Craving The Wrong Player

-JUNE-

~Quinn's Pov~

“Miss. Sinclair, the scans show metastatic cancer. It has spread from its original site to multiple organs. Given the aggressiveness and the extent of the tumours, curative treatment is no longer an option. I wish I had better news.”

My entire body goes numb. The words don't sound real. They feel like something from a movie, a bad line of dialogue meant to manipulate an audience. But the grim set of Doctor Jane’s mouth is all too real.

"Lung cancer? How's that even possible? I don't even smoke,” I hear myself say. The protest is weak, pathetic. A last-ditch effort to argue against the inevitable.

“I know, Quinn,” Doctor Jane breathes out slowly, switching into a more informal tone. She's been my family's doctor far before I was even born in this very hospital, and that long history makes her diagnosis somehow more credible. More credibly heart-wrenching. “I don't know if you recall the chlorine accident from six years ago?”

“I...” My voice trails off as the memory hits me hard, a physical blow to the chest. The way the chemical had burned, my throat seizing up, my lungs screaming for clean air. I begged for help but it wasn't until security found me, collapsed and gasping, that it ended. It happened at an ice skating camp, the one my mother had shut down for good after my incident. I thought it was all far behind me, a bad chapter I’d recovered from and closed.

“The chlorine exposure didn't cause your cancer directly,” she explains, her voice gentle but firm, leaving no room for false hope. “But the lifelong scar tissue it left behind was a perfect place for cancerous growth to take hold. That, in addition to a genetic predisposition.” She sighs, a heavy, weary sound. “Your grandmother died due to the same condition.”

“I just got into college, God,” The words escape as a choked whisper. Hot tears prick at my eyes and I cover my mouth, pressing hard to hold back the sob building in my throat. I will not break down here. Not yet.

Doctor Jane’s face mirrors my own internal gloom, a mask of professional sympathy that can’t quite hide her personal agony for me. I am just nineteen. My life wasn't just starting; it was supposed to be expanding, finally becoming my own. 

“How…how long do I have?” My voice trembles as I clutch my purse tightly, the leather strap digging into my palm, a tiny anchor in a suddenly unmoored world.

Doctor Jane pauses, a deliberate, awful silence that stretches for an eternity before she drops the bomb. “Without aggressive treatment, likely four months. Possibly less. With palliative care, we can focus on keeping you comfortable, on quality of life.” She sighs and reaches out to hold my hand, her own grip surprisingly strong. She even sniffs, a quick, professional composure starting to crack. “I would do anything, Quinn. I would give anything I could to help. I've reached out to colleagues home and abroad to see if they're interested in your case, but they all turned it down.” She takes a breath. “We could call your mom and—”

“No.” I cut her off, sharp and final. The thought is unbearable. “Don't tell her. She doesn't need to know."

If she finds out, she'll smother me. She'll make me quit college before I even start, bench me from ice skating for good, and I’ll die lonely and trapped under a designer duvet. That isn't what I want. That is not how this ends.

Doctor Jane nodded, a reluctant understanding in her eyes. “I understand. You can tell her when you're ready, but you know she'll find out sooner or later. I can only say this, Quinn: make good use of your time. Make every single day meaningful. Do everything you want to do. Make a bucket list if you have to.”

“A bucket list?” I raised a brow, the term feeling absurd and cliché.

“Yes, Quinn. A bucket list. Of all the things you want to do, starting from the most important to the least important.”

I nodded shakily, my mind already starting to whirl, grasping for something, anything, to focus on besides the void. What did I really want? Who did I really want?

****

I shut the door of the doctor's office behind me, the thick wood a barrier between the old reality and the new one. I clutched the test reports in my hand, the paper crinkling in my tight grip. I leaned back against the solid mahogany, shutting my eyes with a long, shaky sigh as I finally let a single teardrop fall. It traced a hot path down my cheek before I quickly wiped it away.

The hospital was cold, the air thick with the acrid smell of antiseptics and drugs that flooded my nostrils. The sounds of the corridor were a symphony of despair. I could hear people praying in hushed tones in the waiting rooms, others crying openly as a loved one was declared dead, and some heaving sighs of relief at good reports. The entire spectrum of human emotion, all happening in this one sterile hallway. And I was stuck in the worst part of it.

It took me months to perfect my Kingsford University application. I didn't want to get in with the privilege of my mother's name and connections. I worked hard for it. I earned it. The unfairness is a bitter taste in my mouth. I'm not a saint but I'm not the nastiest sinner, so why me? Why now?

Four months? I was already as good as dead. I’ve heard people say that depression kills faster than the disease itself, and just watching my future crumble to dust felt far worse than any physical pain. I couldn't let that happen to me. I had to make it count. Every single second.

The car ride back home was utterly silent. I kept my face turned toward the window, trying not to think too much, focusing all my energy on not breaking down in front of the hired driver. I stared at the trees blurring past, felt the wind rush against the glass, let the weak sun hit my face, grasping at whatever sensory details I could. I wasn't going to see all of this in four months. The thought was a constant, screaming alarm in my head. I'm a walking time bomb.

My phone chimed with a notification, a jarringly normal sound. I quickly pulled it out, desperate for a distraction. It was an I*******m post from Kade Salvatore. My thumb moved on its own, swiftly clicking on it, and an immediate, familiar flutter of joy filled my chest, a stark contrast to the hollow ache that had been there moments before.

It's a video of his incredibly handsome face lighting up at the sight of his college application email. A genuine, unconscious smile curls on my face as my heart flutters with utter joy. It's remarkable, almost stupid, how one person can make you feel that way amidst complete chaos. Kade has given me that feeling since the first moment I saw him six years ago. He had dropped his sister off at that same ice skating camp, along with his parents.

I was only thirteen then, but I’m sure my heart did backflips the second he glanced my way, even if it was just for a moment. We later got into the same high school and it's always been that way with us. A series of short, electric glances and moments of me clumsily hiding from him or stuttering through any attempt at an actual conversation. 

I never missed a single one of his hockey games. I owned his jersey, had his posters plastered on my bedroom wall, and kept a small, folded photograph of him in my school locker. I've always believed in fate. I've prayed hard and long that we would somehow, eventually, work out.

I would totally want to be with him forever, but I barely have any time left. The thought is a sharp sting. With a sigh, I was about to exit the app, to retreat back into my misery, when my eyes caught the caption under his video.

[Just got in to Kingsford University! Say hello to this freshman ^^ #KSatKU]

He got into the same university? My eyes widened in disbelief. I sat up briskly in the leather seat, a sudden, wild energy coursing through me. This couldn’t be a coincidence. This had to be a sign, an opportunity. 

Maybe God was going to grant me my one biggest wish before I died. With a plastered grin that felt alien on my face, I fumbled in my bag and pulled out my notepad and a pen. My hand was shaking, but my purpose was suddenly, perfectly clear. I scribbled the heading at the top of a fresh page.

"Quinn's Living List"

And right below it, I wrote the first and most important thing.

1.  Date Kade Salvatore.