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*mature content*
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Sloane Casey's life takes an unexpected turn when she becomes the new physical therapy assistant for the college ice hockey team. Needing the credits for her physiology studies, she is prepared to handle bruises and sp...
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Sloane
The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon when my alarm blares, jarring me from a restless sleep. I groan, reaching out from beneath the warmth of my blankets to silence the noise, and lie there for a moment, trying to gather the energy to face the day. The events of the night before—Malachi's injury, the chaos at the hospital—play on a loop in my mind, a constant reminder of just how fragile everything can be.
"Why would I hate you?"
I force myself to sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I glance around my small, cluttered room. My textbooks are scattered across the desk, notes and highlighters strewn about from last night's frantic study session. The sight of it all fills me with a familiar sense of anxiety—there's so much to do, so many things to worry about, and not nearly enough time to get it all done.
With a sigh, I swing my legs out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face in an attempt to wake myself up. The person staring back at me looks tired, dark circles smudged beneath her eyes, and it makes me wonder how much longer I can keep this up—balancing school, work, and everything in between without completely burning out.
By the time I've thrown on some clothes and stuffed my textbooks into my bag, the campus is beginning to stir to life. I make my way across the quad, the crisp morning air biting at my cheeks as I hurry toward the science building. My first class of the day is anatomy, one of the core courses for my major, and despite the early hour, it's always packed.
As I slip into my seat near the back of the lecture hall, I pull out my notebook and try to focus on the task at hand. But no matter how hard I try, my mind keeps drifting back to Malachi—the way he looked, lying unconscious on the ice, his face pale and bloodless. The thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I force myself to push it aside. I can't afford to be distracted, not today.
The professor, Dr. Peterson, is already droning on about the complexities of the nervous system, his voice a monotonous hum that blends with the sound of shuffling papers and clicking pens. I try to take notes, but the words blur together, and I find myself scribbling aimlessly in the margins instead.
Halfway through the lecture, Dr. Peterson pauses, his sharp gaze sweeping across the room. "Miss Casey," he says, his tone pointed. "Perhaps you could enlighten us on the process of synaptic transmission?"
I blink, caught off guard by the sudden attention. "Um..." I scramble to recall what he's been talking about, but my mind is a blank. "It's...the process by which neurotransmitters are released from one neuron and...um... bind to receptors on another...?"
Dr. Peterson raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Correct, but that's hardly a comprehensive explanation. I would expect more from a student in your position, Miss Casey."
The comment stings, a sharp reminder of the pressure I'm under to excel in my studies. I nod mutely, sinking lower in my seat as he turns his attention back to the lecture. The rest of the class passes in a blur, my thoughts consumed by a growing sense of inadequacy. I can't afford to let my grades slip, not with everything riding on this semester, but how can I focus when everything feels like it's spiralling out of control?
