Chapter 3
Screening the Goalie
Luke
Two weeks into the semester, and I already felt like I was barely keeping my head above water. Still no word on the single, but that was the least of my worries. Between hockey and financial accounting, I regretted life choices.
“Carter! Lovell! Suit up. We’re rolling in ten.”
I looked up from my desk, where I was pretending to organize my syllabus binders for the third time. “Rolling where?”
“The Barn,” Ryan announced, pushing the door open. He was dressed for a Saturday night in a flannel shirt that cost more than my textbooks and jeans that fit a little too well. “Rookie initiation party. Well, ‘initiation’ is a strong word. It’s mostly cheap keg beer and Javier trying to DJ.”
I tightened my grip on the binder. “We have a six a.m. skate tomorrow.”
“Which is why you’ll be drinking club soda and leaving by midnight. But you have to show, Monk. It’s optics. Team bonding.” He pointed at Austen, who was frozen halfway to the mini-fridge, holding a carton of oat milk like a shield. “And you’re coming too, Math.”
Austen blinked, looking at Ryan like he was a variable that refused to solve. “I am statistically unlikely to attend a hockey party.”
“Maya’s already there,” Ryan countered, grinning. “She texted me. Said to bring the ‘hermit crab’ or she’s telling everyone you listen to polka when you code.”
Austen’s jaw went tight. “It’s not polka. It’s symphonic metal. There’s a vast difference.”
“Whatever. Ten minutes. Wear something that can survive spilled lager.”
Ryan slapped the doorframe and vanished down the hall, humming something that was not symphonic metal.
The silence that followed was heavy. I looked at Austen; he looked at his laptop screen like he was considering climbing inside it.
“You don’t have to go,” I said. “Ryan’s bark is worse than his bite. Usually.”
“Maya doesn’t bluff,” Austen replied, closing the laptop with grim finality. He walked to his closet. “And if I stay here, the EDM guy next door will vibrate my fillings loose. A different bass line might be an improvement.”
He pulled out a navy hoodie—clean, simple, zero team logos. He held it up, inspecting it.
“You?” he asked.
I sighed, tossing the binder onto my bed. “Ryan’s right. Optics. If the new guy doesn’t show up to the first mixer, the locker room assumes he thinks he’s too good for them.”
“Or that you value sleep hygiene,” Austen muttered, pulling the hoodie on.
“Hockey culture doesn’t believe in hygiene of any kind,” I said, grabbing my keys. “Let’s get this over with.”
The Barn was exactly what it sounded like—a dilapidated off-campus rental in the middle of nowhere that housed five seniors and, at the moment, half the student body of Northern Ridge.
The bass hit my sternum before we cleared the mudroom. The air inside was a tropical storm of body heat, Axe body spray, and the copper tang of cheap beer.
Control, I told myself. Read the room like a zone entry.
“Stick close,” I yelled to Austen over the noise.
He didn’t answer. A group of volleyball players cut through our lane, separating us. By the time I shouldered through the gap, Austen was gone—swept toward the kitchen by the current of bodies.
“Carter!” Javier Morales loomed out of the fog, shoving a red Solo cup at my chest. “Hydrate or die.”
“I’m driving,” I shouted back, taking the cup but not drinking. I sniffed it. Vodka tonic. Not water.
“Boring!” Javier slapped my good shoulder—hard. I flinched, teeth gritting, but forced a smile. “Relax, newbie. Goalie corner is out back.”
I navigated the living room, dodging elbows and spills. My brain tracked threats automatically: drink sloshing at three o’clock, flailing dancer at nine. Exhausting. I wasn’t wired for chaos I couldn’t block.
The “Goalie Corner” was a sagging couch on the back porch, but it was currently occupied by the starters from the women’s team.
I said hello. I did a lap, scanning for Ryan or an exit.
You see, I’m a people-person when we’re one-on-one or in a small group, but enormous masses of swarming bodies, not my thing.
Then I saw him.
Austen was pinned against the sliding glass door in the dining room. A massive defensive lineman from the football team—I think his name was Tank—had one hand on the wall above Austen’s head, leaning in, drunk and explaining something with wet, spraying enthusiasm.
Austen stood stiff as a goalpost, arms crossed tight against his chest, eyes fixed on a point near the ceiling. He looked like he was calculating the structural load of the drywall to keep from screaming.
I edged closer, gauging whether he needed rescue or was holding his own.
“—and the thing about raw yolks,” Tank was shouting, “is the bioavailability. You cook the egg, you kill the enzymes. It’s science, bro.”
“It’s salmonella,” Austen corrected, voice tight but audible. “The thermal denaturation of proteins is necessary for safe consumption.”
Tank blinked, swaying. “De-nature-what? No, man. It’s about the primal fuel source. Rocky did it.”
“Rocky is a fictional character,” Austen said. “And he likely suffered from significant gastrointestinal distress off-camera.”
Tank laughed, slapping the wall. Plaster dust drifted down onto Austen’s shoulder. “You’re funny! I like you. You should try it. Tomorrow morning. Six eggs. Raw.”
