“It is.But the acoustic data was overwhelming,” he said, rubbing his temple.“How do you maintain focus in the crease with all that noise?”
“I cheat,” I confessed.“I wear custom-molded earplugs under the mask.They cut the volume by half.Otherwise, I’d lose my mind.”
Austen’s face lit up—a genuine, surprised look.He tapped his own jeans pocket.
“Convergent evolution,” he said.“I admit that I put mine in during your warmups.Even with the noise-blocking technology, it was still very loud.”
The grin cracked loose before I could hide it.I crossed to the fridge, grabbed a can of lime seltzer.I held it out to Austen, “Want one?I need to stay hydrated.”
“Sure”
He accepted.Our fingers brushed against the cold aluminum; static zipped up my arm, sharper than usual.
Click.We both opened the cans, took the same first swig.
“I do have one technical inquiry regarding the pre-game kinetics,” Austen said, staring at his can.
“Yeah?”
“The synchronized maneuver where the entire roster lies prone and… grinds their hips against the frozen surface like frogs.”He looked up, expression blank.“Is that biomechanically necessary, or were you all just trying to conceive a puck?”
I choked.Lime seltzer went down the wrong pipe, up my nose, and sprayed across my duvet.I hacked, thumping my chest, eyes watering as I stared at him.
“Are you—” I wheezed.“Are you serious?”
Austen didn’t blink.“It looked very intimate.I wasn’t sure if I should avert my eyes.”
Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.Just a fraction.
“You’re joking,” I rasped, wiping my chin.“You’re actually making a joke.”
“Humor is a coping mechanism for trauma,” he said, taking a sip.“And watching twenty men hump the ice was traumatic.”Austen took a swig of his soda.“Congrats on the win.”
“Team effort.”
“Stats disagree.Thirty-three saves.”He nudged his laptop, angling the screen so I could see the box score window.“I ran the numbers while the people behind me were chanting.Your save percentage is two standard deviations above the league average.”
“Of course, you calculated that.”
His eyes flicked up, amusement quiet but bright.“Data calms the crowd, Luke.Or at least, it calms me.”
I sank onto my mattress opposite him.Muscles complained immediately; I rolled my left shoulder and winced.
“Still bad?”he asked.
“Impact bruise.Dalton’s on it.”
Without comment, Austen angled off the bed, rummaged in the freezer, and produced the bag of peas.He tossed it underhand.I caught, pressed it to the spot.
“Thanks.”
“Roommate constitution, article four: frozen produce used for injury management shall be rotated and refrozen.”He climbed back onto his bed.
“Didn’t know we’d updated articles.”
“Version 1.2 pending approval.”
I laughed, then let the quiet settle.Streetlight glow bled through blinds, striping the floor between us.The radiator ticked, tame.
