Chapter 21
Variable Crash
Austen
The algorithm for a successful academic conference trip is simple: Arrive early, verify reservation, review notes, sleep.
My trip to Boston was failing on step one.
I was somewhere on the Mass Pike, gripping the steering wheel of my 2014 Camry as if it were the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth. Traffic was a snarl of brake lights and aggressive lane changes.
My GPS claimed I would arrive at the Marriott Copley Place in forty-five minutes. My anxiety claimed I would be stuck here until the next ice age.
I turned up the volume on the podcast—Topology and the Shape of Space—but the host’s soothing voice couldn’t drown out the variables bouncing around my skull.
Variable A: The Northeast Regional Mathematics Symposium. I was presenting a paper on “Quantifying the Crease: A Geometric Analysis of Goaltender Efficiency and High-Danger Probability.” It was a good paper. It deserved my full attention.
Variable B: The Frost Demons were playing Northeastern tomorrow.
Variable C: Luke.
I wasn’t going to a conference. I was chasing a bus. I was driving three hours into a snowstorm to be in the same zip code as a goalie who had started signing his texts with we iterate.
Everything about our relationship defied logic. Yet, it was the most exciting thing I’d done… ever.
I checked my phone at a standstill.
Luke: You flying the Camry or driving it?
I smiled, typing back a retort about low-altitude flight.
He was thinking about me. He was on a bus full of teammates, heading into a high-pressure game, and he was thinking about my beat-up sedan.
I merged onto the off-ramp, the city skyline rising like a circuit board of light and steel in the distance.
Get to the hotel, I told myself. Check in. Go from there.
The lobby of the Marriott was chaos.
A collision of two distinct ecosystems: the frantic, caffeine-fueled energy of the math symposium and the loud, sprawling confidence of a hockey tournament.
I wove through a group of track-suited athletes, my rolling suitcase bumping over the marble floor. My wool coat wore me instead of the other way around. I clutched my confirmation printout like a shield.
I reached the front desk. The clerk, a man named Todd with tired eyes, tapped at his keyboard.
“Name?”
“Lovell. Austen.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Todd frowned. “I don’t see a reservation.”
My stomach dropped. “I have a confirmation number.” I held up the paper. “Booked last month. Standard king.”
“I see the record,” Todd sighed, not looking at the paper. “But the system shows it as canceled yesterday.”
“I didn’t cancel it.” My 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, sir. 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,” I said, my hand gripping the counter edge until my knuckles turned white. “My presentation is—”
“Problem?” Luke’s voice asked.
I exhaled, the breath rushing out so fast I went dizzy. I spun and my knight in goalie armor stood before me. “Luke. Hi. The system ate my reservation.” I gestured helplessly at Todd. “He says it’s canceled. It’s an error.”
“It’s not an error, it’s a lack of inventory,” Todd droned. “Like I said, the airport Hilton might—”
“He’s with me,” Luke said.
The clerk paused. I froze.
“Excuse me?” Todd asked.
“He’s with the team,” Luke lied. His voice was smooth, bored, utterly convincing. “Administrative support. Tutor. He’s supposed to be on the rooming list.”
He pulled out his wallet and slapped a team per diem card on the counter. Meaningless plastic for this transaction, but the gesture carried the weight of authority.
Luke looked at the clerk with his game face—the one that stared down slapshots.
“Put him in my room,” Luke said. “Carter. Room 412.”
Todd blinked. He looked at the line of hockey players forming behind Luke—Ryan, Javier, a wall of navy blue. He looked at my desperate face.
He decided the math wasn’t worth the argument.
“I can add him as a guest,” Todd muttered, typing furiously. “Here’s a key.”
He slid a plastic card across the marble.
Luke grabbed it. He handed it to me. His fingers brushed mine—electric, grounding.
“Go up,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble meant only for me. “Wait for me.”
I nodded, clutching the key card like a lifeline. “Thank you.”
“Go.”
“Carter!” Coach Harper’s voice cut through the lobby noise.
Luke winced. And turned turned around.
Coach Harper stood by the elevators, holding her clipboard. “Bag drop in five. Conference Room B in ten. We have tape on Northeastern’s power play.”
“Go,” Luke whispered to me. “I have to do this. Order room service. I’m starving.”
“Room service,” I repeated, clutching the key card. “Okay.”
“Don’t wait up,” he joked.
Of course, I would be awake when he got to the room. That wasn’t even a question. I hurried toward the elevators, heart hammering against my ribs.
I glanced back once. Luke was standing with his team, looking calm. Ryan was watching me go, eyebrows raised high enough to clear the ceiling.
I stepped into the elevator and let the doors close behind me.
Room 412 was excessive.
Not a room; a suite. A massive king bed dominated the center, flanked by mahogany nightstands. There was a sitting area with a velvet sofa. A minibar. A view of the city that probably cost more per night than my car was worth.
I stood in the center of the beige carpet, feeling like an intruder.
I took off my coat and the conference lanyard.
I checked my phone.
Me: Room 412 secured. It is… excessively large. There is a robe.
Luke: Put it on. I’m trapped in a dark room watching power plays.
Me: I ordered a burger. And a salad. And something called ‘Truffle Fries’ which cost $35.
Luke: Worth it. Eat. I’ll be there soon.
I smiled at the screen. The panic of the lobby was fading, replaced by a humming anticipation.
I was in his room. He had publicly claimed me.
About twenty minutes later, there was a small knock on the door. “Room service,” a voice said through the door. I walked over to the door and opened it. A guy in his mid-twenties wheeled in a cart and asked, “Where would you like it?”
“Anywhere works for me.”
“How about the desk by the window?”
“Sounds perfect.”
