“Good.I’m texting you the time.”He wiped ketchup on a napkin to unlock his phone.“Bring the math kid if you want.Lovell’s brain might save us on the academic-y questions.”
“He’s got class.”
“So do you.”Ryan eyed me, softer.“You okay, Carter?”
“Fine.”
“Fine means you’re about to dive headfirst into goalie brain.”He pointed a fry at me.“Remember, team’s got your back.”
The words pricked, not painful, unexpected—like skate lace biting skin where padding ends.I nodded, throat thick.
Ryan grinned again, tension gone.“Gotta roll.Film in ten.”He stood, burger half demolished.“Don’t monk out too hard.”
“No promises.”
He left, weaving through tables.A pack of freshmen parted like fish around him.
I finished the chicken, ignored the fries, and checked the time—12:41.My study group for accounting started at one.I grabbed two blueberry oat bars from the grab-n-go shelf, slid them into the hoodie pocket, and headed for the door.
It took me a few minutes to find the conference room the group had reserved inside the library, walls lined with motivational posters about synergy.Four athletes sat—soccer goalie I barely knew, two volleyball hitters, and the linebacker nobody called anything but Tank.The athletic department’s tutor took attendance, then retreated behind a laptop.
Financial Accounting worksheet glared up—adjusting entries, deferred revenue.I filled columns, checked against examples.Numbers balanced, but only because I triple-counted.Exam next week weighed twentyt-five percent.Borderline grades meant academic eligibility reviews.Reviews meant Coach Harper in your ear and, worse, Dad on the phone pretending not to panic.
I exhaled, leaned back.The overhead light buzzed like a wasp.
Two bars of phone signal—enough.I cleared notifications, answered a medical form email, ignored a message from Dad (voicemail length: forty-three seconds) and another from one of my ex-moms in New Jersey.Was she number two or number four?I couldn’t remember anymore.No capacity.
Worksheet finished at 2:20.I packed up, nodded at Tank, and bolted before I got sucked not a conversation about eggs.
Snow sifted outside, fine and directionless.Practice ran at five.Lift after.The window between belonged to recovery and food—and whatever nonsense the dorm offered.
I quick-stepped across the quad, gripping the hoodie pocket to keep the bars from bouncing out.Heat rose under the beanie; breath fogged sideways.
In Stony Creek, I hoofed it up the three floors instead of waiting for the elevator.I opened the fire door, the third-floor carpet muffled my arrival.Room 317’s door was cracked—Austen’s standard setting when he was in.I nudged it open.
He sat at the desk now, hoodie draped over the chair back, earbuds dangling unused.Shoulders hunched, eyes on a screen full of red text.I could sense that something was amiss just by noticing how he slumped his body.
“Bad?”I asked.
“It keeps telling me I have an undefined variable,” he said without turning.“Except I defined it twelve lines up.”
“Ghost in the machine.”
“Or in my logic.”He scrubbed a hand through his hair, messing it worse.I walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder while I pulled out a bar.“You clearly need fuel.”
He exhaled, tension bleeding enough to see.“Thanks.”He grabbed the bar.
I kept my hand on his shoulder for a second longer than is strictly in the bro-code.I pulled it away quickly and walked to my side of the room as I peeled off my beanie.“How’s the radiator?”
“Temperamental.”He tapped the wrench beside the valve.
“I never asked, but where did that come from?”
“Facilities left it when they failed to fix the percussion concerto.And since it’s still not fixed, I claimed the wrench for our room.”
“You’re a maintenance understudy now?”
“Pays zero, but the benefits are exact temperature.”
