Page 23 of Triple Play
“Definitely not.”
“Good.” She picks up her water. Heads for the stairs. Stops at the doorway. Looks back. “Wyatt?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not broken.” Her voice is steady. Sure. “You’re just a person who’s been through some shit.”
Then she’s gone.
I stand there in the too-bright kitchen, still half-hard, listening to her footsteps fade.
This house is going to destroy me.
I’m already sure of it.
CHAPTER FIVE
ENEMY TERRITORY
Elise
Crestmont looks like money.
Old money. The trust fund, country club, never-had-to-work-for-anything variety.
Brick buildings with ivy crawling up the sides. Manicured lawns that probably cost more to maintain than my entire tuition. Students in Lululemon and North Face jackets, even though it’s still mild September weather.
I walk across campus in my Target jeans and secondhand jacket, feeling every dollar of the difference.
Advanced anatomy is in the science building, third floor, room 304.
I’m ten minutes early because that’s what you do when you’re on scholarship and can’t afford to mess up. Getting into Johns Hopkins depends on grades so perfect they hurt.
The lab smells like formaldehyde and ambition. Twenty stations with cadavers covered in white sheets, each set up for two students.
I pick one near the back, unpack my laptop and fresh notebook, and try to look like I belong here.
The room fills slowly. Students gather in groups, laughing and comparing schedules. Nobody sits next to me.
Then the hockey team walks in.
Six of them, in letterman jackets with an entitled swagger. They take over the front two rows like they own the place.
Maybe they do.
One of them—tall, dark hair, and a smirk that probably works on sorority girls—looks back and spots me. He elbows his friend, and they both stare.
Great.
The professor walks in. Dr. Richardson. Fifty-something, gray hair, zero patience for BS according to RateMyProfessor.
“Partner assignments are random.” She’s already pulling up a spreadsheet. “I’ll call names. Sit with your partner. You’re stuck with them all semester.”
My stomach drops.
Please, not a hockey player. Please not—
“Elise Hart and Bryce Montgomery.”
