Chapter 9
Balancing the Ledger
Luke
“Left post,” I muttered, tapping the radiator valve with my knuckles like it was a goal frame I could square up against. The hiss leveled into a steady exhale—sixty-eight degrees, give or take. Acceptable.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, laptop balanced on a pillow, earbuds in. I caught a line of numbers scrolling on the screen, stacked like apartment floors. His gaze flicked up, registered me, and slid back to the code without a word.
Normal, then.
I toed my sneakers onto the rug, lining them parallel with the mini-fridge.
Hoodie followed, draped across the desk chair.
The silence wasn’t awkward; it was a safe space.
Like between whistles when you’re waiting on a faceoff—no crowd roar, just the hum of refrigeration units and the scratch of skates.
My stomach chimed louder than the radiator. Lunch still sat ninety minutes away, but that’s why I kept protein shakes on standby. I snagged the coldest one I could find, strawberry banana.
The cap stuck. I twisted harder; the plastic squealed.
Across the room, Austen paused his typing, eyebrow tilting. He yanked an earbud free. “That cap giving you trouble?”
“I’ve got it.” One more twist, cap surrendered. “How long have you been coding?”
“It’s not really coding, not in the computer science sense. I am using advanced mathematical software to run calculations.”
“Nerd,” I said, giving him a half smile.
“Since eight-thirty.” He rolled his wrist, checking the analog watch he thought I hadn’t noticed. “But don’t worry, I took a break for coffee at ten, then chaos resumed.”
“Chaos sounds orderly.” I nodded at the neat desk, papers stacked perpendicular.
He granted a small, dry smile. “Chaos with boundaries.”
I gulped half the shake. Hmm, fake fruit with a hint of a chalky aftertaste, my favorite. “Heading to North Point after study hall. You want me to grab food?”
“I’m clear at thirteen-hundred.” He tapped the screen once. “Hot food travels poorly.”
“Blueberry oat bars travel fine.”
“They do.”
Agreement hung in the air for a beat. I replaced the shake, wiped condensation off the fridge door—habit or courtesy, not sure which—then went to my closet for a clean shirt. Shoulder twinged. The bruise flashed purple at the edge of my vision in the mirror shard taped above the dresser.
Austen’s voice came, low. “Has Dalton cleared you?”
“Full range of motion,” I said, rotating the joint in proof. “No missed practices.”
He nodded once, like he’d logged it under variables stable, and slid the earbud back. The radiator ticked, satisfied.
I swapped shirts, grabbed the Intro to Financial Accounting notebook—yellow sticky notes bristling like caution flags—and headed for the door.
“Quiet hours expire at four,” he said without looking up.
“Copy, roommate constitution.” I hesitated, hand on the knob. “Say hi to the integrals.”
“They rarely greet back.”
“I know the type.”
The hallway swallowed the reply.
North Point wound at half throttle—past breakfast rush, pre-lunch mobs.
A line of hockey hoodies carved a path toward the grill station.
Most nodded at me, some offered fist bumps in passing.
Starting goalie perks. I ducked into a corner by the salad bar, set my tray, and thumbed a replay clip on my phone—last save drill, skate edge shaky. Correctable.
“Monk Carter, sighted in the wild,” Ryan O’Connell announced, sliding his tray opposite mine. His grin could light an end board. “I thought you ate in cryogenic stasis between practices.”
“Occasional solid food,” I said. “Coach approved.”
He pointed at my plate: grilled chicken, rice, spinach no dressing. “That’s not food, that’s an FDA-approved food diagram.”
“Protein, carbs, greens.” I stabbed the spinach. “Healthy diet. Ta-da.”
“Healthy is overrated. You ever try fries?”
“What? And let something fried pass these lips?”
Ryan snorted, shook salt over his burger.
“And for the record, I had dinner out with Austen last week and ate a burger the size of a kettlebell and a basket of fries. I’m not perfect; I just try to balance the junk food with healthy food when I can.”
“You and Austen?”
“My roommate.”
“You’re still together?” Ryan asked. “I thought you were supposed to get a single.”
“Housing called, but I declined. I would have gotten a single, but Austen would have gotten stuck with a different roommate.”
“You like him,” Ryan said throwing a fry into his mouth. “He’s a bit strange.”
“Aren’t we all?” I stabbed a piece of chicken and stuck it into my mouth. “He’s actually a nice guy. Sure, he’s awkward around the edges, but he’s had a rough life. Makes my problems pale by comparison.”
“How so?”
I looked around to see if anyone was hearing. In the back of my head, I knew I shouldn’t be talking about Austen to anyone, but I needed to talk to someone, and Ryan seemed like a pretty decent guy.
