Page 121 of The Equation of Us
“You’re staring,” she whispers, eyes forward, a small smile playing at her lips.
“Hard not to,” I murmur back.
She’s different tonight—more confident, more relaxed. The Nora from three months ago would have been analyzing the room, calculating social dynamics, anxious about being my official date at such a public team function. This Nora rests her hand on my thigh under the table, casual, claiming.
I like this version even more than I thought possible.
Gavin sits across from us, smirking whenever he catches my eye. He’s accepted my relationship with Nora with surprising enthusiasm, though his constant knowing looks are getting old.
“Is Adams giving a speech?” Nora asks, nodding toward our defenseman who’s fidgeting nervously at the head table.
“All the graduating seniors do,” I explain. “Short ones, thankfully.”
“Including you?”
I nod, unexpectedly aware of the folded paper in my pocket. The speech I’ve rehearsed a dozen times but still doesn’t feel right.
“You’ll be great,” she says, reading my thoughts with that uncanny perception that never fails to surprise me.
My response is cut short as the banquet hall doors open, admitting a latecomer. Henry Walsh—our star goalie, brilliant and erratic in equal measure—slides into the room with practiced nonchalance that doesn’t quite hide his dishevelment.
“Walsh is cutting it close,” Gavin mutters, checking his watch. “Coach is going to have his ass.”
Henry spots our table and makes his way over, his suit expensive but rumpled, as if he slept in it. Knowing Henry, he probably did.
“Carter. Matthews.” He nods to us, then turns his attention to Nora. “The tutor, right?”
“Nora,” she reminds him, taking his hand briefly. “I’ve seen you play. Impressive reflexes.”
“All natural talent,” Henry says with a wink. “These guys have to work at it. I just show up.”
It’s a familiar line, part of the carefree persona he’s cultivated. But I’ve roomed with him on road trips. I’ve seen him study game film, the obsessive study of opposing teams’ shooting patterns, the 5 AM solo practices he thinks no one knows about.
“If by ‘show up’ you mean ‘barely make it to the banquet,’ then sure,” Gavin says, though there’s no real heat in it. Everyone has a soft spot for Henry, despite his chaos.
“Had a situation to handle,” Henry explains vaguely, dropping into the empty chair beside Gavin.
“What kind of situation requires a flask in your jacket pocket?” I ask, noticing the telltale bulge.
Henry grins, unrepentant. “The Dean of Students kind.” He leans forward, lowering his voice. “Apparently, the administration frowns upon using the biochemistry lab to calculate the optimal alcohol content for maximum intoxication while minimizing hangover effects.”
“You didn’t,” Nora says, eyes widening.
“Purely theoretical research,” Henry assures her, though his smirk suggests otherwise. “Unfortunately, someone from the journalism department got wind of it. Been dealing with her questions all afternoon.”
Then, with a sudden intensity that seems out of character, he turns to Nora. “You’re in neuroscience, right? Tell me something—why would someone who supposedly hates everything I stand for keep finding reasons to be wherever I am?”
The question catches Nora off guard. “I’m not sure that’s a neuroscience question.”
“Sure it is. It’s about contradictory behavior. Cognitive dissonance.” Henry leans forward, suddenly serious.
“Becca?” I ask.
Henry nods. “She follows me around campus telling me I’m everything wrong with college athletics, privilege, and male entitlement. But then she shows up at every game, every party, standing in the corner watching me with this look like…”
He trails off, seeming to realize he’s said more than intended. The vulnerability vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by his usual easy smile.
Nora’s eyes meet mine, a silent question passing between us. I give a slight shrug. That’s Henry—charming, frustrating, and occasionally showing depths that make you wonder what’s really going on behind the carefully crafted facade.
