Page 5 of The Alternate Captain (Elite Hockey #3)

My emotions are in turmoil. I don’t know how I’ll get through the next two hours.

I lied to my mother this morning when she called to check in.

I’m not chilled. In fact, I’m so far from chilled I’m lava and it’s all my fault.

My concentration is at an all-time low because I’m repeating the carnage of yesterday over and over in my mind.

Top it off with a horrible night of broken sleep, and it’s a whole shit show waiting to happen.

I arrive at the music college in time to freshen up.

Then I wait in the auditorium lobby until my name is called, before walking through to yet another waiting room.

This time, there are six more wannabe students lined up in seats against the wall with an assortment of instruments.

I believe I’m the only cellist. Is this a good sign? How many spots do they have?

Before I can over-analyse the situation more than I already have, I pull my phone out, seeing a flurry of messages wishing me luck for today, but I don’t get a chance to reply. A door opens in the distance, and a woman with a clipboard calls my name, gesturing for me to follow .

I grab my instrument and follow her through to the auditorium, where I’m greeted by four stern-looking assessors sitting behind a long table.

This is when my nerves fully hit.

I’m shaking as I unpack my cello, taking care to haul my bow out of the case without snagging the hairs. I give it four turns on the screw to tighten it before I take a deep breath.

“We will give you a few moments to set up before we get started.” I notice the name plates sitting in front of each assessor and skim over them, trying to commit them to memory.

“When you’re ready, come and sit here and we’ll get the interview underway.

” Dr Robertson, the woman who called me through, points at a chair practically sat under a spotlight.

I set my scores out on the music stand, lay my cello on its side, and make my way over to the chair.

Everyone is staring at me.

Staring.

Eyes burning into my soul.

“Why don’t you start by telling us a bit about yourself? Why would you like to study here?”

A trick question, of course. I know from asking around that they literally just want your name and how long you’ve been playing for. They aren’t even interested in where you’re from or what your qualifications are. They know all that.

I take a moment before replying.

“I’m Kelly. I’ve played the cello for eleven years, switching from the violin at age seven.”

Blank faces stare back at me. But I really have nothing to lose.

I either get in, or I don’t. If I do, happy days, dream come true, yippee.

If I don’t, Plan B. Which is still a viable plan—staying in the university and studying music there, except the course doesn’t carry the same amount of prestige.

I clear my throat before continuing.

“I am interested in studying here because of the college’s distinguished reputation as a world-leading institution in music education. The talent that has emerged from here has influenced my journey as a musician, and I am eager to immerse myself in this inspiring environment.

“The college is all about nurturing artistic excellence and inspiring creativity and innovation, which is exciting. The chance to be instructed by highly esteemed faculty members, who excel both as performers and educators, is an incredibly appealing prospect for me. Their expertise and mentorship will undoubtedly shape my musical progress.”

How I manage to drone on for a few more minutes, is anyone’s guess.

I talk about the varying range of programs and resources, how I want to make myself a better soloist and group musician, blah blah blah.

I’m pretty sure I even mention the state-of-the-art facilities.

Standard jargon that I’ve been half-coached to say by my music teacher and the course director, Patrick.

And I don’t stop there.

“Beyond academics, I am impressed by the sense of community and camaraderie that encompasses the college.” I pause, shifting in my seat before continuing.

“The opportunity to collaborate with musicians from different countries, exchange ideas, and push the boundaries of artistic expression is appealing. Ultimately, my goal is not only to become a proficient musician, but to contribute meaningfully to the world of music.”

What am I even saying? I hope and pray that I’ll never have to hear that played back because it was pure and utter cringe.

But, moving on. I smile to signal that my speech has ended.

All four of the assessors nod approvingly and take a few moments to scribble in their notebooks, which is when the panic creeps back.

Did I say enough? Did I say too much? Is my accent too strong? Did they even understand what I was saying? My palms sweat .

“Kelly? Would you mind telling us about which composers and pieces hold importance to you?”

I have an answer lined up: ‘Tchaikovsky’s Pezzo Capriccioso holds a significant appeal to me. It demonstrates an intense showcase of the cello’s technical prowess.’

That’s what I should have said. I had rehearsed this answer repeatedly. But, of course, I say something completely off-plan.

“Dvo?ák’s Cello Concerto in B minor is great.”

I experience a wave of despair. I can’t believe I just said that.

Describing Dvo?ák’s cello concerto as ‘great’ is blasphemy.

If I could, I would slump down in my chair, but years and years of sitting with a straight back has waived any chance of me slouching.

I still have lingering memories of my first cello teacher sitting behind me with a sharp pencil pointed at my lower back.

Any slouch, even just a minor amount, would result in a sharp poke.

It only took a few weeks to condition me.

Assessor number two looks at me with raised brows, so I dig deep to redeem myself.

“Shostakovich shows a high emotional integrity with his concertos.”

Shit. Another crap answer, which doesn’t help in the slightest. But I have a feeling that was my last chance.

“Let’s move on, shall we?”

And that was that.

Tom meets me back in my dorm room a few hours later. He’s let himself in and is sitting on the end of my bed, flicking through a magazine, which he tosses aside as soon as I flop down on my bed.

“Do I need to ask?”

“I referred to Dvo?ák’s Cello Concerto in B minor as ‘great,’” I groan into my pillow.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. The sharp intake of breath he draws in is enough to validate that it was a completely ridiculous thing to say.

“And I droned on about camaraderie and crap.”

“Oh, shit. Well, I’m sure they won’t even take notice of that.”

I crane my head to look at him. “I’m not talking about it anymore.”

Tom pushes his glasses up his nose and leans closer. “The others will be back soon. Let’s go for drinks.”

“Can’t. I’m working tonight.”

“Ah, yeah. Well, I’ll go for drinks to commiserate on your behalf.”

I nudge him off my bed and climb under the covers, desperate to hide away from the world and pretend like the past twenty-four hours never happened.

But after Tom pecks me on the forehead and pulls the curtains closed like the best friend he is, all I can think about is John.

Because if we were still chatting, I would have told him all about it and he’d say the right thing to brighten my mood.

And that memory alone has me bawling into my pillow.