Heat shot through me, unexpected as a power surge.I swallowed, answer stuck half a beat.
“Good night, goalie.”
Silence took the rest.
Chapter 17
Crossing the Blue Line
Luke
I stared at the hairline crack in the ceiling until the dark went grainy.
Twelve radiator ticks, then the pipe sighed.Outside, somebody in the stairwell stumbled through the fight song—again, flatter this time, like the beer had quit halfway down.
I should have been asleep.Practice rolled at six-thirty, alarm at five-forty.But every time I closed my eyes the ledger lines from Austen’s pad drifted across my eyelids, neon from his highlighter.Debit Equipment, credit cash.Balance.Simple.Except my pulse wouldn’t copy the math.
Across the room his mattress creaked, faint, like he’d shifted an inch.Streetlight slipped past the blinds and penciled his outline—shoulder, hip, knee under the blanket.No movement after that.I told myself he was out cold, that waking him for no reason would violate at least two roommate articles.
Another tick.I tested a deep breath; the bruise in my shoulder answered with a dull complaint.Good excuse to get up, shake it off.Noise might yank him from sleep, but the pain wasn’t letting me stay still, so the excuse felt legal enough.
I eased upright, feet landing on the rug without sound.The pea bag was lukewarm.I crossed to the fridge, door hinge squeaking enough to swear at facilities in my head.New bag, colder.When I turned, Austen’s eyes were open, catching the street-glow.
“Sorry,” I whispered.“Pea rotation.”
He nodded once, no irritation, but he didn’t look away.His hair stuck up on the left where he’d flattened it against the pillow.Somehow, that detail felt louder than the hallway singer.
“You, okay?”he asked, voice rough with sleep.
“Restless.”I pressed the cold against the bruise.
He hummed acknowledgment but still didn’t shut his eyes.I managed two steps toward my bed before the silence filled with things I hadn’t said all week.
“If the peas aren’t working,” he murmured, “I have ibuprofen.”
“I’m good.”Not a lie—shoulder was background noise compared to the static in my head.“I can’t get my brain to shut up.”
“Perseverating?”
“Gesundheit.”
“Perseverating, when a thought keeps running around in your head.”
He pushed up on an elbow.The blanket slid, revealing the worn Frost Demons T-shirt he’d borrowed from my drawer after laundry day.It hung loose on him; I’d pretended not to notice how much I enjoyed seeing him in it.
Austen ran a hand through his hair, smoothing nothing.“You want the chessboard?”
Midnight chess once helped after the starter announcement.This felt different, but I latched on anyway.“Could work.”
He swung legs over the side, stood, and the mattress springs squealed like sneakers on wet ice.He froze, then relaxed when no one banged on the wall.The board lived on his desk—magnet travel set, size of a paperback.He grabbed it, hesitated, glanced at my bed, then his.
Less distance if we use one mattress.The thought arrived uninvited, vivid, and my throat tightened around it.
“Floor?”he offered.
“Beds are warmer.”I cleared mine with an elbow sweep.Shoulder protested; peas slipped.He noticed—of course—and crossed the small room.
“Let me.”He set the chessboard on the pillow, flipped the towel open, and positioned it under my arm so condensation wouldn’t soak the sheet.I didn’t stop him.My fingers brushed his wrist by accident—or maybe not; I wasn’t sure anymore.
