Chapter 1 #2
“Study group? School hasn’t even started.”
He cocked his head. “You’ve been here for a week playing hockey and school hasn’t started.”
“Yeah, but that’s practice. We’re gearing up for the season.”
“And we’re gearing up for the school year.” He reached for the doorknob, then paused. “Luke?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t mind sharing space. Just communicate, and we’ll be fine.”
“Copy that,” I said, hand lifting in a small salute.
He disappeared into the hallway, footsteps fading. The latch clicked, and the room felt different—smaller, somehow, even with him gone. I sat on the edge of the mattress and braced my elbows on my knees.
Four weeks. I can do anything for four weeks. I closed my eyes, picturing the crease—painted blue, edges sharp. You don’t control the team, the refs, the crowd, or the rink. You control the crease. This was the same. Control what’s closet-sized and let the rest be noise.
A single had been the plan. Dad always said a plan kept you from sliding.
He had plenty of plans, once, until the knee ligament shredded and he slid anyway.
I shook off the thought, reached for my phone, and pulled up tomorrow’s checklist: 4:45 alarm, medical clearance documentation, team physical at 5:30, dynamic stretch routine, on ice 6:00–8:15.
I set the alarm, resisted the urge to set three backups, then stood. Most of my stuff was already in place—had been for a week. The dresser drawers I’d organized on day one. The toiletries claiming half the narrow sink shelf. All of it now sharing airspace with someone else’s things.
The AC rattled again, pipes banging like someone dropping pucks down the wall. I’d gotten used to the sound over the past week. Wondered how long it would take Austen.
I shot a quick text to Ryan O’Connell—left-wing enforcer, one of the few guys who’d reached out after the transfer.
Me: Housing screwed me. Got a roommate now.
Ryan: Welcome to Cold Harbor luxury suites. Who’d they stick you with?
Me: Math major. Seems quiet.
Ryan: Could be worse. Could be Javier. He snores during video review.
Me: Good to know.
I tossed the phone onto the pillow and surveyed Austen’s side.
His stuff was neat. Almost too neat. I mean, who arranges their sweatshirts arranged dark to light?
I stared at his desk. Even his books were stacked by size.
The precision should have been reassuring.
Instead, it felt like someone had moved furniture in my head without asking.
Dinner. I should go eat. I grabbed my wallet, checked the knob out of habit—it still stuck sometimes, but I’d learned the trick—and stepped into the hallway.
The floor hummed with early-semester energy: doors open, people laughing, somebody blasting Mario Kart music.
I’d at least avoided the move-in chaos by arriving a week early.
I’d already found my footing. Devon, the RA, had given me the welcome packet and the sympathetic grin about the AC.
Now, I was just another face in the crowd.
Outside, dusk had settled. Cold Harbor’s campus lights glowed soft gold, and across the lawn, the science complex flickered with late-night labs.
Ridgeway Hall, the math and science building, stood off to the right—windows lit sporadically.
I imagined Austen sitting in a room of friends doing math problems on a whiteboard.
A gentle breeze took the sting off the summer evening. I jammed my hands into my shorts pockets and set off toward North Point Dining Hall.
Inside North Point, the grill line was short.
I loaded a tray—chicken, rice, and whatever vegetable wasn’t dripping butter—and claimed a table near the windows.
Students buzzed around me, laughter bouncing off cinderblock walls.
Groups formed and re-formed, tables claimed, inside jokes flying.
The kind of chemistry teams tried to manufacture in locker rooms.
I ate methodically, fueling more than tasting. Between bites, I opened my planner: class list, rink schedule, workouts. Every block accounted for. The plan. Except now it had an asterisk—room shared, privacy compromised, mental space unknown.
Halfway through dinner, a text popped from Coach Harper: Reminder—medical clearance forms due at 0530 tomorrow or you’re off the ice.
I replied: Form signed, see you at five.
Coach Harper wasn’t big on emojis. Good. Neither was I.
I finished eating, bused the tray, and ignored the surrounding chatter about upcoming ski trips and fall singles mixers. Back outside, the air felt sharper. I retraced steps to Stony Creek Hall.
The lobby was quieter now, lights dimmed. Third floor was quieter too, though EDM bass thumped faintly behind my neighbor’s door. I tapped twice, testing my own advice. The bass cut off mid-drop. At least that still worked.
