My phone buzzed on the desk, vibrating against the wood.I glanced down.
A number I didn’t recognize.Arizona area code.
Mom:Your father called.Said you turned down Minnesota.I just wanted to say I’m proud of you, Lucas.It takes courage to choose yourself.
I stared at the screen.Thirteen years of birthday cards with no money and mindfulness quotes, and this was the most she’d ever said.
Me:Thanks, Mom.
I almost left it there.But something made me add
Me:Maybe I could visit this summer.If you want.
The reply came faster than I expected.
Mom:I’d like that.Bring your friend.
I showed Austen the screen.He read it twice.“She called me your friend,” he said carefully.
“She’ll learn.”I pocketed the phone.“We iterate, right?”
He smiled—that rare, open one.“We iterate.”
Austen reached into his bag with his free hand.
“One more thing,” he said, pulling out a thin, glossy booklet.“Mail came to Ridgeway yesterday.”
He slid it across the communal table, right on top of the lease.
Journal of Quantitative Analysis in Sports—Spring Edition.
I picked it up.I flipped it open to the bookmarked page.There, on page forty-two, was the title: “Quantifying the Crease.”
And below it:By A.Lovell and A.R.Thorne.
“You got published,” I said, running my thumb over his name.
“Peer-reviewed and in print,” Austen said, adjusting his glasses, though I could see the flush of pride on his neck.“Dr.Thorne sent a bottle of champagne.I’m saving it for move-in night.”
I scanned the abstract.Charts.Graphs.And there, Figure 1A, was a wireframe diagram of a goalie in the butterfly.
Me.
“Subject G,” I read aloud.“Anonymized for data integrity.”
“Obviously,” Austen said.“Can’t have the academic community knowing I’m sleeping with the data set.It introduces bias.”
“Bias?”I laughed, tossing the journal back onto the table next to our signed lease.“I think you mean ‘competitive advantage.’”I wrapped my arms around his waist and drew him to me.
Austen smiled—that rare, open smile he saved for us.“Statistically speaking,” he said, “it appears to be both.”
I kissed him.
“Lunch before you grade the derivative apocalypse?”I asked, when we finally pulled away from air.
“Omelets.You’re paying.Roommate initiation tax.”
“Future roommate.”
