Chapter 9 #2
I quick-stepped across the quad, gripping the hoodie pocket to keep the bars from bouncing out. Heat rose under the beanie; breath fogged sideways.
In Stony Creek, I hoofed it up the three floors instead of waiting for the elevator. I opened the fire door, the third-floor carpet muffled my arrival. Room 317’s door was cracked—Austen’s standard setting when he was in. I nudged it open.
He sat at the desk now, hoodie draped over the chair back, earbuds dangling unused. Shoulders hunched, eyes on a screen full of red text. I could sense that something was amiss just by noticing how he slumped his body.
“Bad?” I asked.
“It keeps telling me I have an undefined variable,” he said without turning. “Except I defined it twelve lines up.”
“Ghost in the machine.”
“Or in my logic.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, messing it worse. I walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder while I pulled out a bar. “You clearly need fuel.”
He exhaled, tension bleeding enough to see. “Thanks.” He grabbed the bar.
I kept my hand on his shoulder for a second longer than is strictly in the bro-code. I pulled it away quickly and walked to my side of the room as I peeled off my beanie. “How’s the radiator?”
“Temperamental.” He tapped the wrench beside the valve.
“I never asked, but where did that come from?”
“Facilities left it when they failed to fix the percussion concerto. And since it’s still not fixed, I claimed the wrench for our room.”
“You’re a maintenance understudy now?”
“Pays zero, but the benefits are exact temperature.”
I laughed before dropping onto my mattress. The springs protested; I eased back, pulling my phone out.
I opened the team portal. The assistant coach had uploaded the stats from the weekend scrimmage. I scrolled to the bottom, hoping the numbers looked better on a screen than they felt on the ice.
They didn’t.
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, tossing the phone onto the duvet.
Austen stopped typing. He spun his chair halfway around. “What’s wrong?”
“Save percentage,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Point-eight-nine-two. Harper wants us above nine-hundred or we run suicides.”
“Define the metric,” Austen said.
“Shots on goal divided by saves. The only number that matters.”
Austen frowned, looking at me like I’d said 2+2 equals a potato. “That is a statistically flawed metric.”
I blinked. “It’s the NHL standard.”
“Then the NHL is bad at math.” Austen turned fully toward me, resting his elbows on his knees. “Does the formula account for shot location?”
“No.”
“Does it account for velocity or defensive screening?”
“No. A save is a save.”
“So,” Austen said, holding up a pen, “if a forward dumps the puck in from center ice—zero threat, floating at ten miles an hour—that counts as one shot?”
“Yeah.”
“And if Morales comes in on a breakaway, dekes you out, and fires from the slot with three seconds of time—that’s also one shot?”
“Yeah.”
“Then the data is useless,” Austen said flatly. “It treats a variable with a near-zero probability of success the same as a high-danger event. Lazy math.”
I stared at him. For three days I’d been beating myself up over that .892. I’d watched the tape until my eyes bled. And Austen dismantled the entire premise in thirty seconds.
“Lazy math,” I repeated.
“It’s noise,” he said, turning back to his screens. “You’re measuring volume, not quality. Ignore it.”
I picked up the phone again. I looked at the number. It still read .892, but for the first time, it didn’t look like a judgment. It looked like a bad equation.
“You realize you invalidated the entire scouting combine,” I said.
Austen shrugged. “Then the NHL should hire better statisticians.”
We ate our bars in near silence after that, wrappers crackling.
I finished first, wadded the foil tight. “Ryan thinks you should join trivia night.”
“Define trivia.”
“Random facts plus heckling.”
“Sample questions?”
“Last week’s bonus round was naming states with only one major-league team.”
“That’s a horribly worded question. How does one define ‘major-league’ team?”
“You know, the NFL, NBA, MLB, NHL—”
“The MLS?”
“The what?” I asked.
“Major League Soccer,” Austen replied, sounding offended on behalf of the sport.
“You see, that question doesn’t have enough parameters.
If you exclude soccer, Oregon and Utah are correct answers because of the Trail Blazers and the Jazz.
But if you acknowledge the MLS, which you should, given attendance metrics, they both have second teams. Oklahoma is the only state that remains a single-team answer regardless of the variable.
It’s not a geography question; it’s a test of the host’s bias against non-US-centric football. ”
I stared at him. He hadn’t just answered the question; he’d dissected the methodology.
“Okay,” I said. “We need exactly that energy. Tonight. Eight o’clock.”
He considered. “Sounds tolerable.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s almost enthusiasm.”
“Unverified.”
“Tonight, eight. Can I let Ryan know we’re in?”
Austen flicked his gaze toward the radiator, as if consulting the pipes. “We’ll see.”
Quiet resettled. Keys clacked under his fingers, code scrolling in new colors now—errors clearing. Shoulder twinge again; I swapped the empty wrapper for the L-bag peas, still frosted.
A chime pinged my phone—university email icon. I thumbed it without real focus, expecting a practice update.
SUBJECT: Academic Alert—Financial Accounting 221 Section 03
Carter, Lucas—Your current grade of 68 percent indicates a potential risk of course failure. Attendance at the graduate teaching assistant’s tutoring sessions is strongly recommended. See attached schedule.
Blood flooded my ears. Sixty-eight. Passing but not by enough.
I had to get at least a C- in the class for it to count toward my major.
And I needed the C- to stay on the team.
A string of expletives ran through my head.
I sat straighter, screen inches from my face as if proximity could change digits. It didn’t.
Across the room the keyboard stopped. “Everything okay?” Austen asked.
I flipped the phone screen-down on my thigh. “Yeah.”
Pause. “Room rule—no lying about emergencies.” His tone stayed even, not pushy.
“Not an emergency,” I forced a slow breath through my nose. “Accounting grade.”
“And?”
“Sixty-eight.”
“Threshold for athletic eligibility?”
“I need at least a C- for it to count in the major and to keep eligibility.” I hadn’t meant to disclose the exact number; it slipped.
He spun his chair, elbows on knees. “Next quiz?”
“Tomorrow,” I admitted.
“Study plan?” I shrugged. Austen looked at his watch. “We have time, let’s get down to business.”
“It’s not calculus,” I said. “And it’s definitely not hockey stats.”
“Numbers still obey rules.” He opened a desk drawer, producing a yellow legal pad. “Show me the chapter.”
“I—” My throat closed. No backup plan existed beyond white-knuckling the curve. “I don’t want to drag you into—”
“Assist.” He uncapped a pen. “I needed an assist, and you were there for me. You need an assist now; I am here for you.”
The radiator clanged—two sharp beats, then a settling hush. Like punctuation.
I set the phone beside the puck on my nightstand, the alert still glowing. Couldn’t change the score. Could change the variables.
“Okay,” I said. “After dinner.”
“Bring the syllabus,” he replied, turning back to the screen. “And your patience. I’m available after nine.”
Patience. Not my A-skill, but I nodded anyway.
I lay back, peas cold through the sleeve, eyes on the ceiling crack. The room didn’t feel rearranged anymore. The math had changed, but so had the constants.
The radiator ticked, metronome steady, while Austen’s keyboard resumed its measured cadence.