I raised my blocker.I see you.
He smiled.Then left.
The locker room was a riot of towel snaps and victory playlist bass.I showered fast, skipping the beer Ryan offered.
I needed to get to the lobby.I needed to find Austen and explain everything—the dad, the pressure, the fear.I needed to tell him he was the only constant I actually cared about.
Grabbing my bag, hair still wet, I pushed through the double doors.
The lobby was packed.I scanned the edges.
There.
Austen was waiting by the trophy case, hands in his pockets, looking out of place in the sea of jerseys.He saw me and straightened.He took a half-step forward.
I started toward him.“Austen!”
“Luke!”
The voice boomed from my right.A heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder—the bad one.I flinched.
Rick Carter stood there, grinning like he’d shut out Stonehill himself.He was wearing his old NHL leather jacket, smelling of expensive cologne and stadium beer.
“Hell of a game, kid,” he said, shaking my shoulder.“That glove hand?That’s the money maker.”
“Dad,” I said, trying to pull away.“My shoulder—”
“Is fine.Adrenaline handles it.”He didn’t let go.He turned, gesturing to the man beside him.“You remember Gulliver Vane.”
The Minnesota scout nodded, slick and polished.“Good to see you again, Luke.Your father was right about your recovery time.Impressive.”
“Thank you,” I said, my eyes darting past them.
Austen had stopped moving.He was standing ten feet away, watching.
“We’re going to dinner,” Dad announced.“The Steakhouse on Main.Gulliver wants to talk about the summer schedule.Development camp starts July first, but they want you in St.Paul by mid-June for conditioning.”
“Dad, I can’t tonight.I—”
“Nonsense.This is the offer, Luke.This is the next step.”Dad’s grip tightened.His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes went hard.“Don’t fumble the handoff.”
I looked at Austen.He was watching the scene with that analytical detachment he used when the variables weren’t adding up.
“I have plans,” I said weakly.
Dad followed my gaze.He looked at Austen who started walking toward us—scruffy hair, worn coat, nobody special.
“With whom?”Dad asked, loud enough for Vane to hear.“Your roommate?”
The word hung there.Roommate.
Austen’s chin lifted, waiting to see how I would respond.
I looked at Vane, watching me for signs of “entanglements.”I looked at my dad, whose approval I’d been chasing since I was five years old.
I froze.
“He’s… yeah,” I muttered, “my roommate.”
