Chapter 20
Away Game
Luke
Road trips usually followed a strict pattern: bus, headphones, hotel, meal, sleep. I liked the rhythm. It left no room for anything extraneous.
But this trip to Boston in mid-February was different.
We were playing Northeastern on Saturday. A huge game—scouts were confirmed, the alumni association was throwing a mixer, and Harper was vibrating with intensity.
I sat in the fourth row of the bus, headphones on but playing nothing. I wished I was driving myself. Leaving my truck sitting in the campus lot while I rode on a coach bus felt like a waste of horsepower.
The engine hummed beneath my feet, a low vibration that usually put me to sleep. Today, I was wired.
My phone buzzed in my lap. I shielded the screen with my hand, glancing around. Ryan was two rows up, arguing with Javier about fantasy football stats.
Austen: Entering Massachusetts airspace. Traffic density increasing.
I smiled, thumbing a reply.
Me: You flying the Camry or driving it?
Austen: Low altitude flight. ETA 45 minutes.
I pictured him in his beat-up sedan, NPR probably playing, his hands at ten and two. He was driving three hours to present a paper at a math symposium, but we both knew that wasn’t the only reason he was coming.
Me: We’re twenty out. Coach is in a mood. She made the freshmen carry her espresso machine.
Austen: Power move. I respect that.
I huffed a laugh, then caught myself. I looked up. Ryan had turned around in his seat and was watching me with narrow eyes.
“What’s funny, Monk?”
“Nothing,” I said, locking my phone screen. “Podcast.”
“You’re listening to a comedy podcast?” Ryan asked skeptically. “You usually listen to, like, thunder sounds.”
“It’s a new one. About… goaltending bloopers.”
Ryan stared at me for a long second. “Right. Listening to bloopers. Hilarious.”
He turned back around. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Ryan had said nothing, but I was suspecting that he’d figured out Austen and I had become more than roommates.
We’d been secretly—or not so secretly—dating for two months.
I don’t know why we hadn’t announced it publicly.
Apparently, we were both out, we’d just never been out to each other before that kiss.
I looked out the window. The Boston skyline was rising in the distance, gray and steel against the winter sky. Usually, this view made my stomach tight—another city, another arena, another sixty minutes where I had to be perfect.
Today, looking at the Prudential Tower, all I could think was that Austen would be somewhere in that grid of streets. I couldn’t believe my game and his conference put us in the same city at the same time. But the distance already felt like we were millions of miles away.
We hit Matthews Arena first for a practice skate.
Matthews was old school—the oldest indoor ice arena still in use. The rafters were dark wood, the seating steep, the ice hard and fast. It smelled of eighty years of sweat, beer, and popcorn.
I loved it.
I tapped my posts, settling into the crease. Harper blew the whistle.
“Flow drill! Keep the feet moving! Carter, I want you aggressive on the angles!”
I pushed out to the top of the paint. Shot from the point—snap. Glove save.
I dropped the puck, reset.
Shot from the slot—thud. Blocker.
I was in the zone. The puck looked like a beach ball. My edges were biting perfectly into the ice.
“Looking sharp, Monk!” Ryan yelled, skating by.
I felt good. Fast. Singular.
But in the back of my mind, a clock was ticking. Austen is in the city. Austen is close.
The team bus smelled like stale coffee and nervous energy as we pulled up to the Marriott Copley Place.
I grabbed my gear bag, slinging it over my good shoulder. My bad shoulder was at a steady two—manageable.
“Carter, listen up!” Ryan yelled from the front of the bus, waving a clipboard. “Odd numbers on the travel roster this weekend. You drew the short straw. You’re in a single.”
“Does that mean I get the king-size bed?” I asked, stepping onto the sidewalk.
“It means you have no one to talk to. Try not to cry.”
“I’ll manage,” I muttered, suppressing a smile. A single room. Silence. No listening to Morales grind his teeth or Miller play video games until two a.m.
The Boston wind cut through my tracksuit as we exited the bus. We flooded the lobby—a sea of navy tracksuits and massive hockey bags.
I picked up my key card from the manager, enjoying the weight of a solo room key in my pocket. I turned to head toward the elevators, scanning the crowd for the team.
That’s when I saw him.
Austen was standing at the far end of the reception desk, looking smaller than usual in his oversized wool coat. He had a rolling suitcase that looked like it had survived a war and a conference lanyard around his neck.
He was also arguing with the front desk clerk.
Or, rather, he was politely stating facts while the clerk looked bored.
How had we not put two-and-two together and realized we were staying in the same hotel?
I headed his direction to see if I could help.
I dropped my gear bag next to Javier. “Cover me.”
“Where you going?” Javier asked.
I ignored him and cut through the lobby, dodging a luggage cart.
“I have a confirmation number,” Austen was saying, tapping his phone screen. “Reserved three months ago. Standard king.”
“I see the reservation, sir,” the clerk sighed, typing loudly. “But the system shows it as canceled yesterday.”
“I didn’t cancel it.” Austen’s voice pitched up—a frequency I recognized. Distress. “I have a presentation at eight a.m. tomorrow. I need a room.”
“We’re fully booked. There’s a hockey tournament and the math convention. I can try to find you something at our sister property near the airport.”
“The airport is forty minutes away,” Austen said, his hand gripping the counter. “My presentation is—”
I slid up to the counter next to Austen.
“Problem?” I asked.
Austen jumped, turning to face me. Relief washed over his face so fast it almost made my knees buckle.
“Luke. Hi. What are you doing here?”
