Chapter 37
Final Score
Luke
Two weeks later, the hallway outside the rink smelled like damp tape and the distinct, stale air of the end of a season.
We’d lost in the conference semifinals—a double-overtime heartbreaker that still stung—but the locker room didn’t feel heavy. It felt finished.
I slung my gear bag over my good shoulder—a solid zero on the pain scale for three days running—and pushed through the double doors into the lobby.
Coach Harper was waiting by the trophy case, arms folded, jacket draped over one arm.
I stopped. “Coach.”
She lifted her chin. “Got a minute, Carter?”
“Sure.” I set the bag down.
Her expression stayed even. “Exit interviews start Monday, but I didn’t want this to sit. You came here to keep pucks out and steady the room. You did both.”
She jerked her head toward the rink. “That net’s yours to lose next fall.”
The words settled behind my sternum, warm and heavy. “Thank you, Coach.”
“Don’t make me regret the marker color,” she said, almost smiling. “Grades solid?”
“Everything’s As and Bs this semester… despite all the drama.”
“Miracles happen.” She offered her hand; I shook it, grip firm. “Enjoy the off-season, Carter. You earned it.”
She walked off. I stood there for a second, listening to the silence of the rink. I hadn’t signed with Minnesota. I hadn’t gone to the development camp. But I had the net, I had the grades, and I had a summer in Cold Harbor that belonged entirely to me.
Footsteps clattered behind me. Ryan jogged up, winter coat flapping. “Coach give you the speech?”
“Short version.”
He grinned and flicked my ear. “You still owe me fries for making you less of a robot.”
“Joint account handles debts now.”
Ryan’s laugh echoed down the vestibule. “Text me when you’re free. We’ll celebrate nobody turning into a pumpkin. Tell Austen I said hi.”
“Will do.”
Ryan headed for the parking lot.
I shouldered my bag again—lighter now—and stepped into the late afternoon chill.
North Point at 8:30 p.m. was a different world—lights dimmed, only one grill open.
I spotted Austen at our regular table. Maya sat across from him, headphones in, laptop haloing her face.
Austen’s eyes tracked me from the moment I cleared the sneeze guard. No guarded tilt, no calculation. Recognition.
I slid into the chair beside him. “Made good on fries,” I said, dropping a cardboard boat of sweet potato wedges between us.
He nudged a cup my way. “Extra milk, one sugar.”
I stole a fry. “Coach told me the crease is mine next season.”
“Variable promoted to constant,” he said, soft enough that only I heard.
Maya peeled off her headphones. “Is that math flirting? Because I’m officially charging a finder’s fee.”
Austen handed her half the fries. “Consulting fee paid.”
She accepted with a grin. “You two signing the lease agreement tomorrow?”
I glanced at Austen. “Eleven, right?”
“Landlord confirmed.” He opened his planner—actual paper, color-coded tabs—and circled the slot in green.
Ryan banged through the doors, Javier in tow. They spotted us and detoured, dropping a slice of plain pizza onto our table like tribute.
“O-kay, nerd conclave,” Ryan announced. “Who’s grading me for calories?”
“Three hundred sixty,” Austen said without looking up.
Javier clapped my shoulder. “Coach said you’re stone next season if you don’t break.”
“Planning on neither,” I answered.
He tilted his head at Austen. “You’re the contingency.”
“I prefer ‘statistical safeguard,’” Austen countered, mouth twitching.
We ate until the trays were empty. When the room emptied out, Austen stacked our trash with clinical precision.
“Home?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I brushed my knuckles against his. He didn’t pull away.
The apartment building sat three blocks off campus, beige siding and a couple of stubborn snow piles along the curb that just wouldn’t melt.
The landlord—an older woman named Nora—met us on the porch at 11:02 holding a manila envelope.
“You boys have the cashier’s check?” she asked, cutting straight to the chase.
“Bank certified,” I confirmed, patting my pocket.
“Good. Top-floor walk-up, heat included, utilities extra. I cleaned the carpets yesterday, so take your shoes off.”
We climbed narrow stairs that creaked like honest admissions.
Inside, the place smelled of damp shampoo and fresh paint. Living room: twelve by fourteen. Kitchen: galley style. Bedrooms identical. It was empty, echoing, and waiting.
Austen did one last sweep. He opened every cabinet door, tested the water pressure in the kitchen sink, and checked the window locks.
“Upper bound acceptable,” he concluded, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Meaning?” Nora asked, squinting at him.
“It means the structural integrity passes his baseline tolerances,” I translated. “And the bedroom walls share no direct line with the bathroom pipes. He hates midnight plumbing noises.”
Nora looked at me. “He’s thorough.”
“He’s got math brain; I’ve got goalie ears. We’re a high-maintenance pair.”
I walked to the living room window. A maple tree scratched the glass. There was space for my stickhandling mat and his desk. Beige walls, beige carpet—nothing special. Yet the thought that this space was ours—paid for with our savings, signed for with our names.
Nora spread the paperwork out on the laminate counter. “Standard twelve-month lease. Sign at the X, initial at the bottom. Since the unit is vacant, pro-rated rent starts today.”
We signed. The scratching of the pen sounded louder than anything I’d heard in days.
I pulled the envelope from my pocket and handed over the check. Deposit plus first month. It was a decent chunk of change, but I didn’t feel the loss. I felt the gain.
Nora checked the amount, nodded, and dropped two silver keys into my palm. The metal was cold and heavy.
“Welcome home,” she said. “The place is yours. You can start moving in right now if you want.”
Austen looked at the keys in my hand, then at the empty room.
