I pull the coffee toward me and take a sip. "What else would I be there for?"
He looks at me steadily. "You tell me."
The library is quiet around us. Morning light coming through the window. My class is in — I check my phone — fourteen minutes.
My phone lights up on the table between us. Beckett's name on the screen because I finally replied to him this morning, apologizing for not responding.
I turn it face down.
Theo watches me do it and doesn't say anything. He looks back at his coffee and takes a slow sip.
"The question worth asking," I say quietly, "isn't why people obey."
He looks up.
"It's what it costs them to stop." I hold his gaze. "Was that for the room or was that for me?"
Something moves across his face. So fast I almost miss it.
"Why would that be for you?" he asks.
I don't answer. I pick up my bag and stand, and his eyes follow me up without moving anything else.
"I have class," I say.
I get three steps away before I hesitate. There’s something about him that has me hooked. I don’t want to stop talking to him, butI also can’t get away fast enough. I don't turn around. I walk to the elevator, press the button, stare at the doors, and feel my heart doing something completely inconvenient the entire way down.
Chapter 28: Theo
Coachrunsushard.
Forty minutes of systems work — breakout patterns, neutral zone transitions, defensive zone coverage — and then full scrimmage, which is where things get interesting.
Silas is sharp today. Center ice, reading plays before they develop. This is what he looks like when he's happy, when the position is his, and nobody is threatening it.
I feed him a pass in the slot that he buries top shelf without breaking stride.
He points at me on the way back to center ice. I nod once.
Beckett is a different story.
He's not bad. That's the thing about Beckett — his baseline is high enough that off days still look competent to anyone who doesn't know what he's capable of. Coach won't notice. Half the team won't notice.
I notice.
His gap control is half a step slow. His first pass decisions are hesitant in a way they never are when his head is clear. During a two-on-one rush, he takes the pass option when he should have stepped up, and the shooter scores on a release he should have smothered before it happened.
I watch him reset to center ice, jaw tight.
After the whistle, I come off the boards and fall into line beside him.
"You're half a second behind yourself." I keep my eyes forward.
He doesn't respond.
"Whatever's in your head," I say, "get it out. We play on Saturday."
Beckett turns to look at me then, and I see that particular flatness he gets when he's controlling something he doesn't want me to see. He's been doing it since she called him to herdorm room. Since he started staying nights. Since he confused proximity for progress and forgot what he was there for.
