“Mathematics is odor-agnostic.”
I almost laughed.“You sure?”
He met my eyes—steady, no sympathy gimmicks.“Yes.”
Embarrassment prickled anyway, like forgetting a piece of gear before warm-up.“I don’t want to drag you.”
“Reciprocity,” he answered, a word now so coded it skipped argument.“Nine-thirty?Gives you time to rotate the bruise and the laundry.”
That precise.My chest loosened an inch.“Nine-thirty.”
He tore a scrap of paper, wrote 21:30 – FAcct on it, stuck it atop his monitor.Then he reached into the freezer, retrieved the bag of peas.“Ice your shoulder.I saw you wince.”
I nodded, throat tight.I ripped off my hoodie and T-shirt to let the peas sit on my skin.
Austen’s eyes lingered on my six-pack before making their way up to my face.Did he just blush?He spun around, no longer looking at me.
“Thanks,” I said, barely above normal volume.
He capped the pencil, clicked it twice.“We’ll solve for direction.Magnitude follows.”
I pulled out a book for my film class and learned about the history of documentary filmmaking.I kept getting distracted.The image of Austen’s hazel eyes as they had raked up my torso flooded my mind and distracted me.I’m sure I’d imagined it, but for just a second, I swear there was longing there.But then, maybe I’m seeing things that don’t exist because it’s been so long since I had any man-on-man action that didn’t involve the ice.
My phone chimed—Ryan’s twenty-minute warning.I grabbed my gym bag, slung it over the opposite shoulder to spare the bruise.
At the door, I hesitated.Austen looked up.
“Radiator good?”I asked.
He angled a thumb toward the valve.“Posts aligned.”
“Oh, Ryan wanted me to remind you that you are invited tomorrow night to trivia.”
“As for right now, that sounds entirely probable.”
Weights hammered every muscle fiber; practice finished the job.Harper barely spoke, but her stopwatch did, beep after merciless beep.By the time I limped into the dorm, the bruise sang in three languages.Clock read 9:22.
Room 317 glowed warm.Austen sat cross-legged on the floor, T-accounts sketched on the yellow pad, his mint tea sitting next to him.Next to him, he had a lime seltzer, a nutrition bar, and a bag of peas laid out waiting for me sitting beside my notebook.
He didn’t say hurry or you’re late.Looked up and patted the rug.
I dropped the gear bag, toed off shoes, and sat opposite him, shoulder loosening under the radiator’s steady breath.Embarrassment lingered, but trust inched forward, enough to pick up the pencil and meet his eyes.
“Debit equipment,” I started, voice steadier than I felt.“Credit cash.”
“Show your work,” he said, and the lesson began.
Chapter 13
Fact Check
Austen
Going to a bar on a Thursday night violated at least three of my personal operating protocols:
Academic rigor requires sleep.
