I walk out of the locker room, the faint scent of sweat and liniment clinging to me. The arena is mostly empty now, the lastechoes of the crowd’s cheers long gone. The ice gleams under the harsh lights, a pristine, dangerous surface.
She thinks she’s drawn a boundary. She thinks she’s told me to stay in my lane, but this isn’t a lane. This is a game, and she just told me the rules she thinks apply.
I’m going to show her how wrong she is.
I don’t need to text her, I don’t need to speak to her. I just need to exist. In her classroom, in her periphery, in her thoughts.
And then, when she least expects it, I’ll make my next move. The game has only just begun, and she’s already playing right into my hand.
I head back to my apartment, the city lights a blur. The whiskey is waiting. The Moleskine is waiting. I pour myself another glass, the amber liquid swirling, reflecting the faint glow of my laptop screen.
I open the notebook to the page with her quiz. I retrace her name, the sharp edges of the letters a perfect mirror of her personality. I pull up the university’s course catalog. I already know her schedule, but I want to see the details. The professors, the rooms, the times.
She has a lab section for Chem 102 on Monday mornings. Early. 8 AM. Dr. Albright doesn’t teach the labs; graduate TAs run them. I scroll through the list of TAs assigned to the lab sections. My name isn’t there, of course. I’m the lecture TA.
But I know the head of the chemistry department. Professor Davies. A man who owes my uncle a few favors. A man who understands the importance of “student success” and “additional support.”
I pick up my phone. Not to text Kinsley. Never to text Kinsley again, not directly. Not when she’s told me not to. At least, for now.
I dial Professor Davies’s office number. It’s late, but he’ll have his office phone forwarded to his cell. He always does.
The phone rings twice before he answers, his voice a little gruff with sleep.
“Professor Davies, West Monroe here. Apologies for the late call, sir. I was just reviewing the Chem 102 lab schedule, and noticed a potential staffing issue for the Monday 8 AM section. I’d be happy to step in and offer some additional support. For the students, of course.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Professor Davies is a wise man. He knows a request from me, especially one that comes after a late-night call, isn’t just about “student success.”
“Monroe,” he says, a sigh in his voice. “You’re the lecture TA. You’re already doing plenty.”
“I’m passionate about student success, Professor,” I reply, my voice smooth, unwavering. “And I believe a consistent presence across both lecture and lab could be highly beneficial. Especially for students who might be struggling.”
He sighs again. “Alright, Monroe. I’ll make the arrangements. Consider yourself assigned, but don’t make me regret this.”
“You won’t, sir. Thank you.”
I hang up. I take another sip of whiskey.
Monday morning, 8 AM. She’ll be there, and so will I.
She thinks she’s drawn a line. She told me to leave her alone, but I won’t. I’m changing the scenery.
The game is shaping up, and I just moved a piece she didn’t even know was on the board.
Eleven
Kinsley
The weekend is a blur of restless energy and simmering frustration. After the coffee shop Chloe tried to distract me, but it was useless. Every quiet moment, every lull in conversation my mind would drift back to those three dots, and then their sudden disappearance. The silence from West is louder than any text he could have sent. It’s a calculated absence, a void he’s left for me to fill with my own anxiety.
Did I win? Or did I just poke the bear?The question cycles through my brain on a relentless, buzzing loop. Sleep is a fractured landscape of his piercing blue eyes, the cold gleam of the ice, and the suffocating feeling of being watched. I wake up before my alarm, and the dread of Monday morning is a heavy weight in my chest. My thoughts race, too fast to catch, too loud to ignore. Every nerve ending feels exposed.
My first class is Chem 102 lab, 8 AM. It’s usually a sanctuary, a place where I can focus on the precise measurements and predictable reactions of science. Today, it feels like walking into a trap. My mind is already running at double speed, making it harder to ground myself.
I dress carefully, choosing a loose-fitting sweater and jeans and I tie my long hair back tightly, wanting to feel as contained and unapproachable as possible. I don’t want to give him anything to comment on, anything to notice. The internal monologue is a torrent:Don’t let him see, don’t give him an inch. Control, control, control.
I arrive at the lab early, as always. The room is still mostly empty, filled with the sterile scent of cleaning solution and chemicals. I head straight for my usual workstation, number 14, at the back of the room. It’s a good spot, out of the main thoroughfare, but with a clear view of the front. I lay out my lab manual, my notebook, and my pen with meticulous precision. I need control, I need order. The world feels too chaotic, too loud, and his presence amplifies every tremor.
A few other students trickle in, their sleepy chatter echoing in the large room. The graduate TA, a quiet woman named Sarah, usually arrives a few minutes before class starts. She’s efficient, explains the experiment, and then leaves us to our work.
