Chapter 19
Slapshots and Holidays
Luke
I pulled up alongside it, killing the engine. The silence of the suburbs rushed in—no dorm noise, no locker room bass, just the ticking of the cooling engine.
The front door opened before I even unbuckled.
Dad walked out. He looked the same—silver at the temples now, jaw set in that permanent, game-ready clench. He wasn’t wearing a coat, just a cashmere sweater that cost more than my semester of books.
I grabbed my duffel from the passenger seat and stepped out.
“Made good time,” he said, coming down the steps.
He didn’t hug me. He extended a hand.
I took it. His grip was firm.
“Traffic was light,” I said.
“Good. Saves daylight.” He nodded at my truck, then at my left arm. “Shoulder holding up on the drive?”
“It’s fine.”
“Saw the tape of the Amherst game,” he said, turning back toward the house without waiting for me. “You’re dropping your glove on the blocker side when you butterfly. You’re exposing the top corner.”
“I’m aware.”
“Awareness doesn’t stop goals, Lucas. Correction does.” He held the door open, ushering me into the foyer that smelled of lemon polish and expensive coffee. “Put your bag in the room. We’re eating at six.”
I stepped inside. Three weeks of this. Twenty-one days of unsolicited coaching advice and the constant, crushing weight of being the only investment in the portfolio.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Austen: Arrived in Vermont. The Chen family has a Labrador named Calculus. I am not making this up.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
“What’s funny?” Dad asked.
“Nothing.” I locked the screen. “Just a friend.”
The house hadn’t changed.
Same split-level in the same subdivision, same dead lawn waiting for spring, same garage where Dad kept his workout equipment and the trophies he never threw away.
I dropped my duffel in my old bedroom—twin bed, faded posters, desk I hadn’t used since high school—and stood at the window watching the neighbor’s Christmas lights blink on and off in an arrhythmic pattern that would have driven Austen insane.
Me: My childhood room.
Austen: The color distribution on those string lights in the background is mathematically offensive. Two reds, one green, three blues?
Me: It’s random.
Austen: That’s not random, that’s just ugly.
I laughed, then caught myself. The walls here were thin. Dad was downstairs, probably already queuing up game film, ready to dissect every save I’d made since September.
Me: How’s Vermont?
Austen: Cold. The Chens have strong opinions about board games. Maya’s mother asked if I have a girlfriend. I said no, which is technically accurate.
Me: Smooth.
Austen: I panicked. She asked if I have a boyfriend. I froze.
I read the message twice. Something warm spread through my chest, counteracting the chill of being back in this house.
Me: What did Maya do?
Austen: Choked on her hot chocolate. But got me out of answering the question. I believe she suspects something.
Me: You think?
Austen: Probability increasing by the hour.
I heard Dad’s footsteps on the stairs. I pocketed my phone and opened my duffel, pretending to unpack.
“Dinner’s at six,” Dad said from the doorway. “I made the brisket.”
“Thanks.”
He lingered. I could feel him cataloging the room—the unmade bed, the duffel I’d barely touched, the phone-shaped bulge in my pocket.
“You talk to Coach Harper lately?” he asked.
“Before I left. She’s happy with the first half.”
“Happy doesn’t win championships.”
“I’m aware.”
Another silence. The Christmas lights blinked. Springsteen drifted up from the kitchen, muffled but persistent.
“Good to have you home, Luke.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Good to be here.”
We were both lying.
The first week crawled.
Dad and I existed in parallel orbits—breakfast at different times, dinners eaten in front of game tape, conversations that circled endlessly back to hockey.
He had opinions about my butterfly technique.
He had opinions about my rebound control.
He had opinions about Harper’s line combinations and the freshman defenseman who kept screening me on point shots.
I nodded. I deflected. I escaped to my room as often as I could justify.
Austen became my lifeline.
We texted constantly—a running commentary that made the hours bearable.
He sent photos of Vermont: snow-covered pines, Calculus the Labrador asleep on his feet, Maya’s younger brother attempting to explain TikTok trends with the fervor of a missionary.
I sent photos of New Jersey: my high school, the diner where I’d eaten post-game pancakes as a kid, the sunset over the turnpike that looked like bruised fruit, and maybe one or two shirtless selfies to keep him interested.
Austen: The Chens play Settlers of Catan with alarming intensity. Mrs. Chen has won four games in a row. I suspect card counting.
Me: Can you card count in Catan?
Austen: I’m developing a theory.
Me: You would.
On Wednesday, we FaceTimed for the first time.
