He was sitting on the edge of his bed, back rigid.His eyes were red-rimmed, his face pale, but the mask was back in place.A fragile reconstruction, taped together, but there.
“Radiator acting up?”he asked.His voice was wrecked—hoarse and raw.
“Yep,” I said, not looking at his face.Instead, I turned to the fridge.“I’m getting a seltzer.You want one?”
He hesitated.“I’m okay.”
“Lime or plain?”I asked, ignoring the refusal.
“…Lime.”
I opened the fridge, light spilling out.I grabbed two cans before walking over and setting one next to him.
I stood there for a second.The air between us felt different now.The membrane had thinned.
“My foster dad in eighth grade,” I said, keeping my eyes on the seltzer tab as I cracked it open.Click-hiss.“He used to call me into the kitchen to review the grocery bill.Would circle every item I ate in red marker.Tell me what my ROI was for the month.”
I took a sip.The bubbles burned pleasantly.
“Some people,” I said, looking at the wall, “don’t want kids.They want portfolios.”
I risked a glance at him then.
Luke was staring at me.Shocked, exposed, and—slowly—relieved.The tension in his shoulders dropped an inch.
He reached out, his hand shaking a little, and cracked his own seltzer.
“Portfolios,” he repeated.The word sounded heavy in his mouth.
“Bad investment strategy,” I said.“High volatility.”
Luke let out a breath that was almost a laugh, though it sounded painful.“Yeah.High volatility.”
He took a drink.He didn’t say anything else about the call.He didn’t have to.
I went back to my desk and picked up my red pen.I didn’t look at him again, but I could feel him there.Sitting.
I graded a quiz.I marked a question wrong, then hesitated, and drew a small smiley face next to the correction.
We sat in the quiet, drinking lime seltzer, listening to the radiator tick.
Chapter 7
The Shutout
Luke
The puck dropped for the third-period draw and vanished in a mess of sticks.I tracked the blur long enough to see it squirt back to Caribou’s right-defense.Shot probability from there: medium.Crowd volume: stupid.
I tuned both out, set my angle, and let muscle memory finish the math.
Clack.The slapper ricocheted off our captain’s shin pad, bounced into the slot, and died in a puddle of snow nobody expected.Their center lunged.I slid, sealed the ice, and felt rubber thud into my ribs.No rebound.Whistle.
Seventeen thousand bodies erupted.Or maybe seven thousand; hard to count noise.
I skated a lazy arc while the ref fished the puck out of my gear.The student section hammered on the glass—painted faces, foam horns, a banner that readCARTER = COLD FRONT.Nice.I forced slow breaths, eyes up to the Jumbotron so I wouldn’t stare at the clock.
Instead, my gaze snagged on the north-end stands.Mid-tier, two sections left of center, somebody sat stone-still amid the chaos.Gray hoodie, elbows on knees, spine straight like a geometry proof.Hair a little too neat for a Friday night rink.
