Chapter 20
twenty
MAYA
The sticky residue on the table is winning its battle against my vodka soda, threatening to glue the whole thing down permanently. And, as I lift the drink—overpriced, weak—there’s an actual sucking sound as it separates from the tabletop.
“—and then Professor Pratt had the audacity to suggest my technique was wrong,” Priya’s saying, her voice pitched high with indignation.
“Mmm,” I respond, the noncommittal sound lost in the cacophony of drunk hockey players—minus Maine—at the pool table behind us.
Sophie leans forward to pick up my slack with Priya. “But did you tell him about your clinical placement stats? You had the highest success rate in?—“
Grateful for the cover, my mind drifts, and through the haze of stale beer smell and too-loud classic rock that’s a staple at O’Neil’s, all I can think about is the way Maine looked this morning, sleep-rumpled and shirtless in our kitchen, making coffee for?—
“Maya?” Sophie’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Are you OK? You’ve been staring at that beer sign for five minutes.”
“Just tired,” I lie, forcing myself to refocus, given Priya’s moved on to complaining about the parking situation at the hospital.
But I’m not interested.
The truth is, I shouldn’t be here. I should be home with Maine, continuing our weird domestic dance where we orbit each other without ever acknowledging the gravitational pull.
Where we share meals and ‘accidental’ touches and looks that last too long, all while pretending it’s still just about the sex.
Except it’s not just about the sex anymore.
Not since that night at the club. Not since I started finding his hoodies—the big, comfy ones—mysteriously appearing on my desk chair when I’m stressed about coursework. Not since he started texting me stupid memes during his shifts at Pizza Plus just to make me laugh.
“—completely unfair grading rubric,” Priya’s still going, gesturing wildly with her cosmo. “Right?”
“Totally,” I agree, having no idea what I’m agreeing to, but I hope it doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass.
Sophie’s giving me the look that says she sees right through my bullshit but isn’t going to call me on it in public. She knows something’s shifted with Maine and me—she probably knew before I did—but the few times she’s tried to raise it, I’ve shot her down.
“Ladies.”
The voice cuts through our conversation like nails on a chalkboard and draws me out of my distracted introspection. A guy drops into one of the empty chairs at our table without invitation, his cologne so strong it makes my eyes water, and within a second my guard is up.
Everything about him screams trying too hard—the deliberately messy hair that probably took twenty minutes to style, the Patagonia vest over a button-down that’s unbuttoned one button too many, and the confidence that borders on delusion.
“I couldn’t help but notice you three beautiful women sitting here all alone,” he says, all sleaze.
Priya, ever the optimist when it comes to male attention, perks up slightly. Sophie’s expression goes carefully neutral. But both of them glance at me as I take a long sip of my vodka soda, because I’m usually the one who eviscerates unwanted creeps.
“I’m Brad,” he announces, like we asked. “Are you ladies freshmen?”
“Graduate program,” Sophie says politely. “Nursing.”
His eyes swing to me, and something predatory flickers in them when they do the slow crawl from my face to my chest and back up. He makes my skin crawl, like he’s looking at a ‘stripper’ instead of a medical professional, but it’s clear he’s got a thing for nurses…
“Bet you have to dress up real nice for the doctors,” he guffaws.
The rage that floods through me is instant and familiar. It tastes like every condescending comment my father ever made about my career choice, and like every family dinner where my siblings’ achievements in law and finance were celebrated while mine were dismissed.
Brad leans closer, his breath reeking of cheap beer and entitlement. “You know, you should practice on me… I’m pre-med.”
The words are forming on my tongue—something about how the only thing I’d be practicing on him would be my right hook—when suddenly Maine is there, pulling up a chair like he’s been part of our group all along. I blink twice, shocked, because I didn’t even know he was here, and now he’s here .
He doesn’t even acknowledge Brad’s existence, his blue eyes focused entirely on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. “Ladies,” he says.
I smile at him, because I know this will be good.
The Maine Show.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, his voice carrying that particular calm that I’ve learned means he’s anything but. “But we were just arguing about it at the bar—what’s the titration protocol for administering IV dopamine in a hypotensive patient who isn’t responding to fluid resuscitation?”
The question hangs in the air like a perfectly thrown punch. Brad’s mouth opens slightly, his forehead creasing in confusion. But I know exactly what Maine’s doing, and the warm rush of gratitude and amusement mixes into something I really don’t want to name.
“Well,” I say, sitting up straighter, meeting Maine’s eyes with a smile that feels like conspiracy, “you’d start at two to five micrograms per kilogram per minute, but you have to consider the biphasic response.
