Chapter 30
The Rumor Mill
Austen
North Point always ran hot at lunch—lines three deep at the stir-fry station, trays clattering, freshmen yelling across booths like distance was a dare. I kept my headphones in without music, noise reduction on.
No luck. Two days since we’d spoken more than eight syllables. I told myself hockey made the schedule brutal, nothing personal, variable not constant. My chest disagreed.
Maya slid into the seat across from me, ponytail damp. She clocked the untouched chickpea salad on my tray, then the way my gaze kept lifting over her shoulder.
“Looking for Mr. Radiator?” she asked, tearing open a granola bar.
“Scanning for statistical anomalies.” I stabbed a tomato. “Cafeteria’s overdue for a foodborne outbreak.”
“Mm-hmm.” She leaned on her elbows. “Heard anything from your favorite anomaly?”
“He’s busy. Playoffs.”
“And you’re… fine.” She said it like marking false on a test.
“Define fine.”
“Not rearranging your pencils alphabetically at three a.m. by their pet names.”
“I don’t name my pencils.”
Over her shoulder, the hockey table erupted—Ryan, Javier, a tangle of parkas and backward caps. Luke wasn’t with them.
Ryan’s voice cut over the din. “—agent thinks Carter’s got a real shot if he keeps numbers steady.”
Javier answered, lower. “Pro camp in August, right? Dude could bounce.”
Ryan laughed. “Development camp, rookie tourney. Could be Minnesota if the scout calls back.”
The words threaded through clatter, too clear. Could be Minnesota. Bounce.
My fork paused midair. Sweat prickled under my collar despite North Point’s relentless air-con.
Maya followed my stare. “What?”
“Nothing.” I forced a chew, nearly gagged on acid dressing.
Across the room Ryan kept talking—stats, glove side percentages, something about “next year.”
Maya’s hand settled on the table, palm up. “Austen.”
I shook my head, swallowed hard. “Noise.”
She didn’t push, closed her palm like tucking the question away. “Need to get out of here? Fresh air?”
“I’m heading to Harbor Commons after this. I promised a calc kid review.”
“Then let’s go.”
Outside, wind knifed off the quad, cold enough to numb ears. Might’ve helped, except every step clanged with Ryan’s words. Could be Minnesota.
Temporary, my brain whispered. Placement ending. Math proof solved: constants don’t transfer conferences.
Maya nudged my elbow. “Dinner later? Text me.”
“Sure.” My voice cracked on the s. She frowned but let it drop.
Harbor Commons smelled like stale pastries and caramel lattes.
I claimed a two-top near the windows, laptop open, derivative problems queued.
Students drifted past in Frost Demons jerseys—game-week energy humming.
Every so often someone mentioned Carter: insane glove, Stonewall Friday, starter’s locked.
Locked—for now, I thought.
I pushed through proofs, red pen marking corrections, but decimals slithered. My phone facedown vibrated twice: campus push alert, FROST DEMONS READY FOR STONEHILL. I flipped it, screen full of Luke’s save against Caribou, glove hand frozen midair.
Pressure behind my eyes pulsed. I clicked the phone dark, slid it under the laptop and kept grading.
My phone buzzed as another text popped.
Luke: Weights till five. Sanity check status?
I stared at the bubble. Simple, almost caring—proof he remembered I existed. My thumb hovered.
All variables stable, I typed, then deleted.
Me: Good luck in lift. Still have the peanut butter-filled pretzels lying around.
Message read, no response.
I returned to my room after having dinner with Maya and spending some much needed time editing my thesis in Stone Ridge. By the time I got home a little after eight, the evening painted the dorm hall in sodium orange. The door to 317 stood cracked. I pushed in.
Luke kneeled by the gear rack, one-handed, hanging his chest protector with slow precision. Shoulder wrap peeked from under a practice tee. He didn’t look up.
“Time for ice?” I asked.
He flinched at my voice like I’d snapped tape near his ear. “Thanks, I got it.”
“Okay.” I set my backpack on my desk. Books there looked wrong now, intimate as toothbrushes. I gathered the legal pads, highlighters, and pencils one by one and set about reorganizing, stacking them perpendicular to the puck.
He watched the relocation in silence, eyes dark, unreadable.
“Reconfiguring workspace,” I said, aiming for casual.
“Right.” He unlaced his shoes with his good hand, slower than any six-year-old. “Less clutter.”
I shrugged.
Gear shed, he sat on his bed, phone glowing. I heard the faint whine of voicemail playback—male voice, too muffled to parse. Luke hit delete before it finished and dropped the phone face down.
Before the screen went dark, I caught a glimpse of his notifications. Three missed calls from Dad. One text from a contact labeled simply Mom—no photo, no emoji, just the name. He hadn’t opened it.
I didn’t ask. Some variables weren’t mine to solve.
I tugged my chair under the desk—territory established.
“They finally fixed the heater in the lobby,” I mentioned, testing the airwaves.
“That’s good.” Short. Distracted.
I hesitated. “Forecast says snow for the game this weekend.”
Luke didn’t look up from his phone.
“I saw.”
“Might make it hard for the the team to get here,” I added.
“Yeah.” He swiped his thumb across the screen, scrolling past content he clearly wasn’t reading. “I know Harper has already been in contact with their Coach.”
That was it. Just polite, empty noise.
The radiator hissed. Eight feet never sounded so loud.
I opened a topology article, pretended the symbols held my focus. Luke swapped one ice pack for another before setting the timer on his watch. Precision man bleeding under control.
Twenty minutes crawled. I didn’t read past page one. Finally, I gave up and capped my pen. “I’m heading to Ridgeway early tomorrow. Calc reviews.”
He nodded without lifting his head. “Sleep’s smart.”
No goodnight joke, no constant check. Bare data.
I stood, hesitated. The puck’s surface caught lamplight—the night he handed it to me, glove-save grin bright. I turned it upside down. The weight felt the same; the meaning flipped.
His breath hitched, soft sound I almost missed. When I faced him, his gaze was on the inverted puck. Something like regret flickered, gone before measurement.
I clicked off my lamp, crawled into bed under stiff sheets. Facing the wall, I listened to him swap ice packs one last time.
After lights-out he whispered, “Night, Austen.”
I let two breaths pass, then answered, “Night.”