“Hey,” he said, tugging one bud free.“Practice?”
“Over.”I toed off sneakers.“Coach named the starter for Friday.”
He angled his chair.“And?”
I held up an imaginary red marker.“Provisional, but mine.”
A smile threatened the corner of his mouth.“Congrats.”
“Thanks.”I unzipped the hoodie, tossed it on my bed, then remembered gear etiquette.“Stuff doesn’t smell today.No need to open the window.”
“Appreciated.”He saved whatever code glowed on screen.“Dinner?”
“I’ve got team meal at six-thirty.”I checked the time—5:12.“You?”
“TA session ends at nine.I’ll grab something to go.”He paused.“Should I evacuate while you nap?”
I shook my head.“Not sleeping.Brain’s loud.”
He considered that, then closed the laptop.“Chess?”
“What?”
He pulled a magnet board from a desk drawer—hand-sized, tiny pieces in a zip bag.“Keeps numbers busy.”
I laughed, genuine.“I’m garbage at chess.”
“I’m mediocre.Perfect match.”
We set up on the floor between beds, the AC behind us like a metronome.Austen moved a knight; I mirrored.He explained en passant; I told a story about my first shutout.We didn’t talk about rosters or families—pieces, angles, and why bishops felt like wingers who never back-checked.
When he checkmated me in twelve moves, I blamed the sore shoulder.He looked skeptical.
I lay back, arms folded under my head, staring at the ceiling crack that resembled a goalie mask.“Friday’s going to be loud,” I said.
“Crowds are math,” he replied, kneeling to sweep pieces into the bag.“Sum of individual vectors.Ignore amplitude; focus on trajectory.”
“That’s… strangely helpful.”
“Put it on your headboard if it tests well in practice.”
I chuckled.The ceiling crack blurred—maybe exhaustion, maybe relief.If this wasn’t temporary, I decided, it could still be stable.
Phone vibrated—Dad again.Grimacing, I silenced it.
“You good?”Austen asked, eyebrow flicking toward the device.
“Family check-in.”
He nodded like that explained everything.Maybe it did.
AC clanged, right on schedule.We both looked at it, then at each other, then laughed—short, overlapping.
At 6:20 I grabbed my hoodie, ready for team meal.I slid Austen a blueberry oat bar across the desk without comment.He nodded.
At the door, I hesitated.“Thanks for the game,” I said.
“Anytime,” he answered, already typing calculus into existence.
