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I drag my fingertip through the condensation on my cup, watching the water gather against my skin. I hate that one test has managed to turn years of work into something I can barely look at without feeling every place I fell short. More than anything, I hate how badly I want someone to tell me what I’m supposed to do now, because I spent so long believing I already knew.

I push away from the table, toss my plate into the trash, and head back to the conference room that has become my makeshift office. My laptop is still open on the table beside the work I abandoned, and I sink into the chair expecting to pick up where I left off. Except there isn’t much left to pick up. I finished most of what Dad needed this morning, and the few things still waiting on me can’t be done until he gets out of meetings.

For the first time since I came home, I have nowhere else to put my attention. I stare at the laptop screen, trying to think of one more thing Dad needs from me, but the only question that comes is the one I’ve been finding ways not to answer.

Do I even want to do this again?

My throat tightens as I stare at the keyboard until the letters blur enough that I have to blink them back into focus. The frustrating part is that I still want to be a doctor, and it would be so much simpler if failing had made me stop wanting it. If I could look at the months I spent exhausted and miserable and feel relieved to have an excuse to walk away, at least I could start over without wondering whether every other future would feel like I settled. But when I picture letting medicine go, I don’t feel relieved. I feel like I’ve lost something before I’ve even decided to give it up.

I turn back to the keyboard and search for information about retaking the exam. I avoid the testing calendar and read instead about what another attempt would mean—how another score would be reported, what medical schools would see, and what taking it a third time could mean for my applications.

For years, there was no if anywhere in my future. The plan was to finish college, apply to medical school, and become a doctor. Whenever something went wrong, the answer was always to work harder until I forced myself back onto the path. Even after my first score wasn’t what I needed, I never asked whether I wanted to take the test again. I registered because, of course, I did.

The second time was supposed to fix everything. I studied harder because I didn’t know what else to do, turning every missed practice question into proof that I needed another chance to find whatever I was still getting wrong. By the time I walked into the testing center, I was so tired I couldn’t remember the last morning I’d woken up without immediately calculating how much I needed to accomplish before I could sleep again. And I still didn’t get the score I needed.

Tears pool in my eyes, but I don’t look away from the screen. I’ve spent so much time trying to understand how I failed that I’ve never let myself ask whether the way I’m trying to succeed is destroying me. But no matter how scared or angry I am, I still want another chance to walk into that testing center without believing everything I am is going to be measured by the number waiting for me afterward.

I just don’t know if I’m ready to find out, and the part of me that has spent most of my life preparing for every outcome immediately starts looking for a way around that. I could research what I should change this time and figure out how long I’d need before I could sit for the exam again. By tonight, I’d have enough information to convince myself I know exactly what comes next.

I started searching because I needed to know whether another attempt was even something I could consider, and after everything I’ve read, it is. That doesn’t mean I have to know what happens after that. A testing date could be pulled up in seconds and a study schedule started before Dad gets out of his meeting. Part of me wants the relief that would come with turning all of this into something I can follow.

Instead, I close the laptop and wait for the unanswered question to bother me enough that I’ll open it again, but after a few moments, the urge passes. Wanting another chance doesn’t mean I have to decide today whether I’m going to take it.

Chapter Thirteen

Jubal

The ball hits my hands, and Archer is already moving before I finish the fake. I pull it into my stomach, turn my shoulders toward him, and watch the linebacker take two steps downhill before I bring the ball back up. King clears the corner on the right side exactly where he’s supposed to, but the safety doesn’t follow him. He stays planted over the top, reading my eyes instead of the route developing beneath him, and I know where the ball needs to go before Sullivan breaks across the middle.

The ball leaves my hand a fraction of a second before Sullivan is ready for it, forcing him to reach behind himself instead of catching it in stride. His hands close around the leather, but the hesitation gives the linebacker enough time to meet him at the hip and wrap him up without taking him to the ground before the whistle blows.

“Fuck.” Sullivan tucks the ball beneath his arm and looks back at me. “That’d have been a touchdown if I didn’t have to perform fucking yoga to catch it.”

“You’re welcome for keeping you flexible.”

A few guys laugh as they reset, but Sullivan tosses the ball back, and I catch it against my chest and glance toward the defense while he takes his place beside me.

“You flattened it.”

His eyebrows pull together. “I was where I’m supposed to be.”

“You were, but then you saw the LB drop and flattened it.”

“I had space.”

“You had space because he wanted you to think you had space.”

He looks across the line, finding the linebacker waiting on the other side. The guy gives him a little wave when he realizes we’re talking about him, which earns him a view of Sullivan’s middle finger.

“He’s passing you off to the safety when you carry it across. Stay on the angle for another two steps and make him choose.”

“And if he sits?”

“It’s my job to put it on you before he can.”

Sullivan considers what I said for half a second before nodding once. “Again.”

Coach hasn’t blown the whistle to reset yet, but the rest of the offense is already moving back into position. King taps two fingers against his chest from the outside, asking whether I want the same look, and I nod before turning toward the huddle.