Across the room his bedspread lay smooth, corners hospital tight.His hoodie—the one he’d worn to Ridgeway—hung on my chair, sleeves folded.I rested a hand on it before I caught myself, jerking back like it was on fire.
Control first.
I pulled out my phone, thumbed a text:
Film until late.Don’t wait up.Shoulder better.
Sent.Three dots blinked, disappeared.No answer.
I dropped the phone face down, shoved both oat bars into my backpack, and shrugged on my jacket.
Quit being weak.Move.
The arena sat mostly dark, lights on only over the far crease where the maintenance guy ran drills with his kid.I settled in the bleachers, laptop on knees, cold bleeding through the bench.
Stonehill’s winger scored blocker side four times last season.I replayed every frame until movement fused into noise.Shoulder cramped; I shifted, stubborn.
Phone vibrated.Unknown number—Dad again.Voicemail.I deleted it without opening.
Another buzz—Austen.
Understood.Be safe.
That was all.I read it twice, hunting for anger, couldn’t find any.
Lights overhead clicked off one by one.Maintenance guy whistled for closing.I packed up, shoulder stiff, blood sluggish.The walk back felt longer than a regulation game.
Dorm hall quiet hour had started; doors muted TV sounds.Ours was shut but unlocked.Inside, Austen sat at his desk, hoodie traded for flannel.He turned when I entered, eyes tracking me like a puck.
“Stim help?”he whispered.
“Yeah.”I toed off shoes, shrugged the jacket carefully.
“You ate?”He nodded toward the backpack.
“I had an oat bar.”I tossed the bag under my bed.
His mouth tightened; he didn’t press.“Ice pack’s in the freezer.Timer’s set.”
“Thanks.”I opened the fridge, retrieved the professional ice pack, pressed it against the bruise.Cold shocked the skin.
Austen closed his laptop, folded glasses, stood.“I’m gonna crash.”
“Copy.”My voice scratched.
He moved toward the light switch, paused.“My next move is on your pillow.No penalty if you tackle it tomorrow.”
“Got it.”
He nodded once, flipped the switch.Darkness swallowed him, then the rustle of his blanket.I sat in the glow from my desk lamp, ice numbing half my chest.
After a minute he spoke into the dark.“Luke?”
“Yeah?”
“Good luck Friday.”
The words were soft, not sweet—a fact, like ice melts at zero Celsius.Somehow that hurt more than sarcasm would have.
