“Such drama.”
I shoveled rice onto my plate, then added two slices of pizza because carbs felt correct.We found a table near the back, mostly deserted except for a philosophy grad student—I knew peripherally—asleep over handouts.
Maya unwrapped her spoon.“So.Why the resistance?Why don’t you want to go to the game?”
“Crowds.”I poked at the slice.“Noise.Potentially freezing my butt off.”
“You look nervous,” Maya said.
“I’m not the one facing pucks at ninety miles an hour.”
“Ahh, that’s sweet.You’re worried about your roommate.It’s kind of cute.”
“I’m not worried about my roommate.I’m worried about what would happen to me if something happens to him.”
Maya paused, her fork hovering over her salad.“Clarify.”
“Blast radius,” I said.“He is a high-pressure system.If he crashes and burns out there, the debris field hits our dorm room.I finally have the environment stabilized.I don’t need a sullen, defeated athlete destroying the equilibrium.It introduces chaos into my living space.”
“So, you’re worried about collateral damage?”she asked, amused.“You think if he misses a puck, your side of the room explodes?”
“I think emotions are contagious variables,” I countered.“And I have a weak immunity to drama.”
“Yet, you are being a drama queen.Get over yourself.You’re going to go watch some hockey, clap politely, support your roommate, and go home.”
“And if he implodes?The entire town will talk about it for a week.”
“And if he stands on his head, the town will talk about that.”She leveled the spoon at me.“Either way, Luke survives.You, walking in or out of the arena, doesn’t change his save percentage.”
“I know.”The pizza sauce tasted like ketchup.“But I still feel exposed.”
“Because you’re invested.”She waited a beat.“You know that isn’t a crime, right?”
I exhaled through my nose.“I bought the man coffee.I didn’t adopt a puppy.”
“Sometimes coffee is the puppy.”
I snorted.“Is that Plato or Kant?”
“Maya Chen.”She speared a chickpea.“Philosopher of unspoken feelings.”
My phone buzzed.A text from Luke:Team departs for rink at 5:45.If AC unit achieves liftoff, call the tower.
I typed back:Holding steady at 70°.Runway clear.Good luck.
He answered immediately:Bring earplugs if you come.Student section rowdy.
No assumption, no pressure.Data.My thumb hesitated above the keyboard before replying:Noted.
Maya tilted her head, reading the exchange reflected in my glasses.“You’re halfway through the door.”
“Quarter.”I pocketed the phone.“Maybe an eighth.”
She grinned.“Better than zero.Finish eating.”
We demolished the food in companionable silence broken only by North Point’s distant dishwasher roar.I checked my watch—5:12.
I looked at my empty plate.Well, almost empty, the rice I’d put on there still sat in pile.Why I thought rice went with pizza was beyond me.Maya was right.Sitting in my room worrying about the blast radius wasn’t going to prevent the explosion.It just meant I wouldn’t see the fuse get lit.
