Me:It’s random.
Austen:That’s not random, that’s just ugly.
I laughed, then caught myself.The walls here were thin.Dad was downstairs, probably already queuing up game film, ready to dissect every save I’d made since September.
Me:How’s Vermont?
Austen:Cold.The Chens have strong opinions about board games.Maya’s mother asked if I have a girlfriend.I said no, which is technically accurate.
Me:Smooth.
Austen:I panicked.She asked if I have a boyfriend.I froze.
I read the message twice.Something warm spread through my chest, counteracting the chill of being back in this house.
Me:What did Maya do?
Austen:Choked on her hot chocolate.But got me out of answering the question.I believe she suspects something.
Me:You think?
Austen:Probability increasing by the hour.
I heard Dad’s footsteps on the stairs.I pocketed my phone and opened my duffel, pretending to unpack.
“Dinner’s at six,” Dad said from the doorway.“I made the brisket.”
“Thanks.”
He lingered.I could feel him cataloging the room—the unmade bed, the duffel I’d barely touched, the phone-shaped bulge in my pocket.
“You talk to Coach Harper lately?”he asked.
“Before I left.She’s happy with the first half.”
“Happy doesn’t win championships.”
“I’m aware.”
Another silence.The Christmas lights blinked.Springsteen drifted up from the kitchen, muffled but persistent.
“Good to have you home, Luke.”
“Yeah,” I said.“Good to be here.”
We were both lying.
The first week crawled.
Dad and I existed in parallel orbits—breakfast at different times, dinners eaten in front of game tape, conversations that circled endlessly back to hockey.He had opinions about my butterfly technique.He had opinions about my rebound control.He had opinions about Harper’s line combinations and the freshman defenseman who kept screening me on point shots.
I nodded.I deflected.I escaped to my room as often as I could justify.
Austen became my lifeline.
We texted constantly—a running commentary that made the hours bearable.He sent photos of Vermont: snow-covered pines, Calculus the Labrador asleep on his feet, Maya’s younger brother attempting to explain TikTok trends with the fervor of a missionary.I sent photos of New Jersey: my high school, the diner where I’d eaten post-game pancakes as a kid, the sunset over the turnpike that looked like bruised fruit, and maybe one or two shirtless selfies to keep him interested.
Austen:The Chens play Settlers of Catan with alarming intensity.Mrs.Chen has won four games in a row.I suspect card counting.