I waited until Dad was asleep, then locked my door and propped my phone against the pillow.
Austen’s face appeared, pixelated at first before sharpening into focus.
He was in what looked like a guest room—floral wallpaper, a quilt that was probably made by someone in the Chen family, and soft lamplight.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hello.” He adjusted his glasses. “You look tired.”
“Dad’s been running me through film sessions. Four hours today.”
“That seems excessive.”
“That’s his love language.” I shifted on the bed, trying to find an angle that didn’t make me look like a corpse. “How’s the Chen family circus?”
“Chaotic. Warm.” He paused. “I’m not used to this much… togetherness.”
“Bad togetherness?”
“No. Just unfamiliar.” He was quiet for a moment. “They included me in the family photo. For the Christmas card. Mrs. Chen insisted.”
Something in my chest cracked open a little. “That’s good, Austen.”
“Is it? I’m not family. I’m Maya’s strange friend who showed up with a suitcase and opinions about optimal dishwasher loading.”
“You’re their guest. They want you to feel included.”
“The concept is… taking time to process.”
I wished I could reach through the screen. Touch his face, smooth the furrow between his brows. Instead, I just looked at him, memorizing the details I’d been missing—the way his hair fell across his forehead, the precise angle of his jaw, the small scar above his eyebrow I’d never asked about.
“I miss you,” I said.
“I miss you too.” He said it like a fact, clinical and certain. “The bed here is objectively comfortable, but I keep reaching for a body that isn’t there.”
“Same.”
We sat in silence for a while. Not awkward—just present. His breathing through the speaker, mine loud in the quiet room. The distance between Vermont and New Jersey collapsed into the space of a phone screen.
“Luke?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you. For making me go.”
“You would have been miserable in that dorm.”
“Probably. But I would have been miserable while saving money and maintaining my routine.” He almost smiled. “This is better. Even if Mrs. Chen keeps asking about my love life.”
“Tell her your love life is classified.”
“I told her it was ‘under development.’ She seemed satisfied.”
I laughed, quiet enough not to wake Dad. “Under development. I like that.”
“It’s accurate.” His eyes met mine through the screen. “We are still developing, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” I said. “We are.”
Maya figured it out on December twenty-third.
Austen told me about it in a text that arrived at 11:47 p.m., long enough that I had to scroll.
Austen: Incident report. Maya walked up behind me in the kitchen while I was reviewing your last attachment. She achieved full visual contact with the screen.
Me: Which attachment?
Austen: The mirror selfie. The shirtless one from the locker room.
I groaned, dropping my head back against the bus seat. I had sent that twenty minutes ago—a flexing joke that was definitely forty percent vanity.
Me: Oh God.
Austen: She studied the image for a full four seconds. She asked if I was switching my major to Anatomy.
Austen: She also asked if the “study materials” were available for checkout. She has drawn conclusions.
Me: I am never looking her in the eye again.
Austen: Too late. She says your obliques are “statistically significant.”
Austen: She said, and I quote: “Oh my GOD, Austen. How long has THIS been happening?”
Me: And you said?
Austen: I attempted to deny. She was not convinced. I attempted to redirect. Also unsuccessful. Finally, I confirmed that we are “involved” and requested her discretion.
Me: How’d she take it?
Austen: She hugged me. Made hot chocolate. Then she asked seventeen questions about timeline, physical compatibility, and whether you are good to me. Her words.
Me: Am I?
Austen: I told her yes. She seemed satisfied. She has promised not to tell anyone, including Ryan, which she emphasized would require “significant willpower” given their apparent ongoing communication.
I read the message three times. Someone else knew now. Someone outside the two of us. The secret had expanded, and with it the risk—but also, maybe, the reality. If Maya knew, then this was something that existed in the world, not just in the space between our beds.
Me: You okay?
Austen: Unexpectedly relieved. The cognitive load of maintaining complete secrecy was harder than I expected. Having one person who knows… it helps.
Me: Yeah. It does.
Austen: She also informed me that she “called it” weeks ago and that we are “disgustingly cute.” I am not sure how to process that feedback.
Me: Accept it. We’re disgustingly cute.
Austen: If you say so.
Me: I say so. Now, go to bed. It’s almost midnight.
Austen: Fine. But only because your imperative aligns with my circadian preferences.
Me: That’s the nerdiest “good night” I’ve ever seen.
Austen: I learned from the best.
Me: Love you.
Austen: I love you, too.
Christmas Day arrived gray and cold.