7. Kai
KAI
My phone lights up on the desk in front of me, right beside my Strategic Management notes, and for one second, the entire classroom fades to nothing.
A contact I haven’t seen in years is on my screen, accompanied by a picture of the two of us when we were still in high school. I can even remember the exact moments leading up to the image being captured.
My arms were around her waist, and she was laughing at something I had said. She just looked so happy, so perfect, that I had to lean in and kiss her cheek. She chose that second to take the picture, and it turned into my favorite to date.
Wrenley Mae: We need to chat. You free?
The professor keeps talking about competitive advantage and market positioning.
I hear all of it. I understand none of it.
My pen stops halfway through the word stakeholder.
I stare at the message longer than I should. Long enough that the screen dims once and brightens again when my hand shifts beside it.
I turn my phone face down. Problem solved.
Except the message is still there. Under the glass. On the desk. In my head when I force myself to write down the next bullet point.
I don’t open it. I can’t.
If I don’t open it, I haven’t ignored it. Not technically. The preview appeared, and I saw it by accident. That’s different.
Professor Nolan changes slides. I write down market positioning, underline it once, then realize I have no idea what he said before or after that.
Twelve minutes later, I check again.
Same message, no follow-up, just Wren’s name and six words I don’t know what to do with.
I lock the phone and put it in my bag.
I’m in class. That is a reasonable excuse. Mature, even. Answering a serious text during a lecture would be rude. Distracting. Borderline irresponsible.
The fact that I have answered Weston during class at least four times this week is irrelevant. Weston sends pictures of dogs in sunglasses and asks if I think they would be good in the locker room as decorations.
This is different. Wren is different. She always has been.
Class ends at 4:05. I pack my things slowly, putting everything away in the right order because the wrong order makes my skin feel too tight. Notebook first. Pen in the front pocket. Water bottle. I stop myself from pulling out my phone, sliding it deeper into my bag without looking at the screen.
I have treatment, film, captain duties, a quiz, and a lift plan to send Dane. I do not have time to stand in the middle of campus and let one text take apart the rest of my day.
I’ll look later.
The walk from the business building to the athletic training room should take nine minutes if the crosswalk cooperates.
It takes twelve because a group of freshmen stops in the middle of the path to argue about where the dining hall is.
I check the time on the clock above the training room door when I get there, not daring to grab my phone to check the time.
4:18.
The trainer works on my hip and tells me what I already know.
“You’re tight.”
I sigh. “I know, but I’ve been resting it as well as doing our therapy sessions, plus taking extra time to stretch.”
She presses into the outside of my hip, and pain shoots down my leg hard enough that I grit my teeth before I can stop myself. “No extra sprints or weights tomorrow. I think you need to rest it a bit while you can.”
“I don’t—”
She cuts me off with an unimpressed glare before I even finish my sentence, patting me on the knee. “Let’s not lie to each other today.”
I look at her. She looks back.
I don’t have a defense because she is right, and that is becoming a real problem lately. Too many people are right about me in ways I don’t enjoy.
Film starts at 4:45.
Weston is already in the room when I get there, hoodie up, feet on the chair in front of him. He looks comfortable in a way that feels personally offensive, as if he could fall asleep literally anywhere, which he probably can.
“Feet down,” I say.
He lowers one foot. “Compromise.”
“Both.”
Moving both feet to the floor, he points his water bottle in my direction. “You drive a hard bargain, Captain.”
Grayson sits two seats over with his notebook open, giving me an assessing look, like he knows something that I don’t.
“What?” I ask, completely over everyone today.
He shrugs. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Tell that to your face. It didn’t seem to get the message.”
His mouth twitches. “That sounds like something a stable person would notice.”
Weston leans over. “Are we diagnosing Kai? Because I have thoughts.”
“No,” Grayson and I say at the same time.
Weston sinks back into his chair. “Cowards.”
Asher walks in, taking a seat in the row behind us. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Which him?” Grayson asks.
Asher flashes a rare smile. “Ha. Fair.”
“Nothing is wrong with me,” I say.
Weston turns around. “That sentence has never been true in your life.”
Coach walks in before I can respond.
Thank fuck.
Film gives me something to focus on that isn’t Wren. Something with problems I can solve, and questions I can answer. Rewind. Pause. Look again. The mistake is either there or it isn’t. Bad gap. Lazy backcheck. Missed rotation. Late read. The ice tells the truth if you know how to watch it.
We start with defensive-zone coverage from last weekend, and I force my attention onto the screen. For a few minutes, it works. Grayson points out a bad angle before Coach does because Grayson has always been quietly annoying. Asher gets praise for tracking through traffic.
