“I saw you,” I said.
Austen’s forehead creased.“Obviously.”
“No, I mean—I saw you.North-end, mid-row, gray hoodie.Right after the whistle with seventeen-something left.Everyone else was standing and screaming, and you were just… you.”
He didn’t blink for a moment.Then he capped the laptop and set it aside.“Does that bother you?”
“Opposite.”I adjusted the peas.“Made the rink smaller.Easier to track lanes.”
His gaze dropped, unreadable.“Good.Because the north-end seat was optimal for exit vectors.I might reuse it.”
Warmth prickled under my collar.“I’d like that.”
A slow nod.Nothing more.
We both finished the seltzers.He collected the empties, crushed them enough to fit the recycling bin, then sat again, legs dangling this time, nearer.Three feet of checkerboard rug separated our knees.
He unfolded a granola bar from his desk drawer—blueberry oat.“Energy replacement,” he said, offering half.
I broke it clean, passed the bigger portion back.“Macro ratio matters.”
He didn’t argue, just ate.
Words felt too clumsy to cram into the space that existed now, so I let them be.Instead, I peeled the game puck from my hoodie pocket—equipment manager had tossed it at me during cleanup—and rolled it between fingers.
Austen watched, expression curious.
I extended it.“Souvenir.”
He hesitated.“Shouldn’t that go on your shelf?”
“Already got shelves.I need constants.”I nudged the puck closer.“Consider it article five.”
After a beat, he accepted.His thumb traced the scuffed paint where NRU logo had chipped.“It’s heavy.”
“Density of vulcanized rubber, roughly 1.5 grams per cubic centimeter.”The stat spilled out before I caught it.
He huffed a laugh.“I guess I won’t need to Google that fact.”He placed the puck on his desk, exactly centered between stapler and pens.
The clock on his nightstand clicked to 12:04 a.m.Game day officially over.
Austen stood, flicked the main light off, leaving only the desk lamp beside the puck.“Quiet hours,” he reminded softly.
I slid under covers, peas balanced on my shoulder.He shut his laptop, toed off shoes, and moved around the small room with efficient hush.Mattress springs sighed as he lay down.
Dark, but not empty.The radiator’s gentle hiss, hallway muffled laughs, my pulse decelerating.And Austen, eight feet away, constant as posts.
His voice drifted through shadows.“You did good work tonight, Luke.”
It hit deeper than any chant.“Couldn’t have done it without north-side logistics.”
“Correlation,” he murmured, “occasionally is causation.”
I smiled into the pillow.
Silence followed, not awkward, just suspended—like the rink before puck drop, all potential.
I let my eyes close, peas cooling the bruise, muscles unknotting by degrees.One last thought surfaced, uninvited and absolute:
