Chapter 6
NEUTRAL ZONE TRAP: DEFENSIVE SETUP TO CLOG THE MIDDLE OF THE ICE
If you want teenagers to listen, don’t raise your voice. Raise expectations. “Okay,” I tap the whiteboard twice with my marker. “Before anyone panics, let me clarify something.”
Thirty pairs of eyes snap up with trepidation.
“This is not a pop quiz.”
A collective exhale ripples through the room.
“It is a class participation grade. Show me whether or not you actually understood yesterday’s lesson, or whether you nodded convincingly while determining whether to get chicken strips or pizza in the cafeteria.”
Malik’s hand shoots up. “That feels targeted, Ms. Delgadina.”
“Malik, if you feel seen, that’s between you and your conscience.”
Laughter breaks out. Malik grins, entirely unrepentant. I turn back to the board and write a single equation across the top.
f(x) = ax2 + bx + c
Groans echo from every corner of my class. I have to fight to keep myself from laughing at my students over the top drama. “Quadratics. Think of it as math’s literary equal. Challenging. Underestimated. Everyone assumes it’s boring until they realize how many plot twists are involved.”
Autumn asks, “Are we factoring or graphing?”
I pretend to dab the tear of emotion from the corner of my eye at her question. “Both. Because if no one has told you this already, life rarely gives you the chance to juggle one problem at a time.”
A few students groan. Paper comes out. Screens tilt forward. Heads drop as they engage.
I meander up and down the aisles. “Let’s say this equation represents a trajectory. A ball. A rocket. A very poorly hit hockey puck. What does a tell us?”
“How dramatic the arc is,” someone mutters.
“Correct. And b?”
“The direction,” Autumn answers. “Positive or negative.”
“Exactly. And c?”
“The starting point,” Malik snaps his fingers. “Where it hits the y-axis.”
“Excellent.”
He beams like I just handed him a scholarship.
“Now, here’s where people mess this up. People want answers to fit their perceived logic of the problem. They rush and skip steps. However, math rewards patience. You don’t get the right solution by ignoring variables. You account for all of them. Even the ones you don’t like.”
The room is quiet now—not because they’re confused, but because they’re thinking.
Good.
At the end of the period, the bell rings interrupting their concentration. Whines erupt through the room.
“No,” Malik groans dramatically. “We’ve been robbed of time.”
“Wrong class, Malik. You’re not solving for a black hole,” I reply drolly.
They all chortle. I circle the equation and mark next to it DUE TOMORROW! “Someone apparently thinks you all deserve mercy. Finish it for homework.”
Autumn raises her hand. “Ms. Delgadina, tomorrow can we review step three again? I’m pretty certain I sent a coefficient to detention.”
“That’s not how math works. But if you have a second, this will help.” I rewrite the equation with a slightly different approach, breaking it down differently.
Autumn’s eyes light up. “Oh…wow. Way easier.”
“Most things are if you’re not afraid to ask for help. That is your real lesson of the day.”
Chairs scrape back as students pack up. I call out, “Math team meeting after school.”
They file past me, tossing out casual goodbyes. “Thanks, Ms. Delgadina.” They file out of the room but not before I overhear a hushed, “Did you hear? Brennan McCallister moved here?”
Great. Just great. He moved here.
After the room empties, I choose to sink into my desk chair instead of heading to the breakroom for lunch. A small groan escapes me in my solitude. Why couldn’t he have moved somewhere else? Just when I consider chucking my dry erase marker across the room, my phone rescues me.
Emery:
Checking in. Are we thriving or merely surviving?
Maya:
Buongiorno, babes. Drinking espresso and watching the sun set behind the vineyard.
Christin:
Maya’s in her best-life era. Tell me someone else has news to share.
I grin down at the text message even as my thumbs fly.
Me:
Taught quadratics and no one cried. Including me.
Maya:
You’re a badass.
Me:
I know.
Me:
Also, unrelated, a new resident moved to town. One who played hockey.
My stomach tightens imagining their responses when I reveal who it is.
Emery:
Hockey is rancid.
Maya:
The smell of their sweat is tragic. That’s for sure.
Christin:
Who?
Me:
Brennan.
I steady myself before I type out a brief synopsis of how I saw Brennan, but didn’t engage. As expected, my girls lose their proverbial minds.
Emery:
WHAT?
Christin:
ARE YOU KIDDING?
Maya:
Are you okay?
Me:
I’m fine.
Christin:
Do I need to sniff into things?
Me:
No. I mean, after all, why would he want to tarnish his good name by associating with mine?
Emery:
Because you’re a queen around Willow Creek.
Me:
And he traded me to be the king of ice hockey.
Maya:
More like the outdated mascot.
I feel warmth surge through me at their unceasing support. Then I redirect the focus to Maya. She went through one hell of a breakup that was viewed by most of the world. Hell, it earned the hashtag #EngagementGate.
Still, it’s a better topic than Brennan. Anything is.
Inside my apartment after work, I toe off my shoes letting the quiet surround me.
My refrigerator hums loud enough to offer me comfort, but even that suddenly feels like too much background but not enough noise.
Heading to my bedroom, I flick on the lamp before spying the partially open closet door.
The box is still there.
