“Get out of here.And start studying for the midterm today.Don’t make the mistake of waiting to the last minute.”
“Yes, sir.”
He made a shooing motion.I had been dismissed.The dread that had been sitting on my chest for a week suddenly gone, replaced by something lighter.
I looked at the quiz in my hand.Eighty-two.
I hadn’t just survived.I’d understood it.
I pulled out my phone.I didn’t text Ryan, Coach, or my dad.I opened the thread that had become the most active one on my phone.
Me:82.The arrows worked.
I hit send, grinning like an idiot in the middle of the business school hallway.
I slipped out of Carver Hall, notebook tighter under my arm than the blocker usually was on my hand.A snow-dusted quad funneled students to late afternoon classes.
Phone buzz—Dad again.Declined.Another buzz.
Ryan:Lift at 4:30, don’t be late, Monk.
I thumbed back: on schedule.
Campus wind slapped the thought away.I tightened my parka hood and crossed toward the dorms, boots punching through crusted snow.Practice countdown: two hours, twenty-nine minutes.Enough time to eat and stretch.
Stony Creek Hall shimmered with radiator breath on the windows.I climbed to third, shoulder twinging from the notebook weight—even paper felt heavy now.Our door was ajar the regulation two inches.
Inside, Austen stood at the sink area rinsing a mug.His hair looked like he’d shoved a hand through it five times, then decided it was fine.He set the mug upside down on a towel, glanced over.
“Training room?”he asked.
“Office hours.”I dropped my backpack, the thunk louder than intended.
“Action-packed.Congrats on the eighty-two, by the way.”
I peeled off my parka, draped it on the bedpost.He didn’t dig; he never did.Returned to his side of the room, shifting a stack of printouts to make space on the desk.
“Thanks, it was your tutoring that did it.I really can’t thank you enough.”
“Glad I could assist.”
I opened the fridge, found two blueberry oat bars lined beside a Post-it note reading inventory: 3.Lifted one, offered it across the gap.“Trade?”I said.
“Accepted.”He took the bar, slid a mechanical pencil and a yellow pad into the vacated space.
My pulse thudded in my ears.“I’m lifting at 4:30, practice at six.”I unwrapped the bar with deliberate care.“Weights’ll wreck me.”
“We can continue with tutoring tomorrow then.”He broke the bar in half, ate.
I chewed, swallowed chalk-sweetness.“I understand the theory.Execution still… leaks.”
“An athlete complaining about execution feels ironic.”
“Funny.”I crumpled the wrapper, aimed for the trash.Rim, in.“No pointers besides ‘reallocate ice time.’“
Austen made a noncommittal sound, spun the mechanical pencil between fingers.“Tonight, after practice?”
Practice would end at 8:15.Showers, media, maybe 8:45 back to dorm.“I’ll be disgusting.”
