“I am merely analyzing behavioral trends.”
“You mean Luke.”
I flinched.“He is… distant.Since the interruption.”
“Austen,” Maya sighed.She reached across the table and put her hand over mine.Her fingers were warm, stained with ink.“He’s a hockey player.He’s the starter.He’s a transfer student with a dad who treats him like a racehorse.”
“I know the variables, Maya.”
“Do you?”She squeezed my hand.“Because you’re looking at him like he’s a math problem you can solve if you find the right formula.But he’s not a proof.He’s a person.And people like Luke… they have trajectories.”
“Trajectory implies a predetermined path.He has agency.”
“Does he?”Maya challenged.“Look at him.Look at his life.His dad maps out his diet.His coach maps out his sleep schedule.The scouts map out his future.Where exactly does his agency live, Austen?Because from where I’m sitting, the only time he exercises it is when he’s with you.And that realization probably terrifies him.”
I pulled my hand away.“He loves me.He said it.”
“I know he does.I believe him.”Maya softened.“But love is an emotion.Self-preservation is an instinct.And right now, you are the biggest risk to his trajectory.”
She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know.That was the worst part.She was vocalizing the data points I had been trying to suppress.
“So, what is your hypothesis?”I asked, my voice thin.“That he will terminate the relationship to secure the asset?”
“I think,” Maya said carefully, “that you need to protect yourself.You have a scholarship to keep.You have a thesis to write.You have a life that matters, Austen.Don’t let him burn it all down because he’s afraid of the dark.”
I looked out the window.The sky was the color of a bruised plum.
“I don’t have a life without him,” I whispered.“Not a constant one.”
“That,” Maya said, her voice hard, “is the scariest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I left the library at four p.m.
I needed to walk.I needed the cold air to numb the panic rising in my chest like floodwater.
I walked the perimeter of the campus.I counted my steps.One, two, three, four.I forced my breathing to match the count.In, two, three, four.Out, two, three, four.
I found myself near the athletic complex.It wasn’t a conscious decision.My feet knew the vector.
The parking lot was full.It was a Tuesday, but the lot was packed with team trucks, student beaters, and faculty sedans.
I scanned the rows.Luke’s truck was parked in the back row, isolated, like him.
But then I saw something else.
Parked near the entrance to the rink, in a spot reserved for “VIP/Administration,” was a black Lincoln Navigator.
Sleek.Clean.It looked like a shark swimming in a pool of minnows.
The license plate wasn’t Massachusetts.It wasn’t New York or New Jersey.
It was Minnesota.Land of 10,000 Lakes.
I stopped walking.I stood on the sidewalk, the wind whipping my coat around my legs, and stared at the plate.
Minnesota.
The Wild.The team his dad played for.The team that was rumored to be looking at goalies for their development camp.
