding sigma orbital in the wrong position. Here—”
She reaches across to correct my diagram, her arm brushing against mine. The contact is brief, incidental, but I feel it like an electric shock.
She freezes.
For a moment, we’re both very still, her arm against mine, her face close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her brown eyes.
“Sorry,” she says, pulling back quickly. “I was just…the orbital placement was wrong.”
“It’s fine.”
“We should stay focused.” The words come out in a whisper, but I hear the nervousness in them.
“On molecular orbitals.”
“Yes. On molecular orbitals.” She’s not looking at me, focusing intently on the diagram. “Which are very important for understanding chemical bonding.”
“Right. Very important.”
We work in silence for a few minutes, but the tension is there, humming between us like a live wire.
“Can I ask you something?” I say finally.
“If it’s about Chemistry, yes.”
“It’s not. Why pre-med? Why the crazy hours and the stress and the constant pressure?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “My parents are both doctors. Cardiologist and neurosurgeon. They met in medical school, got married during residency, and had me during their fellowships. Medicine is the family business.”
“But is it what you want?”
“Of course it’s what I want.”
“That wasn’t convincing,” I tell her.
She sets down her pen. “It doesn’t matter what I want. This is the path. Graduate top of my class, get into a good medical school, specialize in something prestigious, make my parents proud.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“Says the guy who trains six hours a day.”
“That’s different. I love hockey. It’s fun.” I fight my case, because it's true. I won’t do anything I don’t enjoy.
“Medicine will be fun once I’m actually practicing.”
“Will it though?”
She looks at me, really looks at me, and for a second I see something underneath the perfect student facade. Uncertainty. Maybe even doubt.
“I don’t know,” she admits quietly. “I’ve never let myself think about it.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe you should focus on Chemistry instead of psychoanalyzing me,” she snaps, and it makes me smile, because she looks cute right now.
“I can multitask.”
She almost smiles. Almost.
We spend the next hour actually working on molecular orbital theory, and I’m surprised to find that I’m starting to understand it. Priya’s good at teaching, patient, clear, willing to explain things multiple ways until the concept clicks.
But I’m also very aware of her. The way she bites her lower lip when she’s thinking. The way she drums her fingers on the table when she’s waiting for me to answer a question. The way her eyes soften when I finally get something right.
“That’s time,” she says, checking her watch. “Same time next week?”
“Actually, I was thinking…” I close my textbook. “What if we changed up the location? The library’s kind of stuffy.”
“Where else would we study?”
“My studio. I have better lighting, more space, less people staring at us.”
“Your studio?” She asks in shock, and she leans back in her chair.
“I paint. Remember? Art major.”
She looks skeptical. “I don’t know…”
“Come on, Sharma. Live dangerously. Study somewhere that’s not the library.” I point around at all the books around us. “You might even find it better to be out of this space.”
“Fine. But we’re actually studying. Not just hanging out.”
“I wouldn't dream of it.”
She gathers her materials, and I watch her organize everything into her bag with that meticulous precision that’s so perfectly her.
“Jackson?” she says as she’s leaving.
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth… I think it’s cool that you paint.”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me staring after her with a stupid grin on my face.