The dorm smelled faintly of coffee and citrus cleaner. Fairy lights tangled across the wall, dim and warm. Piles of books and gear crowded every corner. A stick leaned against the desk, tape fraying at the end.
“You can sit, if you?—”
“I’m fine,” I cut in. The words sounded bigger than the space between us. I stayed standing. Felt like I blocked the whole room. The ceiling seemed lower with me under it.
She perched on the bed’s edge, laptop still open beside her, a textbook facedown in her lap like she’d been pretending to study. Her eyes flicked to my hands, then to the door, like she was reminding herself she hadn’t trapped anyone here.
I set the ID on the desk. “Next time double-check your stuff before you leave the rink.”
She nodded slowly. “I owe you.”
“Don’t.”
“Still,” she said, voice thin but steady, “thank you.”
My chest tightened. There was nothing dangerous in her tone, just casual gratitude—but it carried heat anyway, sliding under my guard before I could stop it.
I looked around for an exit, found only four walls hung with photos of the team. She followed my gaze. “It’s small,” she offered, almost apologetic.
“It’s a dorm.” I forced half a smile. “They’re supposed to be.”
Another pause. The air thickened.
“You should get some sleep,” I managed.
“Yeah.” She didn’t move. Neither did I.
Every instinct said leave, now, before politeness turned into something heavier. I reached for the doorknob. My hand stopped short.
She looked up through loose strands of hair, eyes soft but unflinching.
She tilted her chin toward the notebook on the nightstand. “I was going over my study guide before you showed up.”
Her voice barely carried, but it broke the quiet enough to pull me out of my head.
I smirked. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She hesitated, then grabbed the notebook. A few pages curled where the corners had caught condensation from a cup under it. She flipped through quickly, muttering something about “strategies,” and handed it to me like I was about to judge it for neatness.
I dropped into her desk chair. The thing creaked under me and leaned back farther than it should. She perched on the edge of the bed, knees drawn together, notebook open between us.
The lighting made everything soft, even me.
“All right, brainiac—” I ran a finger down the page. “Who drafted Gretzky?”
Her eyes narrowed like I’d offered her a trick question. “Nobody. He was signed.”
I snapped my fingers. “Okay, now I’m scared of you.”
She grinned. For a second the air lost its edge.
I kept going, barking questions like I was running a drill. “Who was the first woman to coach at the NCAA level?”
“Digit Murphy.”
“Who holds the all-time penalty minute record?”
“Sheppard, but Probert’s the legend for it.”
