7. Austin
AUSTIN
S ome days, I swear the world is out to wring me dry.
By the time I get home, I’m fried. Physically, mentally—whatever other kind of “-ly” there is. Classes, gym, and then practice on top of it. My head’s still spinning when I push open the door and step inside.
“Tell me someone brought food,” I groan, dragging myself onto the couch and kicking my shoes off.
Ryan doesn’t look up from his phone. “You’ve got two legs and a wallet. Figure it out.”
I grab a throw pillow and place it behind my head. “I’m emotionally fragile. The least you could do is feed me.”
Nathan glances up from his phone, arching a brow my way. “You’re suspended, not starved.”
“There’s a kitchen right there,” Ryan adds, nodding toward it.
I give it a quick glance, then scowl. “You know I can’t cook. That’s why God invented takeout.”
Logan kicks back on the couch, one arm slung over the backrest. “You guys down to check out that new bar near campus tonight?”
I glance at Nathan. He gives a shrug.
Ryan doesn’t miss a beat. “Can’t. I’ve got plans.”
I grin. “Lemme guess. Hot date with your PS5?”
He shoots me a smug look. “Hotter,” he says with a smirk. “Isabella.”
Nathan groans and drops his head back against the cushion. “For the love of God. Can you not?”
Ryan grabs a chip from the bowl and flicks it at him. “Can you be less dramatic?”
“She’s my sister , man.”
Can’t even blame him. The idea of my little sister dating a hockey player makes me want to crawl into a hole and stay there. We’re the worst.
Ryan just shrugs and a smug-ass smirk pulls at his lips. “And she loves me.”
Nathan scoffs. “She also used to eat glue and thought High School Musical was peak cinema. Her judgment’s always been questionable.”
Ryan chuckles. “You’ve got to get over this, man. She picked me.”
Nathan shoves his shoulder. “She likes making bad decisions, clearly.”
“Must run in the family,” Ryan shoots back with a smirk.
Logan barks out a laugh. “Hey, how long before we start calling Ryan your brother-in-law?”
Nathan’s face goes flat. “Don’t.”
“I’m picturing the wedding already,” I say, stretching out my hands behind my head. “Matching tuxes. You crying in the background.”
“I will light myself on fire,” Nathan mutters.
“Better get used to me,” Ryan says with a wink. “Family dinners, holidays, matching Christmas pajamas?—”
Nathan grabs the nearest pillow and clocks him in the side of the head. “Shut the hell up.”
Ryan laughs like he lives for this. And honestly, maybe he does.
This is the best part of the day. Sitting around, talking shit, no pressure. Just the guys being dumb. For a minute, I can pretend I’m not drowning in stress over the essay I didn’t finish or the scholarship I’m barely holding onto. Pretend I’m not one bad grade away from losing everything.
Right now?
I just breathe.
I stretch out on the couch. “It’s inspiring to witness true love bloom while I slowly flunk out of college.”
Ryan downs some water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thought you had a tutor?”
“Working on it,” I mutter. Technically true. I’ve agreed to let someone help—someone who barely looks at me and might ghost any minute.
Ryan raises a brow. “You gonna be ready by playoffs?”
“Planning on it.” I prop my feet up on the coffee table.
It’s been rough. Showing up to practice, knowing I won’t see a single shift. Just standing behind the bench, setting up drills, taping sticks—whatever needs doing. I joke around, stay loud in the locker room, act like I’m still part of the team.
But fuck, I miss skating.
I miss the feel of the rink under my blades, the sound of my stick cutting through a pass. The adrenaline, the noise, the rush. I miss the game .
And if I don’t get my shit together soon, I’m terrified I’ll lose it for good.
Nathan glances up from his phone. “Don’t forget you’ve got a midterm in two weeks.”
“Awesome,” I deadpan. “Can’t wait to bomb that too.”
They laugh. I laugh, too. Or at least, I pretend to.