The man wheeled my food over and set it up for me. Then had me sign for the food, and I made sure to add what I thought was a good tip. I’m not exactly used to this environment. Sure, I’ve stayed in hotels before, but this was different. This place was nice.
I ate at the small desk by the window, watching the city lights blink on through the snow.
I finished. And wasn’t quite sure what to do next. Do I call them to let them know I’m done? Do I just leave this here and they come get it later? I’ll ask Luke when he gets here.
I graded three quizzes, but the numbers wouldn’t stick.
At 9:45 p.m., I heard the keycard followed by the opening of the room door.
I was across the room in two seconds. Luke stood there. He looked exhausted. His hair was messy, his eyes shadowed, but when he saw me, his whole posture loosened.
“Hey,” he breathed.
“Hey.”
He stepped inside carrying his equipment. I closed the door. I locked it.
The click of the deadbolt was the loudest sound in the world.
“The guys gave me a hard time about this room only having a single bed,” Luke said, dropping his bag by the closet. “It appears they are right.”
“If you’re worried about someone walking in, I can sleep on the floor. I mean it’s your room, and you’ve got a game tomorrow. You need spinal alignment. And…”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Luke said, looking at me, wrapping me in his arms for the first time. “The only difference between this place and the dorm is that we have a lot more pillows and more room to spread out.”
Luke went still. He looked at me and informed me, “Ryan knows, or at least he suspects.”
“He knows?” I asked. “Are you okay with that?”
“I’m okay with the truth. Even if we aren’t screaming it from the rooftops.”
I looked up into his eyes. “I’m okay with anything as long as I’m in your arms.” He reached touched the collar of my shirt.
“I missed you,” he said. “On the bus. I kept wish you were with me.”
“I was in a Camry on I-90 listening to a podcast on topology,” I said, my voice shaky. “I would have preferred the bus.”
He laughed, a low sound that vibrated in my chest. He stepped closer, closing the gap until the toes of his sneakers touched my socks.
“Presentation tomorrow?” he asked.
“Eight a.m. Have to wear a tie and everything.”
“Sounds sexy.”
“It’s incredibly dry,” I whispered, tilting my head back to look at him. “Distract me.”
He reached up and cupped my face. His hands were warm, rough with calluses.
He kissed me.
It wasn’t the tentative, careful kiss from the dorm room. This was hungry. It was the relief of being three hundred miles away from campus, behind a deadbolted door.
He backed me up until my legs hit the edge of the mattress.
I sat down heavily, pulling him with me. He landed on his knees, pinning me between his thighs, his hands tangling in my hair.
I made a noise—a low hum in my throat—that I didn’t recognize.
“Luke,” I breathed, gripping his shoulders. “Game tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“Energy conservation.”
“I’m conserving,” he lied, biting lightly at my collarbone.
I shivered. “This… this is not conservation.”
He pulled back, breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine. We were a mess of tangled limbs and heavy breaths.
“We stop whenever you want,” he said. “I mean it.”
I looked at him. His eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the iris. He looked wrecked. He looked beautiful.
“I don’t want to stop,” I admitted. “But if you play tired tomorrow and let in a soft goal, I’ll statistically analyze your failure until you cry.”
He laughed, collapsing onto the mattress beside me. “Cruel.”
“Effective.”
He rolled onto his side, facing me. He traced the line of my jaw with his thumb.
“We have to be careful,” he whispered. “I don’t want this to get out until you’re ready.”
“I don’t care about Ryan,” I said. “I only care about you and what you think. I want this. Here. Now. We’re in a suite in a fancy hotel in Boston on Valentine’s Day. We need to make the most of it.”
He smiled. “Shut up and come here.”
We slept in the middle of the king bed.
We didn’t need the space. We gravitated to the center, limbs tangled, creating our own gravity.
I woke up once in the middle of the night. The room was pitch black, save for the red light of the smoke detector.
Luke’s arm was heavy over my waist. His breath was warm on the back of my neck.
I lay there, listening to the hum of the hotel, and realized that for the first time in my life, I wasn’t calculating an exit strategy.
I just was. Best Valentine’s Day ever. I closed my eyes and let sleep take me under again.
Morning came too fast.
The alarm on my phone blared at 6:30 a.m.
Luke groaned, burying his face in the pillow. “Five more minutes.”
“No,” I said, sliding out of bed. The room was cold. “I have to shower. I have to present a paper on geometry in ninety minutes.”
“Geometry,” Luke mumbled. “Angles.”
“Exactly.”
I showered quickly, trying not to think about the fact that Luke was just feet away from me.
When I came out, dressed in my presentation clothes—slacks, button-down, the blazer I only wore twice a year—Luke was sitting on the edge of the bed.
He was wearing his team tracksuit. He looked like a goalie again.
“You look smart,” he said.
“I am smart.” I checked my watch. “I have to go. The symposium breakfast starts at seven.”
“I have team breakfast at seven-thirty,” he said.
He stood up. He walked over to me. He pressed his forehead against mine for a long second.
“Good luck,” he whispered.
“Good luck,” I said, grabbing my bag and lanyard.
I walked to the door.
“Austen?”
I turned.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
I opened the door. The hallway was empty.
I walked out, leaving the sanctuary of Room 412 behind.
Down in the lobby, the chaos had returned. Math students were drinking coffee in one corner; hockey players were stretching in another.
I saw Ryan O’Connell by the elevators. He waved at me.
“Hey, Math!” he yelled across the lobby. “How was the floor?”
I adjusted my glasses. I channeled every ounce of academic detachment I possessed.
“Adequate,” I called back. “Spinal alignment maintained.”
Ryan laughed.
I walked toward the ballroom, my heart still beating in time with the goalie upstairs.