50
Nate
Carter says the party will be good for me. That is how I know it’s going to be an unmitigated disaster.
Carter has many talents—reading the ice with a bird’s-eye perspective, setting up passes that shouldn't be physically possible, and being irritating with surgical precision.
But his confidence that a crowded, poorly ventilated house full of drunk college students will improve my emotional state is optimistic in a way that should be studied by scientists and eventually banned by law.
“You need to get out,” he says, standing in my doorway like a very smug wellness pamphlet. He’s already dressed in a clean hoodie, smelling like expensive cologne and confidence.
“I was out today,” I counter, leaning against my kitchen counter and staring at the two water bottles I’ve left there.
I moved one an inch to the left earlier, then moved it back.
I’m currently being haunted by a pair of plastic bottles because they remind me of how she looks when she’s being "bossy."
“You went to class and practice,” Carter says, stepping into my apartment. He doesn't wait for an invite. He never does. “That is not ‘out.’ That is a commute.”
“I’m not going to some basement to watch Mason explain the physics of beer pong like it’s a military operation.”
“That is one of the main perks, actually.” Carter’s face softens, his voice dropping an octave. “Wilder. Look at me.”
I hate that tone. It’s his *reasonable* tone. The one he uses right before he says something that’s going to stay lodged in my brain for six to eight business days.
“You had a shit practice yesterday,” he says. “Coach lit you up. You’ve been staring at your phone like it contains the coordinates to buried treasure. You need to remember how to exist in a room without making your face look like a weather warning for a category five hurricane.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your ‘fine’ is currently being read its last rites.”
Carter sighs, looking at the spotless kitchen.
“Giving her space is good. I get it. But if space means you can’t go anywhere she might be, that’s not space, Nate. That’s an exile. And you’re not a martyr. You’re a guy who’s miserable because he’s trying too hard to be noble.”
I drag a hand through my hair, feeling the exhaustion deep in my marrow. I don’t want to see her with him. Seeing his hand in hers on campus felt like a physical blow. But Carter is right—if I don’t go, I’m just sitting here in the dark, practicing how to be a ghost.
“I’m not staying long,” I mutter, reaching for my jacket.
The party is at a house off-campus that smells exactly like every other college party: a heady, suffocating blend of cheap beer, weed, and that floral perfume that everyone seems to own. Blue string lights are draped across the ceiling, making the crowded living room look like a submerged wreck.
Mason appears within seconds, a red cup in each hand. “Nate! You came. Try the dip.”
“I’m not eating unidentified party dip, Mason.”
“It’s buffalo chicken. I think.”
“‘I think’ is the phrase that precedes every visit to the campus clinic.”
Carter laughs and hands me a bottle of water. I’m not drinking tonight. I can’t afford to lose my edge, not when Coach is one bad rep away from benching me, and certainly not when my self-control is already hanging by a thread.
For the first half hour, I almost manage to be "normal-adjacent." I talk to Brooks about the upcoming game. I listen to a freshman defenseman complain about his roommate. I lean against the counter and pretend I’m not tracking the front door like a predatory bird.
Then, the air in the room shifts. It’s a sensory thing—a sudden tightening in my chest, a prickle at the back of my neck. I don't have to look to know she’s here.
Hannah walks in, and the blue-tinted chaos of the room seems to blur into the background.
She’s wearing a leather jacket over a black top, her hair falling over her shoulders in those soft waves I can still feel against my palms.
Ethan is beside her, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back.
He’s being good to her. Not possessive, just... there. It’s the kind of quiet, steady affection she said she wanted.
Hannah scans the room and her eyes find mine. For a heartbeat, the music and the shouting die. She looks caught—startled and wary—and then Ethan leans down to whisper something in her ear. She smiles, the tension leaving her shoulders, and looks away from me.
“Don’t,” Carter says, his voice low at my ear.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“I know. Don’t start.”
I turn back to the counter, gripping my water bottle so hard the plastic groans. *No more shit,* Coach said. *No distractions.* I tell myself to stay in my lane. I tell myself that this is what backing off looks like.
But seven minutes later, I look again. I’m weak. I’m a masochist.
They’re near the hallway. A girl stumbles into Ethan, spilling a bit of her drink, and he pulls Hannah closer to keep her out of the splash zone. They’re laughing. He looks down at her with a clarity of intent that makes my stomach turn.