Then my phone buzzes in my bag.
Not loud. Not enough for anyone else to hear, but I feel it anyway.
My hand moves toward the zipper before I stop it.
Grayson notices.
I keep my eyes on the screen.
Coach rewinds a clip where Weston drifts high and leaves too much space underneath him. Their winger slips through, takes the pass, and gets a shot off before our defense can collapse.
“Cooper,” Coach says.
Weston sits up. “In my defense, I had a vision.”
Coach looks at him, completely unimpressed. “Was the vision to leave the middle open?”
“Not intentionally.”
Coach stares at him.
Weston clears his throat. “Copy. No more visions.”
The room laughs.
Coach moves on to the breakout. I take notes because notes have structure, and structure gives my hands something useful to do. Coleson sits near the back, arms crossed, saying nothing. He is present in the most technical sense. Too separate from the room. Too comfortable being separate.
I make a note to talk to him tomorrow.
Film ends, and I start to gather my stuff.
The second Coach dismisses us, Weston springs up like sitting for forty-five minutes required extra work. “Can we go to Oakley’s?”
“No,” I say, slipping my backpack over my shoulders.
He turns to Grayson. “Why does he hate joy?”
“He doesn’t hate joy,” Grayson says. “He schedules it quarterly.”
Weston waggles his brows. “Sexy.”
I shoulder my bag. “Both of you are exhausting.”
Weston grins. “That’s team culture.”
Asher walks past us. “I think the word you were looking for is torture.”
The guys split off toward the parking lot, but I head toward the locker room because I left tomorrow’s practice plan in my stall.
That is absolutely the reason.
It’s definitely not because I want two minutes alone to check my phone where no one can watch my face.
That plan is thwarted when Grayson follows me.
“You can go home,” I say.
“I know,” he says, but continues along with me anyway.
The locker room is mostly empty when we walk in. The lights hum overhead. A few stalls are still messy, even though I have asked everyone, repeatedly, to stop treating the room like a landfill.
I move to my stall and pull the practice plan from under my binder. Grayson leans against the stall beside mine and waits.
I wait, too, but he has more patience than me.
I give in first. “What?”
“You’ve checked your phone four times.”
“Stalking me much?” I ask. “I was getting a practice plan, then I will reply to my texts. Not sure why you’re so concerned.”
I leave before he can say anything else.
Instead of heading for the apartment, I hit the library, which is way too crowded, so I end up going home.
I set my keys in the bowl and adjust them until they sit flat. I take off my shoes and line them beside the door. I put my bag on the chair, then move it to the floor because the strap hangs wrong over the side.
My phone stays inside it.
I make dinner I don’t want, which consists of chicken, rice, and vegetables. I eat it quickly, then wash the pan, dry it, and put it away.
Even when I’m finished, I don’t pull out my phone, opting for my laptop to work on homework instead.
At 7:14, Harlow sends me a text. I only know because my laptop is open, and her message comes through on my screen.
Harlow: Did you answer her?
I stare at it. Then type back, careful not to touch Wren’s message thread or the hockey group chat that never stops going off.
Kai: answer who?
Her reply comes fast.
Harlow: As if you don’t already know who I am talking about.
I close the message window.
It dings again, and I close my laptop.
I sit at the kitchen table with my notebook and open my Business Ethics quiz. Question one asks about responsibility to stakeholders, because apparently the universe has decided to be heavy-handed.
I answer the first question.
Then the second.
By the third, I realize I have reread the same sentence five times and still don’t know what it says.
I need to move. I need to…do something.
Getting up, I clean the counter even though it’s already clean. I wipe the sink. I take the trash out, even though the bag is maybe half full.
At 8:03, Grayson comes home.
He stops in the doorway, looks at me, then looks at the sink I’m wiping for the second time. “Still haven’t replied to her or you waiting for another text?”
I scrub with more force. “Haven’t replied.”
He nods in understanding, heading down the hall to his room.
I hear his shower turn on, and give up on making the already spotless counter any more spotless.
I grab a cup of water and pick up my bag off the floor before walking to my room.
I close the door behind me, fish out my phone, and plop onto my bed.
Unlocking my screen, it’s still just the one message from Wren mixed in with dozens of other notifications.
Just the one message.
I could answer now. I should answer now. I know that.
Knowing does not make my thumb move, because if I answer, the conversation starts. If the conversation starts, I have to know what she needs. If I know what she needs, I know I’ll want to fix it. And if I want to fix it, I’ll have to remember I don’t have the right.
That is the part I don’t know how to handle.
What am I allowed to be to her now?