Chapter Twenty-Four Bryden （Mountain）
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
brYDEN (MOUNTAIN)
I’ve been up for the last hour but haven’t moved. The blinds are cracked just enough to let the gray light bleed through. It paints thin bars across the ceiling, broken up by the slow sweep of shadows from swaying branches. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, but I don’t reach for it right away.
I should be up. Mondays are light for me with no classes scheduled, so I generally take that time getting in more practice. By now, I’d already be dressed, taped, and halfway through drills before the rest of the campus opens their eyes. But not today.
Today, I’m trying something new.
Resting… or having a slow morning, as the girls call it.
It’s a rarity for me, or a miracle depending on who you ask.
My mother would say “about time.” Alex and Kane would think I’d been abducted by aliens.
And that’s exactly why I haven’t gone into the kitchen to make my morning protein shake.
They’ll never let it go, making a bigger deal out of it than it is.
You don’t become the best by lying around. No, you do that with discipline and routine.
When I finally sit up, the sheets fall heavily off my chest. I rub a hand over my face and reach for the phone. There’re several notifications—a string from the team chat, one from the group chat I share with Alex and Kane, spam texts, and an email. The most recent of them is a text from Kai.
Lil Bro: Game Request. Basketball.
My lips twitch. Not a smile, not really, more like muscle memory than anything else.
Bryden: Good morning to you too, lil bro.
Another buzz hits before I can even lock the screen.
Lil Bro: First to 20. Loser owes Steambucks.
This kid wakes up like he’s been shot out of a cannon after downing a gallon of energy drinks.
And of course, the prize is only something he would want, but I know he looks forward to these games.
It’s how we stay connected with me being away at college.
The reservation isn’t too far away, but it was much easier for me to move in here with the boys instead of commuting in every day.
And much cheaper than room and board on campus.
Bryden: You’re going down.
Lil Bro: In your dreams, big head.
What does that even mean? I smirk.
Lil Bro:
Wow. At least that one, I get. He’s GOATed.
I tap the link, and the game loads. It’s our favorite.
You get thirty seconds to get as many shots as possible.
I swipe the screen, sinking the first shot.
Then four. Then twelve. And with ten seconds left on the clock, I move at a snail’s pace, making only one in that time. And then the round is over.
A minute later, Kai texts again.
Lil Bro: You can’t see me.
Lil Bro: (Breakdancing gif)
He claimed twenty shots to my seventeen.
Bryden: Dang. You got me.
Lil Bro:
I stare at the screen for a second, lips twitching again. The dancing gif is still looping at the top of the thread. I click on the pay icon beneath the message thread, and key in twenty-five with no hesitation and send it. The transaction sends, the total staring back at me boldly.
I can already see his reaction. And it’s not lost on me that he’ll probably blow through this before I set my phone down. No reply ever comes, but I don’t expect it to. I toss the device on the pillow next to me and grab my laptop from the spot beneath it.
There’re a few weeks before nationals roll around, and since I’m not doing anything else, I decide to review the opposing team’s game footage.
We’ve played Westover before and they were easy wins, but you can never be too careful.
They’re going to pull out their best stops to take nationals home, so I want to be prepared.
If there’s a weakness, I need to know it. A strength, I need to be ready for it.
My phone rings again, and I turn my gaze to read it. I set the computer across my lap and reach for it.
Collins: You’re not resting, are you?
My lip twitches again as I sit back against the headboard.
Bryden: Actually, I’m still in bed.
The dots appear right away.
Collins:
I huff. It’s not a laugh, not quite, but it’s the closest I’ve come in months.
I gloss over our previous conversation, the thread stretching longer than I remember. We’ve texted pretty regularly since that first meeting in the library, and slowly it’s becoming our thing. Usually the conversations are clinical, task-oriented, and focus entirely on the physics project.
But every so often, something normal slips in—something personal.
Not nearly as personal as that first thread about her stepfather.
They’re more lighthearted, friendlier. I discarded the original conversation as I promised, but everything else, I’ve kept.
And somewhere between winning finals, graphs, and formula theories, the banter started.
Or more like teasing. The other day for example.
Collins: Do you ever smile? Like, ever?
Bryden: Not really. Never felt the need to.
