CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CELEbrATING TOGETHER
Elise
We barely make it through the front door.
Grant has me pinned against the wall before Wyatt finishes locking it. His mouth is on mine, hands everywhere, still riding the high of winning.
“Bedroom,” Jordie manages. “We should—bedroom—”
We don’t make it to the bedroom.
We make it to the couch.
Clothes come off in a blur. Grant’s hands are shaking—adrenaline, desire, or both—as he pulls my jersey over my head.
“I love this,” he says, looking at the numbers. “Love that you wore all of us.”
“I’m all of yours.”
“Yeah, you are.”
Wyatt’s behind me, hands on my hips, mouth on my neck. “Been thinking about this all game.”
“During the game?” My voice is breathless.
“Every time I saw you in the stands wearing us.” His teeth graze my skin. “Drove me insane.”
Jordie’s already down to his boxer briefs, palming himself. “We gonna talk or—”
“Both,” Grant says. He’s pulling me onto his lap. “We’re gonna do both.”
What follows is victory and celebration and love all tangled together.
Grant inside me, Wyatt’s hands steadying my hips, Jordie’s mouth on my breast. The three of them work together like they do on the ice—passing me between them, each knowing exactly what the others are doing.
“So perfect,” Grant says. “You’re so perfect for us.”
Wyatt praises every sound I make. Jordie narrates like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
It’s overwhelming and intense, and when I finally come—Grant buried deep, Wyatt’s fingers on my clit, Jordie’s voice in my ear—it’s all three of them that put me there.
Afterward, we’re boneless. Sweaty. Satisfied.
Grant’s still inside me. Wyatt’s wrapped around us both. Jordie’s got his face buried in my hair.
“That was—” I can’t finish the sentence.
“Championship-worthy?” Jordie suggests.
“Shut up.”
He’s grinning against my shoulder. “Make me.”
So I do. I kiss him until he’s making those needy sounds that mean he’s ready for round two.
Which turns into round three.
And round four.
By the time we finally collapse into bed—all four of us tangled together because we stopped pretending to use separate rooms—it’s almost sunrise.
Grant’s fingers trace patterns on my spine. Wyatt’s breathing evens out. Jordie’s already half asleep.
“I love you,” I say to all of them. To none of them. To the room.
“Love you too,” they answer in unison.
Perfect.
Everything’s perfect.
Monday morning comes too fast.
My Johns Hopkins interview is in four hours.
Grant makes me breakfast. Wyatt helps me pick an outfit. Jordie stress-reorganizes my notes until I have to physically remove them from his hands.
“You’re ready,” Grant says. “You’ve got this.”
“What if—”
“No what-ifs.” He cups my face. “You’re brilliant. They’d be idiots not to accept you.”
“Grant’s right,” Wyatt adds. “Which is rare, so—”
“I’m right more than you think.”
“Debatable.”
“Guys.” Jordie checks his watch. “She’s got three hours. Stop bickering.”
At 9:45, I’m set up at the kitchen table with my laptop. Professional blazer. Notes organized. Water bottle nearby.
The guys are in the living room, trying to be quiet but failing spectacularly.
10 AM. The Zoom link activates.
Dr. Choi appears on screen, along with two other faculty members.
“Miss Hart. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Dr. Choi. Thank you again for—”
“Let’s skip the pleasantries. We’ve got a lot to cover.” But she’s smiling. “Tell me why you want to be a doctor.”
I take a breath.
And I tell them.
About my mother. About growing up watching her resent the daughter she never wanted.
About working three jobs to pay for undergrad. About choosing Crestmont’s pre-med program even though it meant living with three strange guys during a housing crisis.
About falling in love. About fighting for it. About learning that loving people doesn’t make you weak—it makes you stronger.
By the time I finish, one of the other faculty members is wiping her eyes.
Dr. Choi just nods. “Now tell me about your research proposal.”
The next ninety minutes are intense. They drill me on anatomy, ethics, and research methodology. They ask about my plans for specialization and my thoughts on healthcare access.
Through it all, I can hear the guys in the living room. Wyatt shushing Jordie, Grant telling them both to shut up.
It makes me smile.
Dr. Choi notices. “Something funny, Miss Hart?”
“No ma’am. Just—grateful.”
“For what?”
“For being allowed to have both. This interview and them.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then: “We’ll be in touch with our decision within two weeks.”
The interview ends.
I close my laptop.
I sit there for a second, just breathing.
Then Grant’s beside me, pulling me into his arms. “How’d it go?”
“Good. I think. Maybe?”
“You killed it,” Jordie says. “We could hear you being brilliant through the walls.”
“You were listening?”
“Obviously.”
Wyatt hands me water. “They’d be stupid not to take you.”
“We’ll see.”
But I feel good. Hopeful even.
My phone buzzes.
FROM:[email protected]: Application Update
My hands shake as I open it.
Dear Miss Hart,
The admissions committee has reviewed your application and interview. We’re pleased to offer you early acceptance into our MD program beginning fall semester.
I read it three times.
Four times.
“Elise?” Grant’s voice sounds far away. “What is it?”
“I got in.” My voice cracks. “I got into Johns Hopkins.”
The kitchen erupts.
Jordie’s shouting. Wyatt’s hugging me so tight I can’t breathe. Grant’s just staring at me with an expression of pride, joy, and something that looks like grief.
“Baltimore,” he says quietly.
And just like that, reality crashes back.
I got into Johns Hopkins. In Baltimore.
Grant’s going to Boston. Wyatt’s going to Chicago. Jordie’s—Jordie still doesn’t know where he’ll end up, but it won’t be Maryland.
Four different cities.
Four different lives.
“Hey.” Jordie catches my face. “Don’t do that. Don’t spiral.”
“How are we supposed to—”
“We’ll figure it out,” Wyatt says. “We always figure it out.”
“But what if—”
“No what-ifs,” Grant repeats his words from this morning, but his voice is rougher now. “We knew this was coming.”
“Doesn’t make it easier.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
We stand there in the kitchen. The four of us, holding onto each other like we can stop time through sheer force of will.
“I don’t want to lose you,” I whisper. “Any of you.”
“You won’t,” Jordie says fiercely. “Distance doesn’t change this.”
“Doesn’t it?”