Chapter 7 #2
“But then I stopped watching the people and started watching the math.” Hearing his voice brought me back to the present.
He set the mug down, his hand tracing a line in the air.
“Force vectors. Every player is just a mass moving at a specific velocity. The puck is a projectile on a decaying trajectory. Once I started calculating the angles of incidence—where the lines were going to intersect—instead of listening to the screaming, it settled down.”
He looked at me, eyes scanning me like I was still a diagram. “You have excellent spatial intuition, by the way. You put yourself at the convergence point of every vector. It was… satisfying to watch.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said, suppressing a smile.
“It is. But the acoustic data was overwhelming,” he said, rubbing his temple. “How do you maintain focus in the crease with all that noise?”
“I cheat,” I confessed. “I wear custom-molded earplugs under the mask. They cut the volume by half. Otherwise, I’d lose my mind.”
Austen’s face lit up—a genuine, surprised look. He tapped his own jeans pocket.
“Convergent evolution,” he said. “I admit that I put mine in during your warmups. Even with the noise-blocking technology, it was still very loud.”
The grin cracked loose before I could hide it. I crossed to the fridge, grabbed a can of lime seltzer. I held it out to Austen, “Want one? I need to stay hydrated.”
“Sure”
He accepted. Our fingers brushed against the cold aluminum; static zipped up my arm, sharper than usual.
Click. We both opened the cans, took the same first swig.
“I do have one technical inquiry regarding the pre-game kinetics,” Austen said, staring at his can.
“Yeah?”
“The synchronized maneuver where the entire roster lies prone and… grinds their hips against the frozen surface like frogs.” He looked up, expression blank. “Is that biomechanically necessary, or were you all just trying to conceive a puck?”
I choked. Lime seltzer went down the wrong pipe, up my nose, and sprayed across my duvet. I hacked, thumping my chest, eyes watering as I stared at him.
“Are you—” I wheezed. “Are you serious?”
Austen didn’t blink. “It looked very intimate. I wasn’t sure if I should avert my eyes.”
Then, the corner of his mouth twitched. Just a fraction.
“You’re joking,” I rasped, wiping my chin. “You’re actually making a joke.”
“Humor is a coping mechanism for trauma,” he said, taking a sip. “And watching twenty men hump the ice was traumatic.” Austen took a swig of his soda. “Congrats on the win.”
“Team effort.”
“Stats disagree. Thirty-three saves.” He nudged his laptop, angling the screen so I could see the box score window. “I ran the numbers while the people behind me were chanting. Your save percentage is two standard deviations above the league average.”
“Of course, you calculated that.”
His eyes flicked up, amusement quiet but bright. “Data calms the crowd, Luke. Or at least, it calms me.”
I sank onto my mattress opposite him. Muscles complained immediately; I rolled my left shoulder and winced.
“Still bad?” he asked.
“Impact bruise. Dalton’s on it.”
Without comment, Austen angled off the bed, rummaged in the freezer, and produced the bag of peas. He tossed it underhand. I caught, pressed it to the spot.
“Thanks.”
“Roommate constitution, article four: frozen produce used for injury management shall be rotated and refrozen.” He climbed back onto his bed.
“Didn’t know we’d updated articles.”
“Version 1.2 pending approval.”
I laughed, then let the quiet settle. Streetlight glow bled through blinds, striping the floor between us. The radiator ticked, tame.
“I saw you,” I said.
Austen’s forehead creased. “Obviously.”
“No, I mean—I saw you. North-end, mid-row, gray hoodie. Right after the whistle with seventeen-something left. Everyone else was standing and screaming, and you were just… you.”
He didn’t blink for a moment. Then he capped the laptop and set it aside. “Does that bother you?”
“Opposite.” I adjusted the peas. “Made the rink smaller. Easier to track lanes.”
His gaze dropped, unreadable. “Good. Because the north-end seat was optimal for exit vectors. I might reuse it.”
Warmth prickled under my collar. “I’d like that.”
A slow nod. Nothing more.
We both finished the seltzers. He collected the empties, crushed them enough to fit the recycling bin, then sat again, legs dangling this time, nearer. Three feet of checkerboard rug separated our knees.
He unfolded a granola bar from his desk drawer—blueberry oat. “Energy replacement,” he said, offering half.
I broke it clean, passed the bigger portion back. “Macro ratio matters.”
He didn’t argue, just ate.
Words felt too clumsy to cram into the space that existed now, so I let them be. Instead, I peeled the game puck from my hoodie pocket—equipment manager had tossed it at me during cleanup—and rolled it between fingers.
Austen watched, expression curious.
I extended it. “Souvenir.”
He hesitated. “Shouldn’t that go on your shelf?”
“Already got shelves. I need constants.” I nudged the puck closer. “Consider it article five.”
After a beat, he accepted. His thumb traced the scuffed paint where NRU logo had chipped. “It’s heavy.”
“Density of vulcanized rubber, roughly 1.5 grams per cubic centimeter.” The stat spilled out before I caught it.
He huffed a laugh. “I guess I won’t need to Google that fact.” He placed the puck on his desk, exactly centered between stapler and pens.
The clock on his nightstand clicked to 12:04 a.m. Game day officially over.
Austen stood, flicked the main light off, leaving only the desk lamp beside the puck. “Quiet hours,” he reminded softly.
I slid under covers, peas balanced on my shoulder. He shut his laptop, toed off shoes, and moved around the small room with efficient hush. Mattress springs sighed as he lay down.
Dark, but not empty. The radiator’s gentle hiss, hallway muffled laughs, my pulse decelerating. And Austen, eight feet away, constant as posts.
His voice drifted through shadows. “You did good work tonight, Luke.”
It hit deeper than any chant. “Couldn’t have done it without north-side logistics.”
“Correlation,” he murmured, “occasionally is causation.”
I smiled into the pillow.
Silence followed, not awkward, just suspended—like the rink before puck drop, all potential.
I let my eyes close, peas cooling the bruise, muscles unknotting by degrees. One last thought surfaced, uninvited and absolute:
I want him there next game.
The radiator ticked in agreement, and sleep took the rest.