Inside 317, the AC unit sputtered but hadn’t started its percussion solo. Austen’s bed was empty, desk lamp off. The clock on my phone read 7:43. Plenty of time before he came back.
I toed off shoes, left them by the door—same spot as always—and changed into sleep shorts and a T-shirt.
Then, because routine mattered, I unrolled the yoga mat between the beds.
Tighter squeeze now, but it still fit. Ten minutes of hip mobility drills, pausing for a second only when the floor creaked in the hallway and I thought my new roommate was coming home.
But the door remained locked. Stretching ended with me on my back, lying on the yoga mat and doing goalie-specific visualizations my high school coach had taught me—crease, angles, shooter patterns.
The exercises usually cleared my head. Tonight, they only underlined that I was practicing recovery breathing six feet from a stranger’s pillow.
I stood, rolled the mat tight, and slid it under the bed.
Considered reviewing the team’s playbook again, but rejected the idea.
Brain done. Instead, I turned off the overhead light, climbed under the covers, checked the alarm on my phone, and stared at the ceiling.
The hairline crack spidering across cinderblock looked vaguely like a face—I’d named it Gary on night three.
I blinked until it became patternless again.
Footsteps approached. Austen’s key scraped the lock at 10:56. I checked without meaning to. The door opened; he slipped inside, closed it softly.
“Hey,” he whispered, seeing me awake.
“Hey.” My voice came out rougher than intended. “How was your study group?”
“Good.” He hung his jacket on the hook—his hook now, I supposed. He went to his set of drawers and pulled out a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. The room was dark, but my eyes had already adjusted. I should have looked away. I didn’t.
He slid out of his shirt first. Lean shoulders, the kind of definition that came from movement rather than weights.
A runner’s build, maybe, or someone who biked everywhere.
His spine curved as he reached for the sweatpants, and I caught the shadow of muscle shifting across his back before he stepped out of his jeans.
I stared at the ceiling. Forced myself to count the cracks.
The rustle of fabric said he’d finished. I heard him grab something from the desk—toiletry bag, maybe—and the door opened again, light slicing across the floor.
“Bathroom,” he said, half-whispered.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
The door clicked shut. I exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over my face. What the hell was that? I’d seen guys change in locker rooms a thousand times. This was no different.
Except I hadn’t looked away.
A minute later, footsteps returned. The door opened, closed again softly. Darkness settled back over the room. Only the glow of my phone remained.
He pointed at the screen. “Alarm early?”
“Four forty-five.”
“Got it.” He fished wireless earbuds from the desk drawer. “I’ll keep quiet.”
He didn’t need to; his presence barely registered sound. Mattress springs sighed as he lay down, and for a minute only the hum of the AC filled the room. Then—bang—metal pipes clanged like an unwelcome drum solo.
Austen chuckled under his breath. “Showtime, I assume?”
“You’ll sleep through it by Wednesday.” I flipped onto my side, facing the wall. “Took me till Thursday.”
“Noted.” Rustle of sheets. “Goodnight, Luke.”
My brain cataloged practice drills: T pushes, butterfly recoveries, rebound smothers.
Anything but the fact that my room had become our room, my silence had become shared silence, my sanctuary now came with a witness.
The AC settled into a steady hum. Austen’s breathing evened out, quiet and rhythmic.
Four weeks, I reminded myself. Control what’s yours.
I closed my eyes. The mattress felt the same, but everything else had shifted. Somewhere between pipe hiss and dorm quiet, sleep dragged me under.
Alarm. 4:45. Phone vibrated against the nightstand—barely a nightstand; more like a plank screwed to the wall. I slapped the screen, silencing the buzz before it could wake Austen, then swung my legs over the edge. The AC ticked in post-performance cooldown, otherwise silent.
I dressed in low light—compression gear, hoodie, track pants—breathing through each motion.
“Tomorrow’s routine starts with today’s discipline.
” Dad’s voice, years old, still coaching.
I tied my laces, shoulders rolling loose.
I grabbed my gear bag and tried to be quiet, but the heavy plastic pieces clanged against each other.
A rustle behind me. I looked over to see Austen rolling onto his side.
I slipped out of the room as quietly as possible, angling my body to block the hallway’s light from pouring into the room.
I inhaled the cold dorm air mixed with stale pizza.
One day in and my perfect fall plan had cracks, but the ice waited.
I jogged down the stairwell, bag over my shoulder, and stepped into the predawn dark.