Chapter 4 #2
He eyed me but didn’t press, strolled off humming that same off-key pop punk.
The training room was half full—cross-country guys foam-rolling, a volleyball hitter ankle-deep in an ice bucket, our freshman defenseman getting his wrist taped. Dalton, the senior trainer, waved me to a table.
“Left shoulder still?” he said, digging an ultrasound wand out of a drawer.
“Impact bruise.”
“Shirt off.” He flicked the machine on. “New program’s been rough on you?”
“Finding angles.”
He spread gel across my deltoid, pressed the probe. “Just inflammation. You’ll be fine once the tissue stops yelling.”
I stared at the ceiling tiles, counting rivets. Dad’s texts burned in my pocket—probably congratulating me for making it here, probably reminding me what happens if I fall short. He’d been supportive in his own way since I left Glen Rock, but the subtext never changed: Don’t repeat my mistakes.
Dalton finished, wiped gel with a towel. “Stim for fifteen. You know the drill.”
I lay back, electrodes buzzing. I focused on the minor electric pulses instead of the unseen messages waiting on my phone.
A notification buzzed—different tone.
Austen: When are you going to be in the room? I’m in class till noon.
Practical, efficient. Also weirdly grounding. I thumbed a reply with my free hand.
Luke: Film ends at 12:30. Then weight training. I’ll run by and say hi after that.
I tossed the phone aside before I could overthink why typing that made my chest unclench.
Film review at 11:30 sharp. We crowded the small theater—rows of fold-down seats that smelled like old popcorn and hockey tape. Harper stood beside the screen, laser pointer in hand.
Every freeze-frame that featured me came with commentary.
“See your torso angle?” she said, highlighting my clinched stance on a two-on-one. “If you stay compact there, rebound slides into the slot. Open up, and you direct it into the pads. Simple physics.”
I nodded, scribbling notes. Glove tight, chest square, edges loaded. Ryan drew a cartoon goalie on his page, labeling me “Wall-E.” Childish and perfect.
Harper finished with a clip from last year’s Caribou game—our ex-starter beaten five-hole. “They disguise shot angles. Read the hands, not the eyes.”
She clicked the projector off. Lights stung. “Rosters posting outside my office at fourteen-hundred,” she said. “Starters marked in red. Practice tomorrow at six. Weights in one hour. Questions?”
Silence.
“Good. Hydrate.”
The room emptied. Ryan elbowed me. “Starters in red. Must be your color.”
“We’ll see.”
“You act chill, but your gear bag’s already vibrating.”
I tried to laugh. It snagged halfway up my throat. “Tell that to my shoulder.”
He slapped my good side. “Weights, then lunch. Come on.”
“Need to check one thing first.” I pointed at the hallway that led past Harper’s office. “Meet you in the gym.”
“Don’t keep me from leg day glory,” he said over his shoulder.
Coach’s door was cracked. The roster sat taped outside—white sheet, names typed, positions. I scanned.
GOALTENDERS Carter – starter (red) Decker – backup
Red text, bold. My name lit like a warning flare.
Provisional starter or not, it was real enough to print.
I exhaled. The breath steamed the roster for half a second. I touched the paper—brushed it, like proof—and walked away before anyone saw.
Weights at sixteen-hundred hurt worse than any drill. Harper watched from the balcony while our strength coach barked sets. Ryan cursed through goblet squats; I counted reps by multiples of five, math trick to keep rhythm. Shoulders held. Core held.
Afterward, I showered fast, pulled on sweats, and jogged across campus. The sun barely cleared the library roof—shadows stretched long.
Austen sat at his desk, laptop open, earbuds in. He looked up as I shouldered my gearless backpack onto my desk.
“Hey,” he said, tugging one bud free. “Practice?”
“Over.” I toed off sneakers. “Coach named the starter for Friday.”
He angled his chair. “And?”
I held up an imaginary red marker. “Provisional, but mine.”
A smile threatened the corner of his mouth. “Congrats.”
“Thanks.” I unzipped the hoodie, tossed it on my bed, then remembered gear etiquette. “Stuff doesn’t smell today. No need to open the window.”
“Appreciated.” He saved whatever code glowed on screen. “Dinner?”
“I’ve got team meal at six-thirty.” I checked the time—5:12. “You?”
“TA session ends at nine. I’ll grab something to go.” He paused. “Should I evacuate while you nap?”
I shook my head. “Not sleeping. Brain’s loud.”
He considered that, then closed the laptop. “Chess?”
“What?”
He pulled a magnet board from a desk drawer—hand-sized, tiny pieces in a zip bag. “Keeps numbers busy.”
I laughed, genuine. “I’m garbage at chess.”
“I’m mediocre. Perfect match.”
We set up on the floor between beds, the AC behind us like a metronome. Austen moved a knight; I mirrored. He explained en passant; I told a story about my first shutout. We didn’t talk about rosters or families—pieces, angles, and why bishops felt like wingers who never back-checked.
When he checkmated me in twelve moves, I blamed the sore shoulder. He looked skeptical.
I lay back, arms folded under my head, staring at the ceiling crack that resembled a goalie mask. “Friday’s going to be loud,” I said.
“Crowds are math,” he replied, kneeling to sweep pieces into the bag. “Sum of individual vectors. Ignore amplitude; focus on trajectory.”
“That’s… strangely helpful.”
“Put it on your headboard if it tests well in practice.”
I chuckled. The ceiling crack blurred—maybe exhaustion, maybe relief. If this wasn’t temporary, I decided, it could still be stable.
Phone vibrated—Dad again. Grimacing, I silenced it.
“You good?” Austen asked, eyebrow flicking toward the device.
“Family check-in.”
He nodded like that explained everything. Maybe it did.
AC clanged, right on schedule. We both looked at it, then at each other, then laughed—short, overlapping.
At 6:20 I grabbed my hoodie, ready for team meal. I slid Austen a blueberry oat bar across the desk without comment. He nodded.
At the door, I hesitated. “Thanks for the game,” I said.
“Anytime,” he answered, already typing calculus into existence.
I left the room lighter than I’d entered.