“I have recitation homework to prep,” I said, stacking my napkins with unnecessary precision.“It’ll take me forty-five minutes to clear the queue.”
Maya tilted her head, sensing the shift.“And after that?”
I sighed, defeated by my own curiosity.“After that… I suppose I should collect some empirical data.The sample size is currently zero.”
Maya grinned.“I knew you’d cave.”
“I am not caving.I am conducting field research.”I stood up, grabbing my tray.“Meet me at the dorm?”
“6:15,” she said, pointing a fry at me like a baton.“Sharp.If I miss the anthem, I’m charging you for emotional damages.”
“6:15,” I confirmed.“Don’t be late.”
She touched my sleeve—a short, approving squeeze—and let go.
Back in Ridgeway, the corridor lights flickered under motion sensors.I claimed the small copier room because it had a door that closed and, crucially, no loud AC.The hum of the machine replaced the buzz in my head while I printed blank quiz templates.Seventy copies spat out, warm stacks soothing the chill in my fingers.
Staple, align, repeat.
On the forty-fifth packet, my mind drifted: Luke’s bag slung over his shoulder, shoulder taped beneath jersey, helmet perched high during warm-ups.I saw the crease through his eyes—the sliced ice, the painted lines, the impossible angles.
I shook myself.Packet forty-six.
At packet sixty, the copier jammed.I popped the cartridge door, tugged free a crumpled sheet, and remembered Luke untangling his headphone cord with the same frown of practical focus.
Five twenty-two.Copier reset.Quizzes finished.I marked my checklist for class finished, which made me think about the tidy checklist taped to the fridge back in the dorm: Quiet Hours, Guest Notice, AC 68°.Simple rules we’d signed together.I imagined a new bullet—Arena attendance variable.
Ridiculous.
I sat.The bench felt cold despite the crowd heat.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
I looked up.Maya stood in the aisle, clutching two soft pretzels wrapped in foil.She grinned, dropped into the empty seat beside me, and offered a pretzel.
“I’m still glad you came,” she said.“And I bet your new BFF hottie goalie will be glad you showed up to.”
“He won’t even notice I’m here.Besides, I am observing,” I corrected, taking the pretzel.“Distinct difference.They’re like fish swimming around in a bowl, and I’m on the outside watching them.”
“Ah yes, a boy aquarium.Uh-huh.Keep telling yourself that.”
Down below, the players flooded onto the ice for warm-up.The noise level spiked to a roar.Luke skated last: controlled V-push to the crease, one, two, distinct tap of the left post with his glove, tap of the right post with his stick.
I knew the pattern from chipped AC nights.
Maya chewed a piece of salt.“He always does that.Tap, tap.Sports superstition is wild.”
“It’s not superstition,” I said, leaning forward.“It’s proprioception.”
Maya blinked.“Bless you?”
“Proprioception,” I repeated, pointing at the ice.“The body’s ability to sense its location in space without visual input.Luke can’t see the net behind him.He’s touching the iron to calibrate his internal map.”
Luke dropped into a butterfly, popped up, and tapped the posts again.
“He’s establishing his coordinate system,” I explained, watching Luke’s movements track with the imaginary lines in my head.“Defining zero on the X and Y axes so he never has to look back to know where the center is.It’s not magic.It’s geometry.”
“Dear God, you can turn anything into math.”