I haven’t touched it in years. Not since I convinced myself that moving on meant packing things away and calling it progress. I drag a chair over anyway, my pulse skipping for no good reason, and reach up.
I already know what’s inside and I know he’s why tonight I’ll open it again.
I carry it to the bed before sitting cross-legged on it like this is my dorm room instead of a one-bedroom apartment where I faced the consequences of heartbreak. Lifting the lid, it’s the smell that hits first—paper, time, and layered with his cologne.
I pull out a folded campus map, the edges frayed like it spent too much time in the pocket of a boy who refused to admit he had no sense of direction. My thumb brushes over the coffee stains on it fondly. I remember exactly how they got there.
He profusely apologizes in his lilting Irish accent after he realizes he spilled half of the drink on me. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I assure him as I wipe the coffee off my books.
“I promise I’ll apologize properly after practice.”
That same day, he asked me out for our first date.
Setting it aside, I pull out a pressed daisy. Yellowed now, delicate as breath. He’d handed it to me later that month, plucked from the grass outside the student union like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He drags it slowly down my cheek before handing it to me. “For you.”
I lean up and kiss him softly. “Thank you.”
More memories surface as I find a ticket stub. I remember believing, very clearly, I wanted that night to last forever because it was the first time we made love.
At least I thought it was love.
Setting that aside, I slide my hand back in. My chest constricts when I come out with a Ziplock of notes. Written on torn scraps of notebook paper, his handwriting is unmistakable—big, slanted, like he was always in a hurry.
Meet me outside the arena after practice.
Don’t forget your sweater. There's a fierce stretch in the air.
That dress makes you look regal, my queen.
I love the way you argue. Don’t ever stop.
The last one makes tears prick my eyes because the one time I tried to defend myself, he walked away.
Gave up on me. Us.
I press my thumb over the words like I can smudge the memory away before dropping it into the growing pile.
Seeing pictures of Brennan doesn’t hurt quite the same way it would have if I hadn’t run into him. There’s just two. The first is a picture of us after a hockey game. He’s sweating while my cheeks are flushed from the cold. We’re both wearing stupid grins, like we’re untouchable.
Brennan skates past our section, stick clutched in one hand. The other makes a hand motion. It’s such a small motion, likely invisible to everyone else. One of my hands flies to my mouth, the other making the opposing shape.
Two halves of the same heart.
His grin widens, telling me he saw me.
Later, I wait at the end of the tunnel, emotions churning. Then he appears, hair damp, cheeks flushed, eyes scanning until they land on me.
Everything in his face softens.
“Brennan!” I step forward.
He doesn’t slow down. He drops his bag before lifting me straight off the ground—spinning me like I weigh nothing at all. I laugh into his shoulder, dizzy and breathless and absurdly happy.
Up close, he looks less like a campus legend and more like the boy I love — warm, real, mine.
Then he kisses me, quick and sure and full of something that feels permanent. When he does, the whole world disappears.
The second is from the infamous party when my toga was sabotaged at the Delta Phi house.
I murmur down to my twenty-year old self. “What would you have done differently if you knew just weeks later your entire life would blow up?”
Flipping the photos face down, tension builds up inside of me as I reach for the final item in the box. It causes my heart rate to accelerate so much, I wonder if I’m having an anxiety attack.
It’s a folded piece of college-ruled paper.
I let the tears fall even as I just hold onto the paper.
I thought keeping the paper I was working on after he kissed me the first time was romantic, not that it would crush my soul to remember it all these years later.
I don’t even have to open it to remember what it says. I recall the day we wrote it.
He shouldn’t look that good doing homework.
Every few seconds, he shoves his hand through his hair, leaving it messier than before. “Have you managed to get any work done?”
“I’m thinking.”
He calls me on my bluff. “You completed the same equation three times.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “And there’s a problem with that?”
He huffs out a laugh, soft and private—one that feels like it belongs only to me. He edges closer, giving up all pretense of studying.
His shoulder brushes mine as he reaches over to take my notebook. The current between us when his strong arm brushes against my forearm sends a ridiculous awareness skittering up my spine.
Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Thicker. Charged.
Something in my chest tilts as his eyes flick to my mouth, then back up, like he can’t quite decide whether to be bold or sweet.
“Brennan,” I murmur.
“Yeah?”
I don’t answer. I don’t know how to put this feeling into words without breaking it. So, I don’t. I lean in.
Our noses bump slightly, and I almost giggle. But then his hand comes up and cups the side of my face. His palm is warm—a steadying pressure that makes my heart settle.
When his mouth touches mine, it’s barely there. A soft, careful brush, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he presses too hard.
I never will.
Our kiss deepens—heated, a little uncoordinated, and perfect. His thumb moves against my cheek in a small, unconscious stroke that makes something bloom low and bright in my chest.
When we pull back, we don’t go far. Our foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, neither of us quite ready to break whatever just shifted between us.
The paper shakes in my hand.
Eventually, I put everything back. Carefully, because despite the fact Brennan broke my heart, I want one day to be able to pull out this box to share it with my child when they have their heart broken for the first time. To show them that you can survive heartbreak.
Closing the lid, I head back into my closet to return it to its rightful place back onto the top shelf. This time, I shut the door firmly.
Some things are better left packed away, including memories.
Especially when the most painful ones unravel the years you spent trying to move forward without him.