“Variable secured,” he said, a small, genuine smile breaking through. “I’ll go get the bags from the truck.”
Back at Stony Creek Hall, the adrenaline faded into a quiet, steady hum. Austen spread our carbon copy of the lease on the communal table, highlighters fanned out like surgical tools.
Even though he’d read it and reread it and we’d signed it an hour ago—he was now categorizing it.
“Rent schedule is codified,” he said, capping a neon yellow pen. “I’ve set up a shared calendar alert for the twenty-eighth of every month.”
“We good on the utilities?” I asked, leaning against the desk.
“Projected costs are within variance. I will pick up extra TA hours in April to cover the internet installation. And I’ve made it clear I’m available all summer.”
“I’ve got backup fund money,” I reminded him. “Since I’m not spending it on a one-way flight to St. Paul anymore, it’s going into the rent fund. And I was asked to help with the hockey campus run on campus this summer, so I’ll be bringing in cash there, too.”
He hesitated, looking at the spreadsheet he was building, then nodded. “Acceptable.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the second silver key Nora had given me.
“Here,” I said. “Yours.”
I held it out. It wasn’t a grand gesture, but it felt heavier than a championship ring.
Austen didn’t just take it. He closed his fingers over mine, pressing the jagged metal into my palm for a second before sliding it free.
“Access granted,” he whispered.
We both exhaled, the tension of the last week finally unspooling.
My phone buzzed on the desk, vibrating against the wood. I glanced down.
A number I didn’t recognize. Arizona area code.
Mom: Your father called. Said you turned down Minnesota. I just wanted to say I’m proud of you, Lucas. It takes courage to choose yourself.
I stared at the screen. Thirteen years of birthday cards with no money and mindfulness quotes, and this was the most she’d ever said.
Me: Thanks, Mom.
I almost left it there. But something made me add
Me: Maybe I could visit this summer. If you want.
The reply came faster than I expected.
Mom: I’d like that. Bring your friend.
I showed Austen the screen. He read it twice. “She called me your friend,” he said carefully.
“She’ll learn.” I pocketed the phone. “We iterate, right?”
He smiled—that rare, open one. “We iterate.”
Austen reached into his bag with his free hand.
“One more thing,” he said, pulling out a thin, glossy booklet. “Mail came to Ridgeway yesterday.”
He slid it across the communal table, right on top of the lease.
Journal of Quantitative Analysis in Sports—Spring Edition.
I picked it up. I flipped it open to the bookmarked page. There, on page forty-two, was the title: “Quantifying the Crease.”
And below it: By A. Lovell and A. R. Thorne.
“You got published,” I said, running my thumb over his name.
“Peer-reviewed and in print,” Austen said, adjusting his glasses, though I could see the flush of pride on his neck. “Dr. Thorne sent a bottle of champagne. I’m saving it for move-in night.”
I scanned the abstract. Charts. Graphs. And there, Figure 1A, was a wireframe diagram of a goalie in the butterfly.
Me.
“Subject G,” I read aloud. “Anonymized for data integrity.”
“Obviously,” Austen said. “Can’t have the academic community knowing I’m sleeping with the data set. It introduces bias.”
“Bias?” I laughed, tossing the journal back onto the table next to our signed lease. “I think you mean ‘competitive advantage.’” I wrapped my arms around his waist and drew him to me.
Austen smiled—that rare, open smile he saved for us. “Statistically speaking,” he said, “it appears to be both.”
I kissed him.
“Lunch before you grade the derivative apocalypse?” I asked, when we finally pulled away from air.
“Omelets. You’re paying. Roommate initiation tax.”
“Future roommate.”
He locked the door to 317—habit, though we were moving out in three weeks.
As we turned toward the stairwell, the door across the hall opened. Devon stepped out, looking groggy, wearing a bathrobe and holding a shower caddy.
He stopped when he saw us. He looked at the lease paperwork sticking out of my jacket pocket. He looked at my hand, inches from Austen’s.
Devon grinned. It wasn’t the polite RA smile. It was real.
“Finally escaping the radiator?” he asked.
“Found a place on Elm,” I said. “Top floor. No pipes.”
“Nice.” Devon shifted his caddy. “Glad you two figured things out. Kayla owes me twenty. Firmly betted on team “Auluk” (Aw, look!). You guys were the quietest room on the floor. I’m gonna miss the lack of drama.”
“Oh, God, No.” Luke said. “That’s worse than Lusten or Carvell.”
“It could have been Ausuke, but that just sounded indecent.”
Austen snorted. “We had plenty of drama, Devon. We kept the amplitude low.”
“Whatever you say, Math.” Devon jerked his chin at us. “Good luck. Don’t fail the finals.”
“We won’t,” I said.
Devon headed for the showers. We walked side by side down the hall.
At the stairwell landing Austen stopped, fumbling with something in his coat.
The puck emerged.
“Choose a pocket,” he said.
I held out the inside breast pocket of my jacket—right over the heart.
He slid the puck in, tapped it once like sealing a vault. “Keep us honest.”
I grinned. “Post on the left, post on the right.”
“Constant in the middle,” he finished.
We descended the stairs, winter sun bouncing off salt-streaked windows. The future didn’t feel like a scouting report anymore. It felt like overtime—manageable, familiar, and still up for grabs.
Outside, the spring breeze cut, but it wasn’t cruel. Austen linked his fingers with mine. No checking the hallway for witnesses this time.
“Ready?” I asked.
He squeezed my hand once. “Direction pending,” he said, smiling. “But yes.”