Oliver sighs, leaning back in his chair until it creaks. “That wasn’t planned. It just kind of happened.”
“How does that ‘just happen’ for someone like you?”
“Someone like me?”
“You know.” I gesture at him—allof him. The broad shoulders, the easy confidence, the face that belongs on magazine covers. “You could have anyone you want. The idea that you’d go nine months without…”
“Without getting laid?” Oliver finishes, amused. “Ryan, hookups take energy. Time. Mental space. And this year, all of that went to the team. When the Ice Queen started posting about us, everything changed. Suddenly, we weren’t just hockey players—we were content. Every game, every party, every interaction was analyzed and dissected. Gerard’s ass became a meme. Drew and Jackson’s relationship became a public spectacle. And as captain, I had to hold everyone together while making sure none of it went to our heads.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
Oliver rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t make a conscious decision to stop hooking up. I just…kept choosing other things. Team dinners instead of dating apps. Extra practice instead of parties. Making sure the freshmen were adjusting instead of pursuing my own stuff.”
“You put everyone else first.”
“It’s what captains do.” He says it simply, without self-pity. “And honestly? I don’t regret it. We won three championships. We stayed grounded when we could have easily become insufferable. The guys know they can count on me. Plus, I have hands. I still got my rocks off, just in a different way.”
I think about what that kind of selflessness costs. The loneliness it must create. The needs that go unmet until late at night because you’re busy meeting everyone else’s. “So why did you hook up after the championship?”
“I figured I’d earned a celebration. Nine months of being Captain Responsible, and we’d won our third title. I wanted one night of being a college kid.”
“Was it worth it?”
“The sex? Yeah, it was good. Scratched an itch.” He pauses. “But it didn’t fix anything. I woke up the next morning still feeling like I was going through the motions instead of actually living. I haven’t hooked up with anyone else since.”
“I can relate to the going through the motions thing,” I confess, choosing to sidestep the knowledge that Oliver only had that one night. If I analyze it too deeply, I’ll start thinking things I shouldn’t, hoping things I have no right to hope for. “I started feeling that way after my mom died. She was my person, you know? The one who saw me. Once she was gone, I retreated. I convinced myself that if I didn’t let anyone in, I wouldn’t lose anyone else.”
“That’s a lonely way to live.”
“It’s the only way I knew how.”Until you came along.
The sound of a door opening and footsteps entering the basement cuts through our conversation. Elliot’s voice floats through the space. “Break time.”
We all scurry out like mice who haven’t seen the sunlight in a very long time. But for me, I don’t think what I’m doing is scurrying. I’m escaping the heaviness that has been my life and running toward something better.
15
RYAN
My laptop rings at 9:47 p.m., and the sound is so unexpected that I knock my desk lamp sideways, plunging half the room into darkness before I scramble to right it.
The Skype notification blinks on my screen. MARVIN ABRAMS - INCOMING VIDEO CALL. I stare at it for three full rings because my brother voluntarily calling me is as rare as a solar eclipse. I click accept.
Marvin’s face fills the screen, backlit by the neon glow of what appears to be a Manhattan evening. Behind him, a taxi blares its horn. A woman’s laughter cuts through from somewhere off-screen, followed by the thudding bass of music leaking out of a bar or club. Marvin is sitting on a fire escape, his phone propped against the railing, a bottle of something coppery in his hand.
“You’re alive,” he says.
“Last I checked.”
“Good. Because when the dean’s office called my number asking to speak with a parent or guardian regarding one Ryan Abrams and a ‘violation of campus conduct policy,’ I had to seriously consider whether I was going to pretend I’d never heard of you.”
I wince. When campus security processed us and demanded emergency contacts, I gave Marvin’s number without hesitation. Not because we’re close—though we’ve gotten closer—but because the alternative was Dad. And I would rather eat the concrete bench in that holding cell than subject myself to Colonel Abrams receiving a phone call about his youngest son’s public indecency.
“What did you tell them?” I ask.
“I told them I was your older brother, that I was aware of the situation, and that I would handle it.” Marvin takes a sip from his bottle. A siren wails somewhere behind him, Doppler-shifting as it screams past. “Then I hung up and laughed for about ten minutes straight.”
“I’m glad my humiliation brings you joy.”
