The numbers didn’t make sense.Luke’s baseline GAA was 1.95.A deviation of this magnitude suggested mechanical failure.Or, more likely, a processor error.
“Stop looking at the stats,” Maya said.
I jumped.She was standing in the kitchenette doorway, holding two mugs.She wasn’t wearing her usual bright colors; she wore a gray sweater, mirroring the mood that had settled over the apartment since I arrived.
“I am merely observing data trends,” I lied, closing the tab.
“You’re pain-shopping.”She set a mug of mint tea down on a coaster for me—the only orderly thing in the room.“He’s tanking, Austen.Everyone knows it.Ryan texted me Harper kicked him off the ice today.”
My chest gave a painful, traitorous squeeze.“That is his problem to solve.He prioritized the Minnesota contract.”
“He hasn’t signed it.”
I looked up.“What?”
“Ryan said the scout sent it to Luke’s dad.Luke hasn’t actually signed it yet.”Maya sat on the armchair, pulling her knees up.“Data.Thought you should know.”
I picked up the tea.Hot, scalding my fingers.
Unsigned.
Why?He had the offer.
The equation should be balanced.
Unless the variable he removed—me—had been bearing more structural load than he calculated.
“I can’t stay here tonight,” I said.
Maya frowned.“Austen, you’re welcome as long as you need.The couch isn’t great, but—”
“It’s not the couch.”I stood up, the restlessness that had been vibrating under my skin for ninety-six hours finally peaking.“It’s the… I can’t… I can’t think here.”
“So where are you going?The dorm?”
“No.”I couldn’t go back to the dorm.Not while he was there.That would be worse.
“The library,” I said.“Ridgeway Hall.I just need to go somewhere and get lost in my work.”
Maya looked at me with sad, knowing eyes.“Work isn’t going to fix it, Austen.”
“Probably not.But work is…” My voice trailed off as I grabbed my coat.“Work is predictable.”
“Okay,” she said softly.“Go work.Take the spare key.If something changes, just text me so I don’t call the police and have them send a search party.”
I nodded and walked out into the cold night.The wind whipped around the corners of the academic buildings, stinging my face, but I welcomed it.The cold was a known quantity.
A curt nod ended the interaction, and the cold night took over.The wind whipped around the corners of the academic buildings, stinging my face, but the sensation was welcome.The cold was a known quantity.
Ridgeway Hall was the only logical destination.The ID scanner beeped me in, and the stairs led straight to the fourth floor—the Deep Quiet zone.
My usual carrel was empty.Secluded.Silent.Exactly the controlled environment needed to re-establish a baseline.
The laptop came out.The thesis draft loaded on the screen.My hands found the home row, ready to sink into the comforting logic of higher mathematics.
But the cursor blinked.
It pulsed rhythmically against the white page.Attempts to define a manifold failed; every thought kept looping back to a Boston lobby.To a secluded dorm room.To a game-day puck sitting on a desk.
