I rolled onto my side, facing the wall.The AC droned, dissolving into white noise.
Chapter 3
Screening the Goalie
Luke
Two weeks into the semester, and I already felt like I was barely keeping my head above water.Still no word on the single, but that was the least of my worries.Between hockey and financial accounting, I regretted life choices.
Ryan didn’t knock.He pounded on the door of 317 with a rhythm that sounded like the drum intro to a Metallica song.
“Carter!Lovell!Suit up.We’re rolling in ten.”
I looked up from my desk, where I was pretending to organize my syllabus binders for the third time.“Rolling where?”
“The Barn,” Ryan announced, pushing the door open.He was dressed for a Saturday night in a flannel shirt that cost more than my textbooks and jeans that fit a little too well.“Rookie initiation party.Well, ‘initiation’ is a strong word.It’s mostly cheap keg beer and Javier trying to DJ.”
I tightened my grip on the binder.“We have a six a.m.skate tomorrow.”
“Which is why you’ll be drinking club soda and leaving by midnight.But you have toshow, Monk.It’s optics.Team bonding.”He pointed at Austen, who was frozen halfway to the mini-fridge, holding a carton of oat milk like a shield.“And you’re coming too, Math.”
Austen blinked, looking at Ryan like he was a variable that refused to solve.“I am statistically unlikely to attend a hockey party.”
“Maya’s already there,” Ryan countered, grinning.“She texted me.Said to bring the ‘hermit crab’ or she’s telling everyone you listen to polka when you code.”
Austen’s jaw went tight.“It’s not polka.It’s symphonic metal.There’s a vast difference.”
“Whatever.Ten minutes.Wear something that can survive spilled lager.”
Ryan slapped the doorframe and vanished down the hall, humming something that was not symphonic metal.
The silence that followed was heavy.I looked at Austen; he looked at his laptop screen like he was considering climbing inside it.
“You don’t have to go,” I said.“Ryan’s bark is worse than his bite.Usually.”
“Maya doesn’t bluff,” Austen replied, closing the laptop with grim finality.He walked to his closet.“And if I stay here, the EDM guy next door will vibrate my fillings loose.A different bass line might be an improvement.”
He pulled out a navy hoodie—clean, simple, zero team logos.He held it up, inspecting it.
“You?”he asked.
I sighed, tossing the binder onto my bed.“Ryan’s right.Optics.If the new guy doesn’t show up to the first mixer, the locker room assumes he thinks he’s too good for them.”
“Or that you value sleep hygiene,” Austen muttered, pulling the hoodie on.
“Hockey culture doesn’t believe in hygiene of any kind,” I said, grabbing my keys.“Let’s get this over with.”
The Barn was exactly what it sounded like—a dilapidated off-campus rental in the middle of nowhere that housed five seniors and, at the moment, half the student body of Northern Ridge.
The bass hit my sternum before we cleared the mudroom.The air inside was a tropical storm of body heat, Axe body spray, and the copper tang of cheap beer.
Control, I told myself.Read the room like a zone entry.
“Stick close,” I yelled to Austen over the noise.
He didn’t answer.A group of volleyball players cut through our lane, separating us.By the time I shouldered through the gap, Austen was gone—swept toward the kitchen by the current of bodies.
“Carter!”Javier Morales loomed out of the fog, shoving a red Solo cup at my chest.“Hydrate or die.”
