“We’ve met,” I say, fighting to keep my composure. This must be the woman who interrupted our phone conversation last night. The girl Luke was really waiting for.
I’d like to scratch her eyes out.
Instead, I force myself to take slow, deep breaths, and remind myself that I don’t care about Luke Carlton anymore. He and Sloane can ride off into the sunset together, and I won’t even notice. After all, I’m just here to watch Austin.
“Are you okay?” Sloane asks.
I glance up and see she’s looking at me with concern. If I don’t pull myself together, she’ll probably diagnose me with a mini-stroke or a panic attack. Or maybe acute jealousy.
“Yeah, fine.” I look down at her laptop. “What are you working on?”
Her face lights up. “Oh, Luke and I are doing a research project. We’re looking at the best way for doctors to introduce themselves.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” she says, with an enthusiastic nod. “See, I could introduce myself as Dr. Reynolds, which sounds really formal, or Dr. Sloane Reynolds, which is a little better. Or I could say I’m Dr. Reynolds, my first name is Sloane.”
“I see.” I don’t really see—I have a hard time believing patients care that much—but there’s no point arguing with Dr. Sloane.
“So we’re doing a trial on the three options. I’m in pediatrics and Luke’s a surgeon, but the research is relevant in both disciplines.”
“It sounds very interesting,” I lie politely.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a mom.” I don’t add that I’m also a math teacher, because it’s only a temporary gig.
“Oh, how nice,” Sloane replies.
Her tone is condescending, but I take the comment at face value. “Yeah, it is.” I glance down at the ice and see that Austin has a breakaway.
“Go Austin!” I scream, standing to clap. He feints to the right, then shoots the puck between the goalie’s legs.
“GOAL!” I yell enthusiastically. As one of the only two spectators in the arena, I’ve attracted the players’ attention. Austin takes off his glove and blows me a kiss, and his teammates look amused. All except Luke, that is, who’s refusing to look at me.
The game resumes, and a few minutes later, Luke gets a breakaway. There’s an opposing defenseman hot on his heels, and I hold my breath as he shoots—and misses. The defenseman collides with Luke, and the two of them hit the boards.
I let out a breath of relief as both players skate away, apparently unharmed.
“I wish Luke would stop playing hockey,” Sloane remarks. “It’s so violent.”
“Yeah, but he loves it. I mean, I imagine he must, or he wouldn’t bother.”
Sloane sighs. “Yeah, but a bad injury could end his career. After so many years of training, it would be tragic.”
“Yeah, but you could say that about NHL players too.”
Sloane’s brow furrows. She’s one of those irritating girls who look cute with a furrowed brow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, NHL players spend years playing hockey tomake it to the NHL, and one bad injury could end a career.”
She laughs as though I’ve said something cute. “Yes, but hockeyistheir career. Luke’s asurgeon.”
It’s clear that she thinks surgeons belong to a higher stratosphere of society than the rest of us. Maybe even higher than NHL players.
“Statistically, he’s probably at higher risk of getting injured in a car crash than playing Men’s League Hockey.” I don’t actually know this, but it seems like something that might be true. When you think about it, it’s amazing that anyone dares to get in a car.
Sloane gives me a patronizing look. “If you’re not in medicine, it’s hard to understand.”
