I love you.I’d said that in Ridgeway, and he’d walked away.Words weren’t enough.Austen dealt in proofs.He needed evidence.
I didn’t sign it, I whispered to the empty cab.I walked away.I chose my constant.
The wipers slapped back and forth, hypnotic and useless against the wet April snow.The truck fishtailed slightly on a patch of slush, and my heart didn’t even jump.
That was the problem.I was numb.My hands were gripping the wheel so hard my forearms ached, but my brain was somewhere back in that hallway, screaming at my father.
I blew through a red light and heard car horns blaring at me.
Pull over,I told myself.You’re a hazard.
I couldn’t drive like this.My adrenaline was spiking, looking for a physical outlet that wasn’t there.I needed to hit something.I needed to sprint until I tasted copper.
I saw the sign for the access road.There was a running trail that looped under the bridge and followed the creek—a three-mile circuit I used for conditioning in the off-season.I didn’t care if it meant running in six inches of snow, I needed to move.
I wrenched the wheel to the right, tires crunching over the gravel of the maintenance lot.A sign read,No Parking After Dusk.I didn’t care about the parking ban.I killed the engine, the sudden silence ringing in my ears.
Air.I just needed air.The urge to run until my legs gave out and the static in my head cleared was overwhelming.
The door flew open with a shove, dumping me out into the cold.The wind cut through my hoodie, biting and real.Sucking in a sharp, freezing breath, I scanned the darkness for the trailhead.
The path ran parallel to the bridge structure before ducking under it.I glanced up at the steel span above me, just checking the distance, checking the terrain.
I froze.
The bridge should have been empty.No one stood on a wind-blasted overpass in a snowstorm.
But there was a silhouette at the midpoint of the span.A figure in a gray wool coat, standing perfectly still, looking down at the frozen creek like he was calculating the drop.
My breath hitched.
I didn’t run because I needed the exercise.I didn’t run to clear my head.
I ran because I knew that coat.
“Austen!”I screamed, the sound torn away by the wind.
I scrambled up the embankment, boots slipping in the mud, and sprinted toward him.
Chapter 35
Undefined Variable
Austen
Maya’s apartment was a study in entropy.
Her living room was a riot of clashing textiles, half-finished art projects, and the lingering scent of chai and acrylic paint.Warm.Welcoming.Objectively a safe harbor.
But for the last four nights, I had been sleeping on her lumpy velvet sofa, and my spine was a crooked integral sign.
I sat up, pushing off the heavy knit blanket.Eight p.m.on Tuesday.
On the coffee table, my laptop sat open to the NHL prospect tracker.I hadn’t meant to load the Catapult data.Muscle memory.A glitch in the algorithm.
I stared at the data from the team.Carter’s data stopped about half-way through practice.I clicked open the notes section, where the assistant coach took diligent notes about qualitative player behavior that could be balanced against the quantitative.
Goals Against Average (GAA, Trending): 3.45 (Last three sessions).