At low doses, you’re primarily hitting dopaminergic receptors, which can cause renal and mesenteric vasodilation. ”
Maine nods, leaning forward with genuine interest. “Right, but at what point do you start seeing the beta-1 adrenergic effects?”
“Usually around five to ten mics per kig per minute,” I continue, warming to the topic despite myself, and deliberately not looking at Brad.
“That’s when you get the increased cardiac contractility and heart rate.
But push past ten, especially up toward twenty, and you’re hitting alpha receptors hard. ”
“Which causes?”
“Systemic vasoconstriction. It can be useful in severe shock, but you’re also looking at increased afterload and potential for arrhythmias. Plus, if you’re not careful with your IV site, extravasation with high-dose dopamine can cause tissue necrosis.”
“Because of the alpha-mediated vasoconstriction,” Maine adds, and the fact that he actually knows this makes something flutter in my chest.
He’s not studying medicine or anything health-related.
But here he is, quizzing me on it, and running rings around Brad.
Did Maine Hamilton… research what I was studying?
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s why you need to monitor the site carefully, and some protocols recommend having phentolamine on hand for infiltration if it occurs.”
We’re completely absorbed in each other now, our conversation a rapid-fire exchange of medical terminology slash flirting.
Brad shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes darting between us like he’s watching a tennis match he doesn’t understand.
And the look on his face makes me feel sorry for his future patients.
We go back and forth for another minute, diving into receptor pharmacology and hemodynamic monitoring, and I’m vaguely aware that Sophie is watching us with her eyebrows raised and an ‘I-told-you-so’ look on her face, while Priya looks completely lost.
But mostly I’m aware of Maine—the way he’s looking at me like I’m the most fascinating thing in the room, the way he’s matching me point for point in this discussion, the way he’s created this bubble of competence and respect around me that Brad couldn’t penetrate with a fire axe.
Finally, Brad mutters something about getting another drink and practically flees from the table. The second he’s gone, Maine’s posture shifts subtly. He leans back just slightly, a gesture that somehow communicates that the floor is mine now, and that I get to deliver the killing blow.
I turn to Brad’s retreating form, making sure my voice is loud enough for him to hear. “The only thing I’d be ‘practicing’ on you is how to intubate a corpse.”
The grin that spreads across Maine’s face is slow and appreciative, like I’ve just done something remarkable. He gives me a single nod—small, almost imperceptible, but weighted with respect—before pushing back his chair and standing.
“Ladies,” he says to our table, that easy charm back in place.
Then his eyes find mine one more time, holding for a beat longer than necessary, before he heads back toward the pool tables where his teammates have just realized he’s arrived at the bar, and are greeting him like a returning hero.
My hero.
I watch him, my mind spinning. That wasn’t just standing up for me. That was something else entirely. He didn’t swoop in like some white-knight to save the damsel. He didn’t try to intimidate Brad with his size or his status as a hockey player.
Instead, he recognized the precise nature of the insult—the professional dismissal, the reduction of my chosen career to something decorative and servile—and he set me up to counter it with intelligence and respect. It was a professional alley-oop, letting me complete the dunk.
And the medical knowledge… when the hell did he start reading about vasopressor protocols? The only explanation that makes sense sends warmth spreading through my chest: he’s been reading up on my coursework, learning about what I do so he can understand it.
“OK, what was all that?” Priya demands, staring at me with wide eyes.
“That,” Sophie says slowly, a smile playing at her lips, “was The Maine Show.”
“Since when does he know anything about medicine?” Priya’s voice pitches up.
Since he started caring about what matters to me, apparently.
The thought is terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
“Maya.” Sophie’s voice is gentle but insistent. “You OK?”
I force myself to look away, to meet her concerned gaze. “Yeah. I’m… I’m good.”
But I’m not good. I’m in so much trouble. Because while we’ve been living in domestic bliss with Maine, doing everything a couple does except calling ourselves a couple, he’s been worming his way into my feels. With his own brand of charm, sure, but also with something far more dangerous.
Understanding and respect.
“I need another drink,” I announce, standing abruptly.
“I’ll come,” Sophie says, clearly not buying my sudden need for alcohol.
We make our way to the bar, weaving through the crowd. I can feel Maine’s presence somewhere in the room like a magnetic pull, but I don’t let myself look for him. Not yet. I need to get my shit together first, figure out what the hell I’m feeling and what I’m going to do about it.
And figure out how he feels as well.