He moved forward, using his size to carve a path through the mob.I tucked into his wake, drafting like a goose.
We emerged at a large booth in the corner.Ryan O’Connell was standing on the bench, waving a basket of onion rings like a scepter.Javier Morales sat opposite him, looking bored but intense.Two other guys I recognized from the roster—Decker and a freshman defenseman—were cramming into the far side.
“The brain trust has arrived!”Ryan yelled, jumping down.He pointed a finger at me.“Math!Tell me you know state capitals.”
“I know all of them,” I said, sliding into the booth.
“Yes!”Ryan slammed the table.“We’re winning the pitcher.Carter, sit.You’re blocked by the fry basket.”
Luke slid in next to me.The booth was designed for four; with six hockey players and me, it was tight.Luke’s thigh pressed against mine from hip to knee.Heat radiated through the denim.
“Also,” Ryan announced to the table, pouring cheap lager into a plastic cup, “we are celebrating the fact that we beat Merrimack 7–6 last night, even though Carter tried to give me a heart attack in the third period.”
Luke’s jaw tightened.He didn’t reach for the pitcher.“It wasn’t a heart attack.It was a collapse.Three soft goals in ten minutes.”
“We won, didn’t we?”Ryan grinned, foam spilling over his hand.“Offense carried you.You’re welcome.That’s how teams work.You can’t be the golden boy every game.”
“I shouldn’t need carrying,” Luke muttered, staring at the scarred laminate table.“My job is to stop pucks.I can’t be giving up three soft goals in the third period.”
“Define ‘soft,’“ I said.
The table went quiet.Ryan lowered his pitcher.Javier blinked, looking at me like I’d spoken in binary.
Luke turned to me.“Soft.Easy.Shots I should have had.”
“I watched the game feed,” I said, adjusting my glasses.I pulled my phone out, tapping the screen.“Goal number four was a rebound from the low slot.Statistical shooting percentage on rebounds is over twenty percent higher than a direct shot.”
I scrolled down.
“Goal number five was a cross-ice pass.It crossed the Royal Road—the line dividing the offensive zone.”I turned the phone so Luke could see the heat map.“When the puck moves laterally across that line, the goaltender has to reset his angle.Save percentage on Royal Road shots drops by almost thirty percent.”
“So?”Ryan asked, looking confused.
“So,” I continued, my voice gaining edge, “they weren’t soft.They were high-danger chances.The defense allowed the pass; Luke was dealing with the mathematical fallout.”
I looked at Luke.
“I calculated your GSAx—Goals Saved Above Expected.Based on the shot quality Merrimack generated, an average goalie would have let in eight goals.You let in six.”
I set my phone down on the table with a click.
“You didn’t collapse, Luke.You were a plus-two.You stole a game the defense tried to give away.”
Luke stared at me.Something shifted in his expression—the tightness around his jaw eased, his shoulders dropped an inch.Not reassurance.Proof.
Ryan whistled low.“Damn, Monk.You brought a human calculator to a knife fight.”
Javier laughed, shaking his head.“I like him.He makes me feel better about my blown coverage.”
“For those of you who haven’t met him, this is Austen, my roommate,” Luke said, looking around the circle.“He’s fixing my GPA.And as you can see, he knows more about our team stats than anyone.Treat him like a starter.”
“Nice to meet you,” Decker said around a mouthful of burger.
Javier looked me up and down, his gaze sharp.“Luke says you understand angles.”
“Geometry is universal,” I said, meeting his stare.“Pucks follow physics, mostly.”
Javier smirked.“Mostly.Wait until you see O’Connell skate.He defies physics.”
