4 - Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
I heard her before I saw her.
The scrape of wheels on the uneven floor broke me from my data-induced trance. I’d been studying plays, footage, attack vectors. All manner of boring shit that forces your mind to drift after a few short minutes, when you should be analyzing your opponents, to expose weaknesses.
As the new guy, I was well behind in that area.
As the newer girl, she was even further than me.
More suitcase scraping drifted in from the hallway; the noise so foreign to the house it was almost offensive.
Up here, everything settled into its own kind of quiet.
Pipes ticking. Water, rushing through plumbing far beneath your feet.
A door creaked open — her door — as I leaned back against the headboard, just listening.
She hadn’t moved for a good half minute now.
Which meant she was just standing there, taking it in.
I could picture it all without trying. The room was a mirror image of mine; smaller, colder. A radiator that worked only when it felt like it. A century-old window that held cold like a grudge. She’d probably be evaluating her life’s choices right about now. Anyone in her position would.
The scraping sound began again, and then I heard other noises. Fabric shifting. The opening of drawers. I stared at the ceiling for a minute or two, letting her get settled in. Then I swung my legs over the side of the bed, set down my tablet, and finally stood up.
I crossed the room in a few quiet steps, the floor shifting under my weight. There was barely any creaking, though. You learned where to step after a few days here.
“Hey…”
She was already standing in my doorway. Even before I could go out to meet her.
“Is your radiator—”
“Made during the First World War?”
Her gaze darted to the heating system tucked beneath my window. Just like hers, the metal fins were painted over so many times, the edges were rounded.
“Mine’s not working,” she sighed.
“Oh it is,” I delivered the bad news. “It’s just… awful.”
Haven exhaled, slowly. She was prettier than I expected; long, dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail that kept it out of her way.
Her eyes were blue and sharp, the irises ringed darker at the edges like someone had colored them in a coloring book.
Yet as striking as they were, those eyes felt like they were one step ahead of you.
Like they were already assessing. Measuring. Deciding.
“I’m Sebastian,” I told her.
“The new goalie. I know.”
She emphasized the word new. I stood there trying to decide if it meant anything.
“Haven Maxwell.”
She extended her hand. After a moment, I shook it.
“So… we’re roommates.”
“Floor mates,” she quickly corrected me.
I reached out and thumped my fist against the sharply slanted ceiling. I didn’t have to reach far.
“Not much difference at the top of the house,” I pointed out.
She considered this for a moment, then tilted her head as she looked around.
“Is your room warmer than mine?”
“It’s a little better on my side,” I shrugged. “But not much.”
“Wanna switch?”
I laughed. “What’s in it for me?”
“A colder room?” she raised an eyebrow.
I chuckled. “Yeah, nah.”
“My undying gratitude?”
I swept my eyes over her, sizing her up some more.
“Undying, huh?”
She was on the taller side, but not enough to stand out. And she was strong. Built lean. Even standing there, shifting her weight over the creaking floorboards, I could see a trace of athleticism in the way she carried herself.
“How about the warm assurance that chivalry’s not dead?” she suggested.
Wow. Cute and funny. I kinda liked this one.
And I wasn’t supposed to like her at all.
“Why should I bother with warm assurances,” I theorized, “when I can just keep the radiator that semi-works?”
She stared at me another few seconds, then huffed. Her shoulders slumped as she gave up the battle. Which was strange, because she looked like someone who didn’t back down.
I watched her go, willing my male mind not to linger on the usual parts. I lost that battle, myself.
“Haven… wait.”
She turned to look back at me, halfway into the hallway. Her ponytail swung in a neat arc.
“If it ever gets cold enough that you can see your breath,” I told her, “you can come in here and warm up.”
I picked up my tablet again, before she could say anything. Not that she answered. My eyes stayed locked on her ponytail this time, as she slipped from the hallway back into her room.
“Door’s always open,” I called after her.
I sighed, staring up at the ceiling. Trying to imagine what set of unfortunate cosmic circumstances led to this poor freezing thing being resigned to the third floor of a hockey team’s bunkhouse, at the ass end of the shittiest neighborhood in all of upstate New York.
Then again, I had my own problems to worry about.