I’m good at making people laugh, at being the dumb one who they chuckle at and shake their heads—so I do just that. Keep the jokes coming, keep the noise up. If I play my role right, nobody notices the cracks.
But underneath… It stings.
I make jokes about dropping out like it’s some kind of punchline. Like I’m not waking up every day with that fear curled tight in my chest.
Because it’s not funny. It’s fucking terrifying.
I’m not here because my parents made a generous alumni donation.
I don’t have a safety net or a plan B. Hockey is the plan.
My full ride is the only reason I’m here at all.
If I screw this up—if I don’t get drafted—then my mom keeps scrubbing floors at that fancy prep school for rich kids who never have to worry about their futures.
And Scarlett? She’ll start to believe college is just a dream for kids with better dads and deeper pockets.
So yeah, I joke. It’s easier than saying I’m scared shitless I’ll never be enough.
Because if I blow this—if I don’t turn it around—I’m not just letting myself down.
I’m letting them down. My mom. Scarlett. Everyone who’s ever believed I could make it.
And I don’t know how many more chances I get before that belief runs out.
“I’m heading up,” I say, pushing off the couch with a grunt.
Ryan eyes me. “Got a hot date with your pillow?”
Logan lets out a scoff, scarfing down chips. “With his right hand, more like.”
I grin, tossing him a look. “Hey, at least my right hand never bails on me.”
They chuckle behind me as I head up the stairs.
I push the door open and let it slam shut behind me. I toss my backpack on the floor and reach under the bed for my guitar.
I flop down onto my bed, running my hands over it. It’s beat-up, the wood worn smooth in spots, strings a little dull, but it’s still the best thing I own.
I tune it by ear, my fingers moving on instinct, until the sound feels right.
I don’t play for anyone. Not at parties. Not for the guys. Definitely not online.
I start picking through a melody I half-wrote weeks ago. There’s something in it I still haven’t figured out.
I don’t write songs for attention. I write ‘cause it’s the only place I don’t have to fake being okay or funny or loud.
I strum softer and let the sound fill the room.
Then my phone buzzes.
I glance down, seeing Scarlett’s name flashing on the screen.
I place the pick in my mouth and swipe to answer the call. “What’s up, Shrimp?”
“Why do you sound like you got run over by a truck?”
I chuckle, shaking my head, and take the pick out of my mouth. “Hello to you too, Scar,” I reply.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I flop back onto the bed, my eyes flicking to the ceiling. “Yeah. Just tired. Long day. How’s school?”
“Boring. You?”
“Also boring. Except mine’s stupid expensive and might ruin my life.”
She laughs. I miss that laugh. I miss tickling her and annoying the shit out of her. “You’re so dramatic. Did you play anything new?”
“Maybe.” I sit up, resting my back against the headboard. I strum a few soft chords, not really sure if they sound right. “This one doesn’t suck.”
She chuckles. “You say that every time.”
I smirk. “Maybe I’m just humble. And consistent.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Or maybe you’re scared people might actually like it.”
I stop playing for a second, fingers frozen above the strings. Damn, maybe she’s got a point. “You sound like my therapist.”
“I am your therapist. And my rates are going up.”
I laugh and pick up the rhythm again. “You wanna hear it or not?”
“You know I do.”
I settle the guitar and start messing with the strings. My fingers move on autopilot, like they always do when I’m trying to unwind. It’s not a song yet, just a few chords I can’t seem to get out of my mind. It’s still a little rough around the edges, but that’s fine.
“It’s really good,” she says after a while. “You should post it.”
“Nah.” I set the guitar down. “I’m good with just you hearing it.”
She sighs, knowing I won’t ever post it, no matter how many times she tells me to. “When are you coming home?”
“Soon,” I assure her, running a hand through my hair. “Maybe during winter break.”
“You better. I miss you or whatever.”
I chuckle. “Miss you too, Shrimp.”
Most people are glad to be away from their family, but Scar and my mom are the most important people to me.
I still remember when I taught her how to skate.
Mom was working late, and I needed to practice.
