Something sharpens in his gaze, a quick recalibration. “Right. Control.”
When I come out of the locker room, he is waiting by the exit. Surprised, I sling my bag over my shoulder, alreadyangling for space—air that doesn’t smell of cedar soap and damp cotton, air that doesn’t make my thoughts lag half a beat behind my body.
He falls into step beside me as we push through the door. For a few strides, neither of us speaks. The silence stretches.
I should acknowledge it. Reset the field.
I don’t.
“Speaking of discipline,” he says, careful now, “breakfast. Daylight. Campus café. We can look like exactly what we are—lab partners.”
Same offer. Reframed.
It hangs there. For one unguarded second, I almost say yes—steam curling from a coffee cup, a corner table, his voice at a normal volume. The version of him who shows up early and doesn’t perform.
“Still no,” I say, and feel the refusal settle between us.
His grin holds, but something tightens at the edges—not irritation. Assessment. Resolve.
“Then let me earn it,” he says lightly. “You can tell me why my sensor setup’s garbage while we eat eggs. Strictly academic. First tutoring session.”
“Your sensor setup isn’t garbage,” I hear myself say. “Your calibration method needs work, but the concept is sound.”
His eyebrows lift. “Was that a compliment?”
“It was an observation.”
“I’ll take it.” He slips his hands deeper into his pockets, already stepping back. “One day, Marin. When you decide I’m not noise.”
“Unlikely,” I say.
And lie.
Because the truth is starting to feel a lot more complicated than no.
We cross the quad toward the engineering building, boots crunching through salt and packed snow. Students stream past us—early risers heading to labs, bleary-eyed freshmen clutching coffee.
“You sticking around campus this weekend?” he asks.
Casual. Too casual. Like he practiced sounding uninterested.
“Why?”
He shrugs. It’s meant to look loose, but I can see the thought behind it. “We’ve got a home game tonight against Harvard. Thought you might want to come. See what all the hype’s about.”
I stop walking. “You’re inviting me to your hockey game?”
“Yeah.” He turns fully toward me, grin stretching, bright but not loud. “Student section is wild. You could watch me do the one thing I’m actually good at.”
“I thought you were good at lots of things,” I say before my filter kicks in. “Image maintenance. Performing. And your aggressive approach to interior design.”
A short laugh breaks out of him—real, startled—before he catches it and tucks it back behind that easy grin. “Touché.” He rocks back on his heels. “So? Tonight. Seven. Agganis Arena.”
The invitation glints between us, carrying more than it says, and my brain starts sorting it into boxes that don’t fit.
Friend. Teammate’s friend. Study-group-adjacent. Date. Not-date.
Do friends go to each other’s games? Are we even friends? Is this a friend thing—or a not-friend thing?
