[Emily’s POV]

Practice ends with my legs feeling like someone replaced the muscles with overcooked pasta.

It’s the good kind of exhaustion that means I worked hard enough to temporarily forget about closet-related crises and roommates who smell like expensive shampoo and unresolved tension.

The locker room is emptying when Maddie passes me. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down, just tosses words over her shoulder like grenades disguised as small talk.

“I’ll be at Derek’s tonight. So if you want to invite Chris over, you’ve got a few hours.”

She pauses at her locker, pulling out her bag with practiced efficiency.

“Just stay on your side and clean up after. I’d rather not find evidence of whatever tragic activities you’re planning.”

The teasing stings more than it should. Like a paper cut that keeps catching on fabric.

I don’t respond because responding would require acknowledging that her words landed. And I refuse to give her that satisfaction.

Maddie leaves without waiting for a reaction, because she knows silence is louder than anything I could say. The door swings shut behind her, and I’m left standing there like someone forgot to tell me the scene ended.

Outside, the October air carries that specific chill that makes you question every decision that led to living somewhere with actual seasons.

I’m halfway to the dorm when Chris falls into step beside me, appearing from wherever hockey players materialize from when they want to seem casual.

“Hey! Great practice today.” He’s got that golden retriever energy again, all enthusiasm and uncomplicated friendliness. “You landed that combination spin really cleanly. The one where you do the thing with your arms?”

“Very technical description. You should consider sports commentary as a backup career.” I allow myself a small smile. He’s trying, and trying deserves acknowledgment. “Thanks though. It’s coming together.”

We walk in comfortable silence for half a block. The campus is quiet at this hour, most students either studying or making poor decisions at the dining hall. Chris kicks a pebble along the sidewalk like a fidgety child.

“So, the invitational was intense. You were incredible, obviously, but the whole team dynamic thing…” He trails off, fishing for something. “Must be weird, competing against people you live with. Train with. Shower near.”

“It’s fine.” The lie tastes familiar. “We all want to win. That’s normal. Professional. Expected behavior for competitive athletes.”

“And Maddie?” He glances at me sideways. “You two seem… complicated. Like there’s a whole history neither of you is talking about.”

“We manage.” Two words that contain multitudes. Years of friendship, years of silence, weeks of tension that keeps shifting into something I can’t name. “Roommate stuff. It’s not a big deal.”

Chris nods, accepting this non-answer with the grace of someone who knows when not to push. We reach my building, and he slows, clearly building toward something.

His hands find his pockets like they’re seeking refuge.

“Emily, I…” He stops, starts again. “I really like spending time with you. You’re funny and talented and you don’t pretend to be interested in things you’re not, which is refreshing in ways I can’t adequately articulate.”

“That’s a lot of compliments for a Tuesday evening.”

“Wednesday, actually. But yes.” He laughs nervously. “I guess I’m saying I’d like to get to know you better. If that’s something you’re open to.”

He leaning in slowly, giving me time to retreat, to deflect, to manufacture an excuse. The kiss is gentle when it lands, unhurried. His lips are warm and his hand finds my elbow with careful pressure.

It’s exactly the kind of kiss that should mean something.

I don’t pull away. But I don’t lean in either. I just exist in the space between rejection and acceptance, waiting for my body to tell me what to feel. Chris pulls back, searching my face for something I can’t give him.

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