Practice ends with my muscles filing formal complaints through biological channels I didn’t know existed. Chris materializes beside me like a friendly ghost who’s discovered protein shakes. His hair sticks up at angles that suggest his head had an argument with gravity and compromised on chaos.

“Dinner?” he asks, bouncing slightly like punctuation made corporeal. “The dining hall allegedly has food tonight. I can’t verify if it’s edible, but it definitely exists in three dimensions.”

“Sure,” I agree, because uncomplicated friendship feels like finding a twenty-dollar bill in pants you forgot you owned. “My standards for nutrition died somewhere around midterms anyway.”

The dining hall smells like institutional cooking and broken dreams marinated in mystery sauce. We claim a table near the window where we can watch students hurry past like extras in their own life stories. Chris loads his tray with enthusiasm that suggests he’s never been personally victimized by cafeteria meatloaf.

“So Descartes walks into a bar,” he says, stabbing something that might be pasta or might be an art installation about suffering. “The bartender asks if he wants a drink. He says ‘I think not’ and disappears. Philosophy humor is very niche but I’m committed to spreading it like an intellectual disease.”

I laugh because it’s genuinely funny in the way things become funny when your brain is tired enough to accept anything. “Your dedication to terrible jokes is almost admirable. Like watching someone juggle flaming batons made of cheese.”

“Speaking of cheese metaphors, this mac and cheese looks like it’s having an existential crisis.” He pokes it experimentally. “Also, completely unrelated, but I’m seeing someone from my ethics seminar. Her name’s Patricia and she thinks my jokes are crimes against comedy. It’s very romantic in a masochistic way.”

Relief floods through me like water through a colander with commitment issues. “That’s great, Chris. Does she also tolerate your hockey stories that somehow involve ancient Greek philosophy?”

“She actively encourages them, which suggests she might be more disturbed than me.” He grins, then his expression shifts like weather systems colliding. “Actually, speaking of disturbing, the mean girls have been extra vicious to you lately. Like, the entire hockey team has noticed, and we barely notice when someone’s literally bleeding on the ice.”

I shrug with practiced nonchalance. “It’s fine. Their harassment is very amateur hour. I’ve dealt with worse at regional competitions where twelve-year-olds have better psychological warfare tactics.”

“Emily, I’m serious.” His voice drops to frequencies that suggest actual concern. “Jenna’s got that look like a shark that’s discovered blood comes in different flavors. If things escalate beyond passive-aggressive equipment sabotage, you need to tell someone with actual authority.”

“Noted and filed under ‘things I’ll consider when hell freezes over and starts selling season passes.'” I spear a vegetable that might have been broccoli in a past life.

“I mean it,” he insists, leaning forward. “Nobody deserves their blade guards mysteriously loosening or their water bottles migrating to different zip codes. That’s beyond competitive rivalry. That’s targeted campaigns with strategic planning.”

The conversation drifts to safer topics like whether their goalie has developed an allergy to actually guarding goals. By the time we part ways, my head feels clearer like someone opened windows in a room I didn’t know was stuffy.

The dorm room glows with Maddie’s desk lamp creating shadows that look like abstract art about anxiety. She’s at her desk pretending calculus makes sense, but her shoulders suggest she’s been waiting.

“Where were you?” Her voice aims for casual but lands somewhere near interrogation.

“Having dinner with Chris at the dining hall where food goes to question its purpose.” I set my bag down, noticing how she hasn’t looked up from her textbook.

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