“Please don’t turn on the radio.”
I paused, hand hovering over the volume knob.“Why?You hate Top 40?”
“I hate unpredictability,” he murmured, eyes still shut tight behind his glasses.“DJs talk too much.The songs change tempo without warning.I need a constant.I need the sine wave to flatten out.”
“So… silence?”
“Silence is predictable.”
I withdrew my hand.“For a guy who lectures me about symphonic metal, you’re surprisingly sensitive to noise.”
“Metal has structure,” he said, cracking one eye open to look at me.“It’s mathematical.It follows a progression.Complexity doesn’t equal chaos, Luke.Radio is chaos.”
“Fair point.”I kept my hand on the gearshift, letting the engine idle at the stoplight.“Quiet hours start now?”
“Quiet hours start now.”
I pulled out onto the main road, keeping the radio off.The only sound was the hum of tires on asphalt and the fan pushing warmth into the cab.
It wasn’t the dorm.It wasn’t a single room.But for the first time in a week, the roommate situation felt manageable.
Chapter 4
Provisional Start
Luke
The puck cannoned off my blocker and ricocheted to the near-side corner, exactly where Coach Harper wanted it.Whistle.She pointed her stick down the ice.
“Reset, Carter.Five-puck sequence.Same shooters.”
I shuffled back across the crease, edges biting through the frost-fogged blue paint.Breath crystallized inside the cage of my mask; sweat soaked the neck of my base layer.Six hours ago I’d been in a dorm room the size of a parking spot, taping a “roommate constitution” to a mini-fridge.Even though we were three weeks into the semester, twenty pairs of eyes waited to see if the transfer kid could keep the net.
Javier Morales circled at the top of the left dot, puck on his tape, visor clouded with condensation.He didn’t talk trash; he stared glove side, daring me to flinch.Ryan lined up beside him, stick blade flat, humming something off-key that sounded like early-2000s pop punk.
Harper’s whistle shrieked.
Javier snapped first—low blocker.I kicked it wide.
Second puck: Ryan, quick release, looking five-hole.I closed the pads, smothered, popped it out for the manager collecting rebounds.
Third: Javier again, this time high glove.He’d beaten me there yesterday in film, and he knew I knew it.I pushed forward, cut the angle, felt the sting in my palm as the puck slammed leather but stayed out.
Fourth and fifth blurred—shoulder save, then a desperation toe on a deflection.Harper blew the drill dead.
“Better,” she called.“Still leaving snow up the middle on your recoveries.Clean it or get used to chasing loose change.”
“Yes, Coach.”I sucked air through the cage, heart hammering.
She didn’t nod, didn’t smile—flicked her whistle toward the boards.“Water.Three minutes.”
I glided backward, tapping blocker to post before turning.Habit.Post-check, angle, rhythm.Control what’s crease-sized.
Ryan coasted beside me as we headed for the bench.“Nice robbery, Carter.Javier’s starting to pout.”
“Morales doesn’t pout,” I said, popping the helmet strap and chugging water.“He recalculates trajectories.”
Ryan snorted.“Nerd.”
