Ryan laughed.“Development camp, rookie tourney.Could be Minnesota if the scout calls back.”
The words threaded through clatter, too clear.Could be Minnesota.Bounce.
My fork paused midair.Sweat prickled under my collar despite North Point’s relentless air-con.
Maya followed my stare.“What?”
“Nothing.”I forced a chew, nearly gagged on acid dressing.
Across the room Ryan kept talking—stats, glove side percentages, something about “next year.”
Maya’s hand settled on the table, palm up.“Austen.”
I shook my head, swallowed hard.“Noise.”
She didn’t push, closed her palm like tucking the question away.“Need to get out of here?Fresh air?”
“I’m heading to Harbor Commons after this.I promised a calc kid review.”
“Then let’s go.”
Outside, wind knifed off the quad, cold enough to numb ears.Might’ve helped, except every step clanged with Ryan’s words.Could be Minnesota.
Temporary, my brain whispered.Placement ending.Math proof solved: constants don’t transfer conferences.
Maya nudged my elbow.“Dinner later?Text me.”
“Sure.”My voice cracked on the s.She frowned but let it drop.
Harbor Commons smelled like stale pastries and caramel lattes.I claimed a two-top near the windows, laptop open, derivative problems queued.Students drifted past in Frost Demons jerseys—game-week energy humming.Every so often someone mentioned Carter: insane glove, Stonewall Friday, starter’s locked.
Locked—for now, I thought.
I pushed through proofs, red pen marking corrections, but decimals slithered.My phone facedown vibrated twice: campus push alert,FROST DEMONS READY FOR STONEHILL.I flipped it, screen full of Luke’s save against Caribou, glove hand frozen midair.
Pressure behind my eyes pulsed.I clicked the phone dark, slid it under the laptop and kept grading.
My phone buzzed as another text popped.
Luke:Weights till five.Sanity check status?
I stared at the bubble.Simple, almost caring—proof he remembered I existed.My thumb hovered.
All variables stable, I typed, then deleted.
Me:Good luck in lift.Still have the peanut butter-filled pretzels lying around.
Message read, no response.
I returned to my room after having dinner with Maya and spending some much needed time editing my thesis in Stone Ridge.By the time I got home a little after eight, the evening painted the dorm hall in sodium orange.The door to 317 stood cracked.I pushed in.
Luke kneeled by the gear rack, one-handed, hanging his chest protector with slow precision.Shoulder wrap peeked from under a practice tee.He didn’t look up.
“Time for ice?”I asked.
He flinched at my voice like I’d snapped tape near his ear.“Thanks, I got it.”
“Okay.”I set my backpack on my desk.Books there looked wrong now, intimate as toothbrushes.I gathered the legal pads, highlighters, and pencils one by one and set about reorganizing, stacking them perpendicular to the puck.