“He was a foster kid. Grew up in all kinds of unstable environments. I think that’s why everything has to be so organized now as an adult.”
“Oh, dear God, your chaotic nature must be driving him into an early grave,” Ryan joked. I stole one of his fries.
“I’m not that bad. And he’s giving me some structure that I probably need in my own life. We balance each other. So, no, I stuck with Austen instead of getting a single. I couldn’t ask for a better roommate.”
“Does he know you’re gay?” Ryan asked.
I’d been very open with my entire team before I even transferred here. I refused to play for a team that was homophobic or transphobic. The hockey world was masculine, and there’s a ton of testosterone floating around, but save it for the ice.
“We haven’t talked about that,” I admitted. “Just not been a conversation that’s come up.”
“So, you’re not lusting after the little math boy sleeping next to you at night?”
“Umm… No. He’s totally not my type.”
“Oh, so what is your type?”
“Are you hitting on me, O’Connell?” I asked, making my eyes go wide in faux shock. “If you are, I tend to go for more masculine guys.”
“Fuck you!” he said, throwing a fry at me. I caught it in my mouth. “Good save!”
“But to answer the question. No, I am not dating anyone. No, I am not planning on dating anyone. No, I am not looking to date anyone. I have enough going on between classes and hockey. The last thing I need to do is add some needy guy on top of everything.”
“Yeah, I get that. Last girl I dated didn’t understand how much time hockey takes up during the season. She always complained about not seeing me enough. Finally ended up dumping me and dating some guy on the baseball team. She clearly had a type. You skipping Buckman again tomorrow night?”
“Probably. Gotta quiz the next day. Accounting. It’s already kicking my ass.”
“Brother, it’s a Wednesday night.” Bite, chew. “Live a little. You’ve got plenty of time to study between now and tomorrow.”
I spun a pepper packet until the granules settled. “Living isn’t the problem. Maintaining is.”
“Translation: you’re locked-in.”
“Coach likes locked-in.”
“Sure.” He chewed thoughtfully, eyes narrowing enough to feel like x-ray specs. “Team also likes guys who show up for trivia night.”
“I show up on the ice.”
“Fair.” He shoved the fries across the tray gap. “Come on, eat one more. Prove you won’t combust.”
I picked the smallest, crispy and over-salted. Ate it. Ryan saluted me with his paper cup.
“Miracle recorded,” he said. “Seriously, you’re allowed fun.”
“Define fun that won’t kill my reflexes.”
“Watching Decker butcher pop-culture categories while we heckle him. Alcoholic hydration optional.”
I huffed a laugh. “Tempting.”
“Good. I’m texting you the time.” He wiped ketchup on a napkin to unlock his phone. “Bring the math kid if you want. Lovell’s brain might save us on the academic-y questions.”
“He’s got class.”
“So do you.” Ryan eyed me, softer. “You okay, Carter?”
“Fine.”
“Fine means you’re about to dive headfirst into goalie brain.” He pointed a fry at me. “Remember, team’s got your back.”
The words pricked, not painful, unexpected—like skate lace biting skin where padding ends. I nodded, throat thick.
Ryan grinned again, tension gone. “Gotta roll. Film in ten.” He stood, burger half demolished. “Don’t monk out too hard.”
“No promises.”
He left, weaving through tables. A pack of freshmen parted like fish around him.
I finished the chicken, ignored the fries, and checked the time—12:41. My study group for accounting started at one. I grabbed two blueberry oat bars from the grab-n-go shelf, slid them into the hoodie pocket, and headed for the door.
It took me a few minutes to find the conference room the group had reserved inside the library, walls lined with motivational posters about synergy.
Four athletes sat—soccer goalie I barely knew, two volleyball hitters, and the linebacker nobody called anything but Tank.
The athletic department’s tutor took attendance, then retreated behind a laptop.
Financial Accounting worksheet glared up—adjusting entries, deferred revenue.
I filled columns, checked against examples.
Numbers balanced, but only because I triple-counted.
Exam next week weighed twentyt-five percent.
Borderline grades meant academic eligibility reviews.
Reviews meant Coach Harper in your ear and, worse, Dad on the phone pretending not to panic.
I exhaled, leaned back. The overhead light buzzed like a wasp.
Two bars of phone signal—enough. I cleared notifications, answered a medical form email, ignored a message from Dad (voicemail length: forty-three seconds) and another from one of my ex-moms in New Jersey. Was she number two or number four? I couldn’t remember anymore. No capacity.
Worksheet finished at 2:20. I packed up, nodded at Tank, and bolted before I got sucked not a conversation about eggs.
Snow sifted outside, fine and directionless. Practice ran at five. Lift after. The window between belonged to recovery and food—and whatever nonsense the dorm offered.