His eyelids drooped.“Constant?”
That word again—so small, so unsteady.My chest tightened.
“Still here,” I said.
Timer ticked down.I watched the steady rise and fall of his back.The whole building felt like it was breathing with us, radiators syncing to Luke’s slower inhales.
At the next ice change, he was half asleep.I eased the peas away, dabbed condensation, and laid a dry towel before swapping out the bag.He mumbled something—maybe thanks, maybe nothing—and drifted before I answered.
Twenty minutes later the pack slid off; I replaced it without starting the timer, then stayed seated.Desk lamp dimmed; outside, frozen rain tapped the pane.My calculus notes lay forgotten, highlighters drying open.
I should have crawled into my own bed.Instead I sat, ankles crossed, counting the seconds between his breaths, telling myself it was to monitor pain levels.
A half-snore escaped him.At least, if Coach asked tomorrow why he was late on the glove side, he could blame me and sleep deprivation instead of reckless lifting.
My gaze landed on the puck under the lamp—still centered, still article five.Constant.Maya’s voice echoed—constants aren’t found, they’re named.Had we named this yet?No.Did that stop me from wanting it?Also no.
Luke shifted, face relaxing into deeper rest.He trusted me with unconsciousness; that counted for something.
Chapter 29
Bench Boss
Luke
Coach Harper didn’t waste time with hello.
“Sit.”
I dropped onto the plastic chair across her desk.My left shoulder barked; I kept the wince small.The office was the size of a broom closet, all metal filing cabinets and a single framed photo of her hoisting a championship trophy.No yelling in here—verdicts.
She flipped a tablet around so the screen faced me—slow-motion of last night’s collision.Morales, sharp angle, me lunging glove side, shoulder slamming the post.She froze the frame on impact.
“Walk me through this,” she said.
“Bad read,” I answered.“Over-rotated.”
“And the extra lifts after team block?”
I kept my stare on the photo behind her head.“Needed volume.”
“You needed recovery.”She tapped the tablet, changed to a still image: my arm, purple spreading under tape.“Dalton logged a pain score of six.You told him four.”
“Numbers drifted.”
Her silence felt heavier than shouting.She slid the tablet aside.“Carter, injury happens.Lying about it is optional.”
I knotted my fingers together so she wouldn’t see them shake.“Shoulder’s functional.”
“Functional isn’t the bar.”She leaned back, arms crossed.“You’re our starter.That means availability.It also means you model process—fitness check-ins, study hall, sleep.”She opened a drawer, removed a folded sheet of paper—the roster for Friday at Stonehill.My name sat in red besideSTARTER.She laid it between us.“I wrote this before I saw the film or the report from Dalton.That trust can move, Carter.Don’t make me move it.”
“Yes, Coach.”My voice sounded steady; inside everything rattled.
She studied me another second, then softened a fraction.“You’re good at your job.Act like it off the ice too.See Dalton twice a day until he’s satisfied.”
I nodded.
“And Carter?”