And then he kisses her.
It isn't a showy, drunken make-out. It’s a soft, lingering kiss that speaks of comfort and progress. It’s the sound of a door being locked while I’m still standing outside. My jaw locks, a sharp pain radiating through my hinge.
Hannah pulls back, her eyes dazed for a second before they find mine again. This time, she looks stricken. Not guilty—that would be easier to handle—but genuinely hurt, as if she can feel my pulse from across the room.
I look away. I can't do this. I turn and move toward the door, my shoulder checking a guy in a jersey who mutters something I don't hear. I need air. I need to be anywhere that doesn't smell like her perfume and taste like my own failure.
The cold night air hits me like a physical slap as I stumble onto the patchy front lawn. I walk until I reach the curb, hands on my hips, breathing in the winter chill to try and kill the heat in my blood.
“Get it together,” I growl at the empty street.
The porch door creaks open behind me. I know it's her before she even speaks. I can feel the change in the atmosphere, the way the molecules seem to vibrate differently.
“Nate.”
“Go back inside, Hannah,” I say, my back still turned. My voice is a low, jagged rasp.
“No.”
I turn then, a decision I regret the moment our eyes meet. She’s standing there, jacket pulled tight, her face flushed from the heat of the house or the kiss. She looks beautiful and worried and completely, utterly mine—even though she isn't.
“You shouldn't be out here,” I say, my jaw tight. “You came with him. Go back to him.”
“I followed you because you looked upset.”
“I am upset,” I snap, the honesty tearing out of me before I can censor it.
She flinches, and I feel like the world's biggest prick. I soften my tone, but the edge is still there. “You’re upset because you saw me kiss him,” she says, her voice a whisper.
“Good detective work, Hannah. You want me to lie? You want me to tell you it didn't bother me to see you straddle him in the middle of a party?”
“I wasn't straddling him!”
“Close enough.” I laugh, a bitter, dry sound. “What do you want from me? You want me to give you a gold star for trying?”
“Don’t be mean, Nate.”
“I’m not trying to be mean. I’m trying to be invisible, but you keep coming out here to find me.”
I step closer, the distance between us shrinking until I can see the mist of her breath.
“You can’t do that. You can’t kiss him, see that it ruins me, and then come outside to check on my welfare like I’m a wounded pet. It’s cruel.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” she says, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“I know. But you did. Because I’m jealous, Hannah. There. No more noble bullshit. I’m jealous, I’m miserable, and I’m tired of acting like I’m not.”
The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by the muffled bass of the music inside. Hannah looks overwhelmed, her lips parted as she searches for a response that doesn't exist.
“I’m trying with him,” she says finally. “He’s good to me.”
“I know he is. That’s why you need to go back in there.” I step back, creating a gap I don't want. “I told you I wouldn't stand in the doorway. If I stay here, I’m just the guy waiting for him to fail, and I don't want to be that guy.”
“What if I don’t want to go back in?” she asks.
The question is a match thrown into a dry field. My chest locks. I should walk away. I should save us both.
“Then you need to figure out why,” I say. “Because I know what I want.”
She freezes. “What?”
I look at her, really look at her, letting all the careful boundaries I’ve built over the last week crumble. “I know what I want, Hannah. And it’s not space.”
The air between us turns electric, a sharp, static charge that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
“Nate...”
The door opens again. Ethan steps out, his eyes moving from her to me, his expression shifting from concern to a hard, cold realization.
“Hannah?” he asks. He comes down the steps, his gaze fixing on me. “You okay?”
I step back. I have to. I'm the intruder here. I'm the "shit" Coach warned me about.
“She’s fine,” I say, my voice devoid of emotion. I look at Hannah one last time. “Go back inside.”
I turn and walk toward the street, not looking back even when I hear her call my name. Carter is waiting by his car, having seen the smoke signals of a disaster from a mile away.
“Leaving?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Good choice.”
I get into the passenger seat and slam the door. My phone buzzes.
**Hannah:** *Please don’t leave like that. I didn’t want to hurt you.*
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass. I want to tell her that hurting me is the only thing we’re both good at right now. I want to tell her that I know what I want, but it doesn't matter unless she's brave enough to want it too.
I put the phone in my pocket and look out the window as the blue lights of the party fade into the dark.