Page 102 of The Equation of Us
Dean
The final buzzer echoes through the arena, signaling the end of more than just the game.
Our season is over.
We won tonight—4-2 against Northeastern—but it’s a hollow victory. Two points shy of making playoffs. So close it almost hurts more than being completely outclassed would have.
I stay on the ice for an extra minute after the team handshakes, taking it in. The smell of the rink. The scrape of blades on ice. The weight of my gear. Memorizing it all, knowing I won’t feel this again—not like this anyway. Sure, maybe I’ll play recreationally in a beer league next season, but my college hockey days are done.
“Carter!” Coach calls from the bench. “Good game, son. Solid performance.”
I nod, accepting the compliment without fully processing it. Four goals tonight, two of them mine. Should feel like a win. Like something to celebrate.
It doesn’t.
Nothing has, not for eight days. Not since Nora walked out of my apartment and out of my life.
In the locker room, the mood is mixed—disappointment over missing playoffs battling with relief at ending the season on a high note. Gavin passes around beers he snuck in, a tradition for the last game.
He toasts, raising his can. “Good job, men.”
Everyone drinks. I go through the motions, the bitter liquid warming my throat but doing nothing for the cold that’s settled in my chest.
“Local bar’s expecting us,” Henry announces, fresh from the shower. “First round’s on me. Last hurrah before we head back to campus tomorrow.”
There are cheers, guys throwing towels, the usual locker room chaos. I focus on changing, on the simple mechanics of buttons and zippers and laces. Basic tasks to avoid thinking about anything else.
“You coming?” Gavin asks, quiet enough that only I can hear.
I consider saying no. The thought of putting on a social face, of pretending everything’s fine, feels impossible.
“Yeah,” I say instead. “For a bit.”
Gavin nods, clapping me on the shoulder. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask the questions I can see in his eyes. He just offers silent support.
It’s the only thing keeping me upright these days.
The bar is exactly what you’d expect near a college hockey arena—sticky floors, pool tables in the back, neon beer signs casting blue and red shadows over everything. The kind of place that doesn’t look too closely at IDs as long as you’re not causing trouble.
I’m on my second beer, barely participating in the conversation flowing around me. The guys are loud, relieving tension from the season, telling stories that grow more exaggerated with each round.
“Who knew Carter was hiding that shot all season?” Henry says, gesturing toward me with his glass. “Two goals tonight! Where was that against Princeton?”
“Saving it,” I mutter, barely looking up.
“Well, you saved us tonight,” Adams adds. “Fucking beautiful top-shelf in the third period.”
I nod, accepting the praise because it’s easier than deflecting it. My phone sits on the table beside my beer, screen dark. No messages. No missed calls. Not that I expected any.
Nora hasn’t contacted me since that night. Not even to tell me what happened at her misconduct hearing.
I’ve heard rumors, though. That she was removed from the tutoring program but kept her research position. That the Archer nomination is still under review. That she’s been spending every waking hour in Wexler’s lab, as if she could bury herself in work deep enough to disappear.
“Hey there, hockey star.”
A female voice pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to find a pretty blonde standing beside our table, her smile wide and confident. She’s wearing a Northeastern sweatshirt—one of the home fans—but her expression is friendly rather than antagonistic.
“Can I buy you a drink to celebrate your win?” she asks.
