“Since eight-thirty.”He rolled his wrist, checking the analog watch he thought I hadn’t noticed.“But don’t worry, I took a break for coffee at ten, then chaos resumed.”
“Chaos sounds orderly.”I nodded at the neat desk, papers stacked perpendicular.
He granted a small, dry smile.“Chaos with boundaries.”
I gulped half the shake.Hmm, fake fruit with a hint of a chalky aftertaste, my favorite.“Heading to North Point after study hall.You want me to grab food?”
“I’m clear at thirteen-hundred.”He tapped the screen once.“Hot food travels poorly.”
“Blueberry oat bars travel fine.”
“They do.”
Agreement hung in the air for a beat.I replaced the shake, wiped condensation off the fridge door—habit or courtesy, not sure which—then went to my closet for a clean shirt.Shoulder twinged.The bruise flashed purple at the edge of my vision in the mirror shard taped above the dresser.
Austen’s voice came, low.“Has Dalton cleared you?”
“Full range of motion,” I said, rotating the joint in proof.“No missed practices.”
He nodded once, like he’d logged it undervariables stable, and slid the earbud back.The radiator ticked, satisfied.
I swapped shirts, grabbed the Intro to Financial Accounting notebook—yellow sticky notes bristling like caution flags—and headed for the door.
“Quiet hours expire at four,” he said without looking up.
“Copy, roommate constitution.”I hesitated, hand on the knob.“Say hi to the integrals.”
“They rarely greet back.”
“I know the type.”
The hallway swallowed the reply.
North Point wound at half throttle—past breakfast rush, pre-lunch mobs.A line of hockey hoodies carved a path toward the grill station.Most nodded at me, some offered fist bumps in passing.Starting goalie perks.I ducked into a corner by the salad bar, set my tray, and thumbed a replay clip on my phone—last save drill, skate edge shaky.Correctable.
“Monk Carter, sighted in the wild,” Ryan O’Connell announced, sliding his tray opposite mine.His grin could light an end board.“I thought you ate in cryogenic stasis between practices.”
“Occasional solid food,” I said.“Coach approved.”
He pointed at my plate: grilled chicken, rice, spinach no dressing.“That’s not food, that’s an FDA-approved food diagram.”
“Protein, carbs, greens.”I stabbed the spinach.“Healthy diet.Ta-da.”
“Healthy is overrated.You ever try fries?”
“What?And let something fried pass these lips?”
Ryan snorted, shook salt over his burger.
“And for the record, I had dinner out with Austen last week and ate a burger the size of a kettlebell and a basket of fries.I’m not perfect; I just try to balance the junk food with healthy food when I can.”
“You and Austen?”
“My roommate.”
“You’re still together?”Ryan asked.“I thought you were supposed to get a single.”
“Housing called, but I declined.I would have gotten a single, but Austen would have gotten stuck with a different roommate.”
