Ella
I wasn’t really expecting to sleep before my boards. I tried studying all night, but my thoughts kept drifting to Bernard and his struggle with his dad’s shitty attitude.
I had a brief revelation that his father’s behavior sounds similar to CTE case studies I’ve read, but that seems like a conversation above my pay grade. Which is really low.
I drag myself out of bed before dawn on Leap Day, shower, and toss on a sweatsuit I’d never wear in public. But a life-determining test doesn’t count as public.
I tiptoe out of the bedroom expecting a dark living room and sleeping sex tutor, but instead I find the stove light on and Bernard awake, dressed, standing at the counter with two steaming mugs of coffee.
"Morning," he says, sliding a mug toward me.
I know that today is his day to sleep in, that he and my brother have game film and a light workout, but no other team responsibilities. So why is Bernard Houser up hours before he needs to be? “You didn't have to get up."
"I know."
I wrap my hands around the mug and let the heat seep into my fingers. Jason's door is closed. The apartment is silent except for the refrigerator and the faint sounds of the building elevator.
Bernard leans against the counter across from me. “I figure, I must be a pretty good tutor since you aced the sex stuff.”
My jaw drops, and I smack his arm. “Quiet. What are you trying to do?”
He rolls his eyes. “I just meant, I knew you’d be nervous about your test, and I wanted to tell you what I do before games. Prep tutoring.”
My heart rate slows infinitesimally. “If it involves a special jockstrap, I don't want to know."
He smiles, the warmth of his energy soothing me.
"I close my eyes, and I picture the ice.
Not the game — just the ice. The feel of it under my skates.
The cold air. The sound of a clean pass hitting tape.
" He taps the counter. "I don't think about winning or losing.
I just put myself in a place where I know what I'm doing.
Where my body takes over, and my brain gets out of the way. "
I stare at him. My body certainly excels when he is what I’m doing. But my brain has never cooperated that way. Ever.
Bernard leans closer, though. “You know what you're doing, Ella. Your body knows this stuff. Just let it take over."
My eyes sting. I blink it away and take a sip of coffee that burns my tongue. "That's actually good advice."
"I have my moments."
My phone buzzes on the counter. Then again. Then three times in rapid succession.
McKenzie
YOU'VE GOT THIS, QUEEN Remember: the answer is always assess before you intervene
Aarthi
Ella Rujkowski, you are smarter than any test. I believe in you. Also, my mother wants to know if you're single. Ignore that part.
McKenzie
Wait, Aarthi's mom wants to set Ella up??
Aarthi
IGNORE THAT PART
Then a message rolls in from a number I saved last week:
Jules
Good luck today, Ella! You're stronger than you think. See you Saturday
I press the phone against my chest. I have people who believe in me and know what today means. My own parents have barely reached out since I moved in with Jason. To be fair, they don’t call him much either.
It’s too scary to trust their faith in me, though. It’s like this thing with Bernard…it tastes sweet, but feels fleeting. All dependent on me actually passing a test that really seems impossible.
Bernard walks around the counter and begins to rinse his mug, opening the dishwasher, wrinkling his nose adorably at the odor that wafts out. “When do you need to be there, Ella? I’ll drop you off.”
I set my own mug down. "Bernard."
"Yeah?"
"I think I should take the bus to the testing center."
Something shifts in his face. "Let me drive you."
"It's better if you keep your distance today. Jason could wake up, and—"
"Ella."
"I need to do this on my own." I press both palms to the ostentatious marble countertop. "And honestly …after my boards, I'll be out of both your hair."
He goes still. "What do you mean?"
"If by some miracle I pass, I'll have a real paycheck.
I can find my own apartment. Get out of your room.
Give you back your bed and your closet and your drawer.
" I try to smile. "And if I fail — which, let's be realistic — I'll head back to Minnesota to my parents’ house and figure out next steps. "
He stares at me like I just told him I'm moving to Mars.
"Either way," I say, "it's time for me to stop crashing with my brother."
He grips the edge of the counter and frowns. I watch him choose his words the way he does when something matters — carefully, slowly, fighting his own instinct just to say the first thing that comes to mind.
"Okay," he says.
That's all. But his jaw is tight, and his hand on the counter has gone white at the knuckles, and I know that okay is not what he wanted to say.
I finish my coffee and start gathering my things, putting on my coat and pink sneakers. I smile, remembering I had them on at the airport when Bernard picked me up. But I shouldn’t smile about Bernard. Not in that way.
Instead, I remind myself of his visualization advice, give him a wave, and walk toward the door.
The bus to the testing center takes forty minutes. I sit by the window, close my eyes, and picture the ER. The feel of a blood bag in my hands. The steady beep of a monitor. The calm that settles over me when a patient needs me, and my body knows what to do.
I don't think about passing or failing. I just put myself in a place where I know what I'm doing.
The testing center is a beige building in a strip mall between a sub shop and a dry cleaner. Inside, it smells like carpet cleaner and anxiety. I check in, lock my phone and bag in a cubby, and sit down at a computer terminal in a room full of strangers who all look as terrified as I feel.
The first question appears on the screen. A patient presents with acute chest pain radiating to the left arm. Which intervention should the nurse perform first?
I read it twice. The words try to swim, but I hold them in place, hear Bernard's voice asking the question out loud in my head, and click my answer.
The next question loads. And the next. And the next.
Some I know instantly — the trauma questions, the emergency protocols, the things I do with my hands every shift. Some I wrestle with — pharmacology dosages, lab values, and priority-setting questions where every answer seems half-right. I read each one twice. I breathe. I let my body take over.
The computer shuts off at question 88.
I stare at the blank screen. The minimum is 75. The maximum is 145. I have no idea if 88 is good or catastrophic. The screen tells me results will be available in 48 hours and thanks me for completing the examination.
And … that’s it.
I have now completed the thing that’s been standing in my way. There’s nothing more to do but grab my stuff and head outside into the February chill.
The sky is gray and flat, and the air bites my cheeks as I cross the sidewalk, not knowing if I’m a nurse.
I start walking toward the bus stop, legs hollow and brain full of static.
But then I see the G-Wagon.
Parked outside the sub shop is a familiar black SUV, with a familiar, enormous man leaning against the rear bumper. He has his arms crossed over his massive chest, a hat pulled low over his curls. He looks like an ad for something expensive and irresponsible.
The sob hits me before I can stop it — not sadness, not failure, just the raw, cracking overwhelm of someone showing up when you told them not to because they knew you needed them to.
My vision blurs and my throat seizes, and I'm walking, and then I'm running across the parking lot, backpack bouncing against my spine, and I crash into him so hard he rocks back against the bumper.
His arms close around me, tight and solid, wrapping me up the way they did that night he climbed into bed beside me by accident. Except this time he’s holding me on purpose, in broad daylight.
"I've got you," he says against my hair.
I press my face into his chest and cry. It’s like he released a blood pressure cuff for my emotions.
His big hand strokes my hair. His lips press against the top of my head. He just holds me and lets me shake and breathes steadily against my hair like he's trying to lend me his calm.
"You came," I manage.
"Of course I did."
"I told you not to."
"You tell me a lot of things I ignore.” His cheek settles against the top of my head. "It's part of my charm."
I laugh into his hoodie. It comes out wet and broken, but it's a laugh, and his arms tighten, and for thirty seconds the world is just this: Bernard's chest against my face, Bernard's hand in my hair, Bernard's lips on my head, and the feeling of warm support.
Then I hear a car.
Bass music thuds loud enough that I glance over to see an expensive car driving too fast, screeching to a halt in the lot. I recognize Jason’s souped-up SUV, which comes to a halt a foot away from Bernard and me.
Through the windshield, I see my brother’s face, frozen, like he’s watching a replay of a penalty the ref missed.
I see my brother notice Bernard's arms around me. Bernard's hand in my hair. And my tear-streaked face pressed against his best friend's chest.
Jason kills the engine. The silence is thunderous.
He opens the door, steps out, and stands in the cold with his jaw locked and his eyes moving between me and Bernard while he finally sees what I’ve been trying to pretend wasn’t happening.
My brother growls and finally says, “What the fuck is this?”