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“Didn’t he just get some clinical trial started?

” Mom asks, and another wave of guilt crashes over me.

Because it’s not a competition, it’s not, and I didn’t go to medical school, and I don’t want to be published in scientific journals, but I don’t like the idea that his life is more together than mine.

That he might be succeeding while I feel like I’m barely treading water.

I also know my parents would have loved for me to follow them into the traditional medical field.

To take a job alongside them. Dr. Jones, Dr. Jones, and Dr. Jones, fixing the world one patient at a time while dressed in perfectly pressed cotton.

“He did!” Dad says. “He was always such a smart kid.”

“Handsome too.” Mom winks at me and I school my expression into calm, unaffected neutrality.

Because, of course that asshole is doing great things.

And of course, my parents still love him.

Meanwhile, I feel like I’m balanced on a tightrope suspended above Niagara Falls.

The balance is precarious, and one misstep will send me crashing down into the churning water below. And my imminent death.

It’s a different field, I remind myself. I might not like the job, but my coworkers are great.

To be fair, Christian’s coworkers might also be fantastic, but he is the worst, so they’ll be suffering, anyway. Poor them.

“How was work today, Dad?” I’m desperate to change the subject. Or at least get it off of Christian. Or me.

“It was a good one. Sixty-forty split.” He means more good news than bad. Those are always the good days. He’s been giving me his day in ratios since I was a kid. Even before I fully understood what it meant and didn’t want to ask for an explanation.“You?”

“Eighty-twenty.” I grin.

“Sit up straight, Sadie. Elbows off the table.” I comply out of habit and mom gives me a soft smile.

Dad passes me a serving dish and I swallow thickly at the sight of the pink slabs of salmon. My mom is a superb cook. I know this. But I do not eat fish. I have never eaten fish.

I used to love fish sticks. Mom likes to remind me of that one, but yeah, those are breaded and fried and barely fish anymore after you drown them in ketchup.Ever take a bite of food and it’s just too… foodie? Yeah. That.

Grandma’s tuna macaroni salad was always your favorite, Dad says every time he makes the old recipe and I politely decline.

First, I didn’t know it was tuna—to be fair, they just called it “macaroni salad”—until I was almost ten. Second, I used to eat around the chunks of fish, anyway.

I force my lips into a smile and pull a piece onto my plate.

I am only one person at this table. Mom spent a lot of time preparing a beautiful dinner.

There’s no need to cause a fuss or hurt her feelings.

Not when I can have a bowl of cereal once everyone heads to bed.

Besides, it’s not like they willfully forget, right? They just forget I don’t eat fish.

“This looks amazing, Sandy,” Dad says, digging right in. I part my lips to breathe in through my mouth. I just cannot handle the smell. “How is school going, Sadie?”

I feel the heat climb my cheeks, grateful no one will notice it on my darker skin. It almost feels like the walls are pressing in around me, the wainscoting trying to suck the life out of my chest cavity. There’s nothing to worry about. My parents love me.

“Great,” I lie with a smile. “My advisor was thrilled with my preliminary report from the work I did with ólaffson this off-season.”

The second part was true, at least.

“That’s our little miracle worker,” Mom smiles at me. “We are so proud of you, Sadie Jones. You’re everything we could have asked for.”

“Next time Bill and I grab lunch after our tee-time, I’m going to tell him he owes me.” Dad laughs. “After all, we did send him the trainer that got his star goalie back up and running.”

I didn’t. I want to protest, but it’s mostly a gut reaction.

I am damn proud of the work Rags and I have accomplished.

I didn’t work miracles, though. An injury like Rags’ takes time to heal.

For a pro-athlete that doesn’t leave a lot of time to rebuild strength, to avoid losing skills.

If it hadn’t been me, Greg would have found someone else—there are five of us on the training team—but I offered.

Partially because it was an excellent opportunity to lead his physio.

To take charge, under Greg’s guidance, of his conditioning and recovery.

My Master’s program requires a capstone project, anyway.

It made sense to use the time I spent one-on-one with the big, bearded goalie toward my degree.

I never hid that fact from Ragnar. He knew I was in it for class credits, but I was also in it for him.

There’s something incredibly humbling, heartbreaking, about seeing a man as strong as Ragnar ólaffson lose everything because of an injury.

Arguably one of the best players in the league, and one nasty hit laid him low. I wanted to help. I still do.

As a bonus, every time Ragnar was sick to death of an exercise, or reaching his limits, he’d grit his teeth and furrow his brow.

“W-w-we’re g-getting you an… A.”

Then he’d finish out the movement as if he were Odysseus throwing the suitors out of his great hall. It was… hot. Not that I let myself go there. But mild-mannered, soft-spoken, Ragnar was hot even if I would not let myself notice.

I’m not looking for a relationship, and even if I was…

well, it wouldn’t be Ragnar ólaffson. Right?

He needs someone softer. Gentler. Someone with their life all figured out.

He looks like he’d be sweet, energetic, but needs a lot of handholding.

I am not that someone. I can barely look after myself.

It has been too long since I’ve had sex, though. Not two years, but long enough. Too bad my tastes swing more towards being told what to do, rather than to tell.

“We always knew you would do amazing things,” Dad says, and I push the salmon around my mom’s everyday china plate while trying to control my rogue thoughts.