Touch My Neck ✓

Chapter One | What is the difference between wrestling and hockey?

Angel Huxley Novak 

Four years later

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"Post!" My dad's voice echoed through the house, and I quickly sprang up from the couch, curious to see what had him so excited. I followed him into the kitchen, where he waved an envelope in the air, a mischievous grin on his face. I couldn't help but laugh as I snatched the letter out of his hands, and he placed the groceries on the kitchen island.

My heart raced with a mix of anticipation and anxiety as I held the letter in my hands—the letter that could shape my entire future.

"This is the last step, princess," my dad said, standing beside me, his comforting presence grounding me. With trembling fingers, I carefully opened the envelope and slid out the folded letter. Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and unfolded the paper, my eyes scanning each and every word.

Dear Ms. Novak,

Thank you for your application to the fellowship! We had a large number of exceptional applicants, and regret to inform you that you have not been selected for the fellowship.

I let out a sigh, trying to hide my disappointment, and added the rejection letter to the stack of others on the side.

My dad whispered reassuringly, "You'll get 'em next time, kiddo," patting my back as I settled down on a nearby stool. He began unpacking the groceries while I stared blankly at the pile of rejection letters before me.

"You said that last time, and the time before," I murmured, running my fingers through my hair in frustration. "All I have to do is complete a fellowship programme, and I'll become an official doctor. I don't understand what I'm doing wrong."

"Angel, you win some, and you lose some. If you want it, go to them—show them how much you want it," my dad encouraged, leaning against the counter. "Stop crying and go do something about it."

"It isn't easy, Dad," I admitted, feeling the weight of my dreams and aspirations pressing down on me.

"But it is," he responded firmly, retrieving drinks from the bag and placing them in the fridge. "You're twenty-seven years old, living with your dad in the attic, driving a beat-up car you won't let me fix—"

"Dad, I know," I interrupted, realising that my situation wasn't ideal.

"Your mother always told me you were going to be a fighter," he said, looking into my eyes with determination. "So go fight for what you want and use the Huxley name, not Novak."

I shot him a defiant glare. "Dad, I promised myself I was going to make it without using that name."

He paused for a moment before continuing, "Your mother was the most famous and well-known orthopedic surgeon. She worked her entire life to give you a good life. Use the name—it's your legacy too."

His words struck a chord within me, and I knew he was right.

Behind the wheel, I quickly fixed my appearance at every red light, trying to look as composed and professional as possible. I tied my unruly curly hair into a tight bun and checked my reflection in the mirror. Confidence was key, and I wanted to make sure I presented myself in the best possible light.

But fate had other plans for me that day. Lost in my thoughts, I failed to check my mirrors properly, and before I knew it, I had collided with the car in front of me. The impact was jarring, and I felt my body lurch forward. Thankfully, my seatbelt saved me from any serious harm, but the airbag still inflated, momentarily obscuring my vision.