“Thanks,” I said.I waited, hoping for something else—a joke, a rule update, anything.Silence.
I swapped the ice, dried condensation on my jeans, and reached for the chess game.I stared at the diagram.Knight to f6 check.The black King was cornered, but I couldn’t see the kill shot.
“Black is forced to h8,” a voice murmured from the other side of the room.
I jumped, the pen slipping in my sweat-slick fingers.I looked over.Austen hadn’t moved; his back was still to me, the duvet pulled up to his ear.
“You’re awake,” I whispered.
“Hard to sleep when you’re thinking that loudly.”
I looked back at the paper.King to h8.That put the King in the corner, blocked by his own pawns.
Suddenly, the line snapped into focus.It wasn’t about brute force; it was about removal.To clear the lane for the mate, I had to throw away the most valuable piece on the board.
My hand shook slightly, but I wrote it down.
Queen to g8 check.
“Sacrifice the Queen,” I said aloud, testing the logic.
“Bold,” Austen replied, his voice thick with sleep but approving.“I’ll respond tomorrow.”
Across the room his breathing steadied into sleep—slow, even.My chest tightened with something I refused to name.
Chapter 30
The Rumor Mill
Austen
North Point always ran hot at lunch—lines three deep at the stir-fry station, trays clattering, freshmen yelling across booths like distance was a dare.I kept my headphones in without music, noise reduction on.
No luck.Two days since we’d spoken more than eight syllables.I told myself hockey made the schedule brutal, nothing personal, variable not constant.My chest disagreed.
Maya slid into the seat across from me, ponytail damp.She clocked the untouched chickpea salad on my tray, then the way my gaze kept lifting over her shoulder.
“Looking for Mr.Radiator?”she asked, tearing open a granola bar.
“Scanning for statistical anomalies.”I stabbed a tomato.“Cafeteria’s overdue for a foodborne outbreak.”
“Mm-hmm.”She leaned on her elbows.“Heard anything from your favorite anomaly?”
“He’s busy.Playoffs.”
“And you’re… fine.”She said it like marking false on a test.
“Definefine.”
“Not rearranging your pencils alphabetically at three a.m.by their pet names.”
“I don’t name my pencils.”
Over her shoulder, the hockey table erupted—Ryan, Javier, a tangle of parkas and backward caps.Luke wasn’t with them.
Ryan’s voice cut over the din.“—agent thinks Carter’s got a real shot if he keeps numbers steady.”
Javier answered, lower.“Pro camp in August, right?Dude could bounce.”