Austen looked like he was about to vomit. “I will not be doing that.”
Tank leaned closer. “Come on, bro. Don’t be soft.”
“Hey,” I said, pitching my voice low but hard.
The lineman blinked, turning sluggishly. “Who’re you?”
“Luke. Hockey.” I nodded at Austen. “And I need my roommate. Burst pipe in the dorm. Emergency.”
A terrible lie. The lineman frowned, processing speed slowed by cheap tequila. “Pipe?”
“Everywhere,” I said. “Water damage. RAs are freaking out.” I grabbed Austen’s sleeve. “Let’s go.”
Austen didn’t hesitate. He phased through the space I created, ducking under the lineman’s arm. We didn’t stop moving until we hit the back door, shoved it open, and spilled out onto the rotting wooden deck.
The cool night air hit like relief. Quiet here—just the muffled thump of bass and wind in the trees.
Austen leaned against the railing, exhaling a long, shaky breath. He pulled his sleeves down over his hands.
“Burst pipe?” he asked, voice flat.
“I panicked. First disaster I could think of.” I dumped the vodka tonic into an overgrown flowerbed.
“That guy was explaining the nutritional benefits of raw egg yolks for twenty minutes. I was plotting a way to jump through the glass.”
“Defenestration is a valid exit strategy.”
Austen looked at me, surprised. “You know the word defenestration?”
“I do crosswords on the bus,” I said. “Goalies have a lot of downtime.”
He almost smiled. Small, a twitch of the lips, but in the dim light of the porch bulb, it looked like a victory.
“Thanks,” he said, “for saving me back there.”
“Blocker side was open,” I said. “Easy read.”
“I have no idea what you just said,” Austen admitted. He turned to face the yard, shadows cutting across his face. “I hate this. The variables are too random. The noise-to-signal ratio is zero.”
“Yeah, I have no idea what you just said.” I chuckled, leaning back against the siding. “I guess we both have things to learn from each other. Me, I spend my whole life trying to control angles.”
I squared my shoulders, demonstrating. “It’s about depth. You step out, you cut the line of sight. You make the net disappear behind you so the shooter has nothing to aim at.”
I dropped my hands.
“But here? I can’t square up to this. This place is ricochets everywhere.”
We stood there for a minute, shoulder to shoulder in the cooling air. The first time since I’d moved in that the silence between us didn’t feel like a standoff. It felt like a bunker.
The sliding door rattled. Ryan stuck his head out, spotting us.
“There you are! We’re doing a keg stand competition. Carter, you’re up against the freshman d-man.”
My stomach turned. Not the alcohol—the performance. The eyes.
I looked at Austen. He was shrinking into his hoodie, bracing for impact.
“Actually,” I said, loud enough for Ryan to hear, “Lovell’s not feeling great. Something with the… pipe situation.”
Austen caught on instantly. He put a hand to his stomach and offered a grimace that was truly Oscar-worthy. “Bad eggs,” he whispered.
Ryan looked between us, disappointed but not suspicious. “Weak sauce, Math. Fine. Carter, get him home. But you owe me a round next week.”
“Deal,” I lied.
Ryan ducked back inside. I looked at Austen.
“Bad eggs?” I asked.
“Callbacks are the foundation of good improv,” he deadpanned.
“Come on.” I nodded toward the side gate, bypassing the house entirely.
We walked to the car in silence, dry leaves crunching under our boots. When we got inside the truck, the engine groaned to life, blasting stale air before the climate control kicked in.
Austen buckled his seatbelt with a decisive snap, staring straight ahead. “I never located Maya.”
“Your friend?” I asked, checking the mirrors.
“Yep. I was supposed to rendezvous with her.” He rubbed his temples.
“If she’s inside that house, she’s probably fine,” I offered, shifting into reverse. “Or at least too distracted to notice we left. That crowd seemed… occupied.”
“Probability high,” Austen agreed, though he didn’t look convinced. He leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closing.
I merged onto the dark road. The silence felt heavy again, but not in a bad way. It felt like the air leaving a balloon.
I reached for the radio dial, instinct taking over.
“Luke?”
“Yeah?”
“Please don’t turn on the radio.”
I paused, hand hovering over the volume knob. “Why? You hate Top 40?”
“I hate unpredictability,” he murmured, eyes still shut tight behind his glasses. “DJs talk too much. The songs change tempo without warning. I need a constant. I need the sine wave to flatten out.”
“So… silence?”
“Silence is predictable.”
I withdrew my hand. “For a guy who lectures me about symphonic metal, you’re surprisingly sensitive to noise.”
“Metal has structure,” he said, cracking one eye open to look at me. “It’s mathematical. It follows a progression. Complexity doesn’t equal chaos, Luke. Radio is chaos.”
“Fair point.” I kept my hand on the gearshift, letting the engine idle at the stoplight. “Quiet hours start now?”
“Quiet hours start now.”
I pulled out onto the main road, keeping the radio off. The only sound was the hum of tires on asphalt and the fan pushing warmth into the cab.
It wasn’t the dorm. It wasn’t a single room. But for the first time in a week, the roommate situation felt manageable.