Chapter 2 #2
“Too loud?” he asked.
“Rhythmic. Unexpected. Reminds me of a metronome.” I gathered my stuff and stood to head back out.
He nodded, then zipped the ball into a small cloth pouch and set it inside his skate. Contained.
“Headed to lecture?” he asked.
“Calc II. The professor has a pop-quiz today to see what the students remember from last semester. I’ll be grading quizzes.” I slung my backpack. “You?”
“Film study.” He was massaging his foot. He saw me looking and added, “My toes are still numb from the ice bath.” He made a face. “If they fall off, you get the bigger closet.”
“Generous trade.” I opened the door.
As I left, he called, “Austen—thanks for being chill.”
I paused in the threshold. Chill. I gave a short nod and let the hallway swallow me.
TA duty ended at five sharp. Thankfully, most of the students remembered at least a fraction of what they’d been taught in the previous semester.
A few, well, they had forgotten simple addition over the summer.
I detoured by Blue Mug and ordered two iced coffees—one extra large.
I didn’t examine the purchase until I was halfway back to Stony Creek, cups sweating through cardboard sleeves.
Our door stood ajar. Voices drifted: Luke’s low rumble and another, lighter—female?
I nudged the door wider.
Luke sat cross-legged on his bed, laptop open to game footage. The visitor stood beside him, ponytail flipping as she turned toward me. Blonde, North Ridge letterman jacket.
“Hey,” she said brightly. “You must be Austen.”
“Depends. Who’s asking?”
“Devon’s girlfriend,” Luke clarified. “Kayla. She’s borrowing my psych notes.”
I held up the cups. “Coffee run. That one’s yours if you want.”
Luke’s brows climbed. “Serious? Lifesaver.” He hopped up, took the large, and sipped. “Perfect.”
“Personally, I’m caffeine-cutting,” Kayla said. She tucked a USB into her pocket. “Thanks, Luke.”
She exited with an easy wave.
Luke set the coffee on his desk, dragging in the rich scent. “I owe you.”
“My friend Maya said I needed to be nicer to you. Call it my version of a grand gesture.”
He laughed, surprised. “Fair.” He closed the laptop. “You good with company popping in? I should’ve texted.”
“It’s your room too.” I flipped my notebook open, uncapped a pen. “But if you give notice, I’ll steer clear. I can always hang out in Ridgeway Hall or the library… if you need privacy.”
“Deal.” He stretched, shoulders cracked. “But privacy? I seriously doubt I’ll need privacy. I don’t have time for that in my life. I’m meeting the guys for dinner at six. You hanging out in the room?”
“Probably.” I gestured at the stack of graded quizzes. “Still need to log these into Canvas for the professor.”
“Cool. I’ll grab my stuff.” He grabbed his wallet and phone before throwing on a baseball cap. Then he hesitated at the door. “You need anything from the dining hall? Cookies? Those weird energy bars?”
“Blueberry oat if they’re stocked.”
He gave a mock salute and disappeared.
The room fell quiet enough for my pulse to surface. I pressed two fingers to my wrist, counting. Even. Good.
I sorted quizzes. Midway through the pile, I paused at a shaky derivative, red-penciled a B minus, then wrote, check sign on chain rule. My handwriting shrank toward the margin, habit from years of making comments fit where space allowed.
The chain rule always felt like foster care forms—carry what matters forward, drop the rest. I recapped the pen.
A floorboard creaked. I looked up. Empty room, of course. I pulled my planner from the desk shelf.
If I wasn’t getting a new room, we needed a few boundaries:
Quiet hours: 11 p.m.–7 a.m.
Window cracked only when necessary.
Advance notice of guests.
AC objective temperature 70°F.
I underlined each twice. Order against entropy.
Pens tapped downstairs; someone shouted “shotgun” followed by laughter. I shook off the noise and refocused.
At 7:03, Luke returned, carrying a to-go box.
He nudged the door with his hip. “Got your bar.”
I accepted the package. “Thanks.”
Then he spotted the list taped above my desk.
He read silently. “Rules?”
“Guidelines.” My ears warmed. “Negotiable, but clear.”
“Looks reasonable.” He pointed. “Advance notice of guests—minimum lead time?”
“Text five minutes before arrival?”
He scrolled through his phone. A chime sounded on mine. Notification: Luke: ‘Kayla @ 4:40 was minus five.’ Followed by a laughing emoji.
I snorted. “Future events only.”
He grinned, took a swig of his diluted sports drink, and flopped into the desk chair backward, knees draped over the armrests. “What are you working on?”
“Eigenvalue proofs.”
“Sounds lethal.”
“To non-math majors, yes.” I opened the bar wrapper. “How was practice today?”
“Javier landed three top-corner shots on my glove side in six minutes. My ego’s limping.” He massaged his left shoulder, winced. “Icepack calling.”
He rummaged in the freezer and pulled out his bag of peas. He pressed the pack against his shoulder, hissing. “You ever stare at numbers so long they rearrange themselves?”
“Daily.”
He whistled low. “We’re not so different, then. I track shooters, you track numbers.”
I held his gaze a second longer than intended. Something in the way he said “we” nudged that carefully parked unknown variable closer. I broke eye contact, pretending the wrapper demanded immediate recycling.
He shifted the pack, easing a sigh. “Tomorrow’s practice ends at nine. After that, I’m free until weights at four. If you need uninterrupted crunch time, claim it.”
“I might.”
“Consider it booked.” He rose, rotated his arm. He gave a quick salute and crossed to his bed, stretching calves against the frame. Every move economical. I recognized the instinct.
The AC compressor shuddered on, right on schedule. Luke snapped his fingers in rhythm—a plastic-on-metal rattle—and mumbled the melody of some song. I capped my pen.
“Let the record show,” I said, “the AC makes better percussion than your rubber ball.”
He laughed, bright and unguarded, and for three seconds the noise didn’t feel invasive.
By ten, silence reclaimed the room.
Luke lay flat on his stomach, sports medicine book propped against pillows, highlighter uncapped. I finished the last grade entry, closed my laptop, and stretched until vertebrae popped.
“Lights?” he offered.
“Give me one minute.” I printed the guidelines in smaller font, laminated with packing tape, and smoothed them on the mini-fridge door: roommate constitution, version 1.0.
Luke watched, amused. “Should I sign?”
“Optional.”
He reached for the dry-erase marker, scrawled L. Carter 09/09, then drew a tiny goalie glove next to his name.
The gesture shouldn’t have mattered, but the validation settled something in my chest. I flipped off the desk lamp.
Darkness, except the streetlight halo bleeding through blinds. I climbed into bed, listening to Luke shuffle pages.
“Austen?” he whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Window’s closed, but if the room ever smells bad, say something.”
“I will.”
“Night.”
“Night,” I echoed.
I rolled onto my side, facing the wall. The AC droned, dissolving into white noise.