Chapter 10
Ten
West
The adrenaline from the game still thrums under my skin with a familiar, welcome fire. Three goals. A hat trick. The crowd had been electric, the win absolute but none of it mattered. Not really.
There was only one person in that arena I was playing for. I knew she would be there.
I sit in the echoing quiet of the locker room, the last one to leave.
The scent of sweat and victory hangs in the air.
I lean back, replaying the final goal. The weight of the puck on my stick, the roar of the crowd fading to a dull hum, my entire world narrowing to a single point: the top corner of the net.
I knew she was watching. I could feel her eyes on me.
That goal wasn't for the team. It wasn't for the fans throwing their hats onto the ice.
It was a signal flare, aimed directly at her seat.
A demonstration. This is what I am capable of.
This power, this control, this victory.. . it is all for you to see.
Seeing her face when I found her in the crowd was the real victory. The flicker of panic, the shock, the way she was pinned to her seat by my gaze alone. That was better than the roar of the crowd. Better than the win.
And now, the ping of my phone. The aftershock. The part of the game that continues long after the ice has melted.
Kinsley.
Kinsley:
Don’t text me again.
A low chuckle rumbles in my chest. The little soldier is trying to draw a line in the sand. I like it. It’s predictable. It’s also futile.
Me:
Why not?
Her reply is almost instantaneous. The fire in her is a constant, blazing thing.
Kinsley:
Because I told you not to.
I lean back against the cold metal locker, a slow smile spreading across my face. She’s so transparent. So beautifully, defiantly transparent. She thinks she has power here. She thinks she can dictate terms after I just bent the world to my will for her.
Me:
You don’t get to tell me what to do, Kinsley.
I hit send and I watch the three dots appear, then vanish. Then reappear. Then vanish again. She’s typing, she’s hesitating, she’s fighting herself. The internal battle must be raging.
Finally, her reply comes. It’s longer this time. More measured.
Kinsley:
I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Stop texting me. If you have something to say, say it in class. Or in an email. Through official channels. Otherwise, leave me alone.
I read it twice. My smile widens. Official channels. She’s trying to use the rules. The very rules I’ve already bent to my will. It’s almost endearing. Almost.
The three dots appear again. She’s waiting, expecting a response, expecting me to argue. To push.
I put my phone back in my bag without replying.
The silence is a weapon. It’s a void, it’s a question mark. It’s everything she hates. She wants control. She wants a definitive answer.
I’m not going to give it to her. Not yet.
I walk out of the locker room, the faint scent of sweat and liniment clinging to me. The arena is mostly empty now, the last echoes of the crowd’s cheers long gone. The ice gleams under the harsh lights, a pristine, dangerous surface.
She thinks she’s drawn a boundary. She thinks she’s told me to stay in my lane, but this isn’t a lane. This is a game, and she just told me the rules she thinks apply.
I’m going to show her how wrong she is.
I don’t need to text her, I don’t need to speak to her. I just need to exist. In her classroom, in her periphery, in her thoughts.
And then, when she least expects it, I’ll make my next move. The game has only just begun, and she’s already playing right into my hand.
I head back to my apartment, the city lights a blur. The whiskey is waiting. The Moleskine is waiting. I pour myself another glass, the amber liquid swirling, reflecting the faint glow of my laptop screen.
I open the notebook to the page with her quiz. I retrace her name, the sharp edges of the letters a perfect mirror of her personality. I pull up the university’s course catalog. I already know her schedule, but I want to see the details. The professors, the rooms, the times.
She has a lab section for Chem 102 on Monday mornings. Early. 8 AM. Dr. Albright doesn’t teach the labs; graduate TAs run them. I scroll through the list of TAs assigned to the lab sections. My name isn’t there, of course. I’m the lecture TA.
But I know the head of the chemistry department. Professor Davies. A man who owes my uncle a few favors. A man who understands the importance of “student success” and “additional support.”
I pick up my phone. Not to text Kinsley. Never to text Kinsley again, not directly. Not when she’s told me not to. At least, for now.
I dial Professor Davies’s office number. It’s late, but he’ll have his office phone forwarded to his cell. He always does.
The phone rings twice before he answers, his voice a little gruff with sleep.
“Professor Davies, West Monroe here. Apologies for the late call, sir. I was just reviewing the Chem 102 lab schedule, and noticed a potential staffing issue for the Monday 8 AM section. I’d be happy to step in and offer some additional support. For the students, of course.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. Professor Davies is a wise man. He knows a request from me, especially one that comes after a late-night call, isn’t just about “student success.”
“Monroe,” he says, a sigh in his voice. “You’re the lecture TA. You’re already doing plenty.”
“I’m passionate about student success, Professor,” I reply, my voice smooth, unwavering. “And I believe a consistent presence across both lecture and lab could be highly beneficial. Especially for students who might be struggling.”
He sighs again. “Alright, Monroe. I’ll make the arrangements. Consider yourself assigned, but don’t make me regret this.”
“You won’t, sir. Thank you.”
I hang up. I take another sip of whiskey.
Monday morning, 8 AM. She’ll be there, and so will I.
She thinks she’s drawn a line. She told me to leave her alone, but I won’t. I’m changing the scenery.
The game is shaping up, and I just moved a piece she didn’t even know was on the board.