“Apparently, the school booked us in the same hotel as your conference.”
“Lucky you. I guess I’m not staying here because the system ate my reservation. He says it was canceled,” Austen added, looking back at the clerk. “It’s an error.”
“It’s not an error, it’s a lack of inventory,” the clerk said, not looking up. “Like I said, the airport Hilton might—”
“He’s with me,” I said.
The clerk paused. Austen froze.
“Excuse me?” the clerk asked.
“He’s with the team,” I lied smoothly. “Administrative support. Tutor. He’s supposed to be on the rooming list.”
I pulled out my wallet and slapped my team per diem card on the counter—which wouldn’t help, but it looked official. I looked at the clerk with my best I stare down ninety miles per hour slapshots expression.
“Put him in my room,” I said. “Carter. Room 412.”
The clerk blinked. He looked at the line of hockey players behind me, then at Austen’s desperate face, and decided he didn’t get paid enough to argue.
“I can add him as a guest,” the clerk muttered. “Here’s a key.”
He slid a plastic card across the marble.
I grabbed it and handed it to Austen. His fingers brushed mine—electric.
“Go up,” I said, voice low. “Wait for me.”
“Carter!” Coach Harper’s voice cut through the lobby noise.
I winced. I turned around.
Harper was standing by the elevators, holding her clipboard. “Bag drop in five. Conference Room B in ten. We have tape on Northeastern’s power play.”
Austen looked at me, eyes wide.
“Go,” I whispered to him. “I have to do this. Order room service. I’m starving.”
“Room service,” Austen repeated, clutching the key card. “Okay.”
“Don’t wait up,” I joked, though I desperately hoped he would.
Austen nodded and hurried toward the elevators. I watched him drag his rolling bag behind him, then turned back to the team.
Ryan was watching me, eyebrows raised so high they were practically in his hairline. Javier was leaning on his stick, looking back and forth between me and the empty space where Austen had been.
“So,” Ryan drawled. “Since when does the math department travel with the team?”
“Coincidence,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “Symposium.”
“Right. A symposium. At the exact same hotel where we’re staying.” Ryan smirked. “What are the odds?”
“Don’t start with the math,” I muttered, hoisting my bag higher on my shoulder. “The hotel lost his reservation. He was going to spend the night in the lobby.”
“Tragic,” Ryan said, deadpan. “Let me guess. You, being the benevolent soul you are, offered to help your roommate.”
“I couldn’t leave him there. I told him he could crash in my room.”
Javier’s eyes went wide. The lightbulb finally flickered on. “Wait. That’s who you’re always texting on the bus?”
I felt my ears burn. “You know he helps me study, Javy. And I help him understand hockey.”
“You text him a lot for ‘studying,’” Ryan said, a grin spreading across his face. “Bro, you lit up like a Christmas tree when you saw him.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” Ryan confirmed. “But here’s the logistical issue, Carter. You drew the single with the king-sized bed.” Ryan was enjoying this way too much.
My brain stalled.
“I’ll take the floor,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “Or the chair. It’s one night.”
Ryan hummed, a sound that showed he believed zero percent of that statement.
“Right. The floor. Excellent for the bad shoulder. Coach will love that.”
“I’ll manage. Drop it.”
“Dropped,” Ryan said, patting my good shoulder. “Just… do us a favor. If you guys decide to do any late-night ‘geometry,’ put the Do Not Disturb sign up. We have an early skate.”
“Go to hell, Ryan.”
“Love you too, buddy. Just… put a sock on the door if you’re ‘tutoring,’ okay?”
I ignored him and marched toward Conference Room B.
The conference room was airless and hot.
Harper killed the lights. The projector whirred to life, throwing grainy footage of Northeastern’s last game against Boston University onto the screen.
“Watch the cycle,” Harper said, laser pointer circling a blur of movement. “They overload the half-wall. Carter, look at this entry.”
I stared at the screen trying to focus. I analyzed the skater’s hips, the release point, the traffic in front.
But my phone vibrated in my pocket.
I checked it under the table.
Austen: Room 412 secured. It is… excessively large. There is a robe.
Me: Put it on. I’m trapped in a dark room watching power plays.
Austen: I ordered a burger. And a salad. And something called ‘Truffle Fries’ which cost $35.
Me: Worth it. Eat. I’ll be there soon.
“Carter!” Harper snapped. “Eyes up.”
I shoved the phone away. “Sorry, Coach.”
“What did I say about their point man?”
“He fakes the slap shot and slides it to the bumper,” I recited automatically.
“Good. Don’t bite on the fake.”
The meeting dragged on. Thirty minutes. Forty-five.
I felt like I was vibrating out of my skin. Austen was upstairs. In a robe. Waiting for me.
And I was watching slow-motion replays of a guy missing the net.
Harper clicked off the projector.
“Curfew at eleven,” she said. “Hydrate. Visualize. Win.”
“Win,” the team mumbled.
I was out of my chair before the lights came fully up.
“Where’s the fire, Monk?” Ryan asked, stretching, a grin spreading across his face.
“Sleep,” I said. “Need the rest.”
“Right. Rest.” Ryan winked. “Say hi to Math for me. Don’t do too much cardio tonight.”
I walked out of the conference room my face turning who knows how many shades of crimson. I hit the elevator button. I tapped my foot against the carpet until the doors slid open.
I rode up to the fourth floor alone.
I walked down the long, beige hallway. Room 408. Room 410.
Room 412.
I stopped, took a breath, smoothed my hair, pulled the keycard out of my pocket, and entered.