Collins: I’m pretty sure there’s a study that says people who don’t smile are serial killers.
Bryden: Really? Where are these studies?
Collins: The internet.
Bryden: Hm.
Collins: See. I can feel the lack of smiling through the text.
Collins: I bet you don’t even know how to rest. Probably have a whole routine you’re a stickler for.
Bryden: What’s wrong with routine?
Bryden: And I can rest.
Collins: Prove it. When don’t you have class?
Bryden: Monday.
Collins: Sleep in. Take a slow morning.
Bryden: A slow morning?
Collins: I bet you won’t, but since you said that you know rest, I dare you to.
Bryden: $5 says you’re wrong.
Collins: Bet. But I’ll need proof. Send a pic or it didn’t happen.
I shake my head, her next response bringing me back to the present.
Collins: You know. I didn’t think you had it in you. Guess you gotta pay up.
I adjust myself in bed, position the laptop so that the screen is in the shot, then run a hand over my chest, lift my phone, and snap the photo before I can second-guess it. It’s me, still in bed, game footage paused in the background, light barely filtering in through the blinds.
I send it and wait.
Her reply is instant.
Collins: The Mountain is still in bed, and shirtless no less. I guess I’ve been bested.
My lips pull again, and this time I don’t try to stop it. Even if I don’t realize it until after it happens.
Collins: Though I’m inclined to say it doesn’t count since you’re reviewing Westover footage. That’s technically working.
Bryden: I disagree. I’d say it’s closer to a study session. And I’m impressed that you knew who was on the screen.
Collins: It’s kind of hard not to when you guys have damn near drilled all things hockey into my brain.
Collins: I even dream about blade measurements now.
Collins:
I smile harder. Sam’s been working with us for over a month now and I can’t say that I’m surprised at all.
She’s smart, probably too smart. And the way her brain works, how she’s always thinking ahead, is intriguing.
She’s disciplined, taking everything she does seriously.
We’re alike in that way, eyes on the prize and not letting up until we achieve it.
I sense that about her, just from watching her master her tasks as our equipment manager.
Collins: Still on for the supply run for our project? I just finished at the library with Gracie, and I could use the distraction.
Instantly, I’m curious.
Bryden: Yeah. I’ll drive.
She sends back a thumbs-up emoji, then a meme of a little boy resting his chin on his palm while tapping his other hand on the table—waiting. It’s one of those black-and-white shots from an old-timey show. I don’t laugh out loud, but my mouth pulls at the corners.
I send one back, the one of Forrest Gump running. Sam hearts it, and I find myself sitting there with my hand on my chest before climbing out of bed, quickly brushing my teeth, and then getting dressed.
The boys are gone now. I heard their cars pull out of the graveled drive just a few minutes ago.
Which is good because that means I get to avoid explaining why I’m in civilian clothes and not my practice gear or toting my backpack.
I also wouldn’t even begin to know how to explain that I’m going to pick up the girl they both hate.
It’s simple enough. We’re physics partners, and I have no choice.
Only that no longer feels entirely true. I’ve started to look forward to our messages, to seeing her at practice. There’s still so much I don’t know about her, but the more time we spend together, the more I realize how refreshing she is.
Sam couldn’t care less about status, about the game, or about us. She does her time and moves on.
I like that about her.
By the time we pull away from the school, she’s already scrolling through a Pinterest board on her phone. I know because every time she adds something, I get an alert from the app she made me download.
I smile inwardly, appreciating how thorough she is. It’s funny really. She teases me about being so anal, so particular about things, but doesn’t even realize she’s the same way.
It’s so subtle that if you aren’t paying attention, you’ll miss it.
The Pinterest board, notebook full of ideas, the iCloud photo album she shared with me the other day, even down to the process she’s created for the team. Checking everything four times before calling it done, memorizing all of our preferences and setting up a system to keep it all organized.
I keep my eyes on the road, not because I have to, but because it’s better than staring too long.
“I think we should hit up the art supply store first. We should be able to get most of what we need there,” Sam says while still scrolling on her phone.
I brave a quick glance, letting my eyes fall over her face, lingering a little longer than intended on her mouth.
“Sounds good,” I add, forcing myself to look forward again, but not before reaching over and turning on the radio.