Outside, dusk had settled.Cold Harbor’s campus lights glowed soft gold, and across the lawn, the science complex flickered with late-night labs.Ridgeway Hall, the math and science building, stood off to the right—windows lit sporadically.I imagined Austen sitting in a room of friends doing math problems on a whiteboard.
A gentle breeze took the sting off the summer evening.I jammed my hands into my shorts pockets and set off toward North Point Dining Hall.
Inside North Point, the grill line was short.I loaded a tray—chicken, rice, and whatever vegetable wasn’t dripping butter—and claimed a table near the windows.Students buzzed around me, laughter bouncing off cinderblock walls.Groups formed and re-formed, tables claimed, inside jokes flying.The kind of chemistry teams tried to manufacture in locker rooms.
I ate methodically, fueling more than tasting.Between bites, I opened my planner: class list, rink schedule, workouts.Every block accounted for.The plan.Except now it had an asterisk—room shared, privacy compromised, mental space unknown.
Halfway through dinner, a text popped from Coach Harper:Reminder—medical clearance forms due at 0530 tomorrow or you’re off the ice.
I replied:Form signed, see you at five.
Coach Harper wasn’t big on emojis.Good.Neither was I.
I finished eating, bused the tray, and ignored the surrounding chatter about upcoming ski trips and fall singles mixers.Back outside, the air felt sharper.I retraced steps to Stony Creek Hall.
The lobby was quieter now, lights dimmed.Third floor was quieter too, though EDM bass thumped faintly behind my neighbor’s door.I tapped twice, testing my own advice.The bass cut off mid-drop.At least that still worked.
Inside 317, the AC unit sputtered but hadn’t started its percussion solo.Austen’s bed was empty, desk lamp off.The clock on my phone read 7:43.Plenty of time before he came back.
I toed off shoes, left them by the door—same spot as always—and changed into sleep shorts and a T-shirt.Then, because routine mattered, I unrolled the yoga mat between the beds.Tighter squeeze now, but it still fit.Ten minutes of hip mobility drills, pausing for a second only when the floor creaked in the hallway and I thought my new roommate was coming home.But the door remained locked.Stretching ended with me on my back, lying on the yoga mat and doing goalie-specific visualizations my high school coach had taught me—crease, angles, shooter patterns.The exercises usually cleared my head.Tonight, they only underlined that I was practicing recovery breathing six feet from a stranger’s pillow.
I stood, rolled the mat tight, and slid it under the bed.Considered reviewing the team’s playbook again, but rejected the idea.Brain done.Instead, I turned off the overhead light, climbed under the covers, checked the alarm on my phone, and stared at the ceiling.The hairline crack spidering across cinderblock looked vaguely like a face—I’d named it Gary on night three.I blinked until it became patternless again.
Footsteps approached.Austen’s key scraped the lock at 10:56.I checked without meaning to.The door opened; he slipped inside, closed it softly.
“Hey,” he whispered, seeing me awake.
“Hey.”My voice came out rougher than intended.“How was your study group?”
“Good.”He hung his jacket on the hook—his hook now, I supposed.He went to his set of drawers and pulled out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt.The room was dark, but my eyes had already adjusted.I should have looked away.I didn’t.
He slid out of his shirt first.Lean shoulders, the kind of definition that came from movement rather than weights.A runner’s build, maybe, or someone who biked everywhere.His spine curved as he reached for the sweatpants, and I caught the shadow of muscle shifting across his back before he stepped out of his jeans.
I stared at the ceiling.Forced myself to count the cracks.
The rustle of fabric said he’d finished.I heard him grab something from the desk—toiletry bag, maybe—and the door opened again, light slicing across the floor.
“Bathroom,” he said, half-whispered.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
The door clicked shut.I exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over my face.What the hell was that?I’d seen guys change in locker rooms a thousand times.This was no different.
Except I hadn’t looked away.
A minute later, footsteps returned.The door opened, closed again softly.Darkness settled back over the room.Only the glow of my phone remained.
He pointed at the screen.“Alarm early?”
“Four forty-five.”
“Got it.”He fished wireless earbuds from the desk drawer.“I’ll keep quiet.”
He didn’t need to; his presence barely registered sound.Mattress springs sighed as he lay down, and for a minute only the hum of the AC filled the room.Then—bang—metal pipes clanged like an unwelcome drum solo.
Austen chuckled under his breath.“Showtime, I assume?”
“You’ll sleep through it by Wednesday.”I flipped onto my side, facing the wall.“Took me till Thursday.”