Dad wasn’t around, so I always had to be.
I’d push Scarlett around on the rink, her tiny hands clinging to a traffic cone like it was her lifeline.
She’d shriek every time she thought she might fall through the ice.
She hated it. Not a fan of skating, which honestly, I don’t get.
Skating’s one of the best things in the world.
But she always loved watching me play. She used to sit in the stands, her feet swinging, a bag of Skittles in her lap.
She made signs for my games, and I kept every single one tucked in my closet.
We talk for a few more minutes. She complains about math, I threaten to call her teacher. She makes fun of my taste in music, I tell her she has none. It’s easy, fun. I love this kid.
After we hang up, I peel off my clothes and step into the shower. When I’m done, I wrap a towel around my waist and I wipe the fog off the glass, staring at my reflection for a few seconds.
Still the same mess.
Still pretending like I’ve got my shit figured out when I have no clue what I’m doing.
I pull on some sweatpants and flop back onto my bed, grabbing my phone. I check for any new messages from the one girl who’s been occupying my head every damn day.
I don’t even know her real name, but every time my phone lights up, I hope it’s her.
I check my phone. No new messages from Cherry.
Instead, I end up scrolling mindlessly through social media until something makes me stop.
Maisie Wilson followed you.
I click on her profile immediately. It’s pretty minimal, with only a handful of pictures, but my gaze catches on a pinned video, and I click on it.
I hit play, not really expecting much, just out of curiosity, I guess. But the second the video starts, I’m frozen.
She’s gliding on the ice so gracefully, I blink in shock. How is this the same stubborn girl who barely glanced at me the other day? Her leg lifts as she leans forward, moving around the rink like she owns it.
And then she starts spinning. Fast. Like, crazy fast. She lifts her arms above her head as she rotates, and a few seconds later, she launches into a jump, spinning in the air. She lands it perfectly, gliding backwards with her arms stretched out.
I blink. Rewind five seconds. Watch it again.
Jesus.
I knew she skated. But this? This is another level. She’s not just good, she’s incredible. Sharp and focused and so fucking graceful it kind of makes my brain short-circuit.
I blink. Scroll to another one.
This one’s set to some old Adele song—definitely not my usual vibe—but shit, it fits.
She dips into a turn, her leg sweeping behind her, and it’s so fucking beautiful, I can’t stop staring. She moves like the ice is an extension of her.
I didn’t know she could move like this.
Didn’t know anyone could.
I double-tap without thinking.
Then, because I can’t help myself, I send her a message.
Me:
u stalking me freckles?
She unfollows me.
Immediately.
I bark out a laugh. Ballsy move.
Before I can even decide whether to message her again, my phone buzzes and my lips tip into a grin when I see it’s a reply from her.
Maisie:
I wasn’t stalking. It was for research.
Me:
oh yeah? what were you researching?
Maisie:
Whether your ego is as big as everyone says it is.
Me:
and…
Maisie:
Inconclusive. Too many shirtless pictures.
Me:
so, ur saying u were distracted?
Maisie:
Disgusted more like.
Me:
since ur clearly fascinated by me…
Maisie:
I’m not.
I can almost picture her rolling those bright blue eyes of hers.
I chuckle to myself, shaking my head. She’s so fucking stubborn.
Me:
and obvs in denial. how about I get a second chance to redeem myself and we set up a tutoring sesh?
I tap my foot against the floor, waiting for her reply. My fingers curl around the edge of my phone, anxiety prickling under my skin. What if she tells me to shove it? Honestly, wouldn’t blame her, but she’s the only thing standing between me and my dream.
I’m ripped out of my thoughts when my phone buzzes in my hands, and I glance down at the screen.
Maisie:
Wednesday. Four PM. Library. I’ll bring notes. You bring a functioning brain.
Me:
that’s asking a lot.
Maisie:
I’m aware.
Me:
it’s a date.
Maisie:
It’s tutoring.
Me:
why can’t it be both?
She doesn’t reply, and I set my phone down, still smiling.