“I don’t want a camera,” I said, leaning on the counter.“I want the login for the arena ceiling feeds.”
Ben paused.He looked up, squinting.“The overheads?Those are for coaching staff only.Coach Harper locks that down tight.”
“I know,” I said.“But the server architecture for the Athletics Department shares a trunk with the AV archive.Which means you have an admin bypass?”
Ben crossed his arms.“And why would I give that to you?”
I reached into my bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers.“Math 304.Advanced Calculus.”
Ben’s eyes widened.
“I heard you’re retaking it,” I said.“I have the answer key for the midterm problem set.With proofs.And I’ll throw in a tutorial on how to solve the partial derivatives, so you don’t fail the class again.”
Ben looked at the papers.He looked at me.A simple transaction: intellectual property for digital access.
“You’re roommates with the goalie, right?”Ben asked.
“I am.”
“Is he good?Like, actually good?”
“Statistically above average,” I said.
Ben grinned.He grabbed a sticky note and scrawled a username and password.“Don’t get caught.If anyone asks, you hacked it.”
“Pleasure doing business.”
The Theoretical Mathematics department was located in the basement of Ridgeway Hall, far from the flashy biology labs with their glass walls.We were in the “Bunker”—a corridor of whiteboards and humming servers.
I stood outside Office B-12.My heart rate was 98 BPM.High.
Dr.Aris Thorne did that to people.
“Enter if you understand the Fourier Transform,” a voice called out from inside.“Leave if you’re looking for the registrar.”
I opened the door.
Dr.Thorne was standing on her desk—literally standing on it—adjusting a projector mounted to the ceiling.She was wearing a silk blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, her heels abandoned on the floor.Six-foot-two in her stocking feet, a statuesque woman with sharp cheekbones and eyes that could dissect a theorem at fifty paces.
The smartest person I had ever met, and arguably the most terrifying.
“Dr.Thorne,” I said.
“Lovell,” she said, not looking down.“Hand me that screwdriver.Phillips head.”
I grabbed the tool from her cluttered desk and handed it up.She tightened a screw on the mount, gave it a satisfied slap, and climbed down with the grace of a dancer.She slipped her feet back into her stilettos.
“Talk to me,” she said, sitting behind her desk.“How are the birds?Have we solved the flocking algorithm?”
“Yes, but I’m dropping the birds,” I said.
Thorne paused.She leaned back, tenting her fingers.“You’re pivoting.Two months before the draft submission.That is either brilliance or suicide.Defend it.”
“The birds are predictable,” I said, clutching my laptop.“I found a new dataset.A closed system with high-velocity projectile variables.Specifically… the goaltender position in collegiate hockey.”
Thorne stared at me.The silence stretched for five seconds.
“Hockey,” she said flatly.“Men hitting each other with sticks?That is your muse?”
