Page 55 of The Equation of Us
I should be celebrating with them. Instead, I’m methodically packing my gear, my mind already miles away.
“Earth to Carter!” Gavin appears beside me, still flushed from the game, hair damp from his shower. “You planning to join the living anytime soon?”
“Just tired,” I say, zipping my bag closed.
“Bullshit.” He lowers his voice, leaning closer so only I can hear. “This is about Nora, isn’t it?”
My head snaps up. “What are you talking about?”
Gavin rolls his eyes. “Dude. I saw your face when Evans had his hands all over her at the party. You looked ready to remove his fingers one by one.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the surge of anger at the memory of Kyle’s hand on Nora’s lower back.
“Sure you don’t.” He grins, clearly not buying it. “That’s why you’ve been checking your phone every five minutes since the final buzzer. And why you nearly took Johnson’s head off when he mentioned Evans earlier.”
I hadn’t realized I was being so obvious. “Evans is an ass.”
“No argument there.” Gavin shoulders his own bag. “But your reaction wasn’t about Evans. It was about who he was touching.”
I don’t respond, which is confirmation enough for Gavin. He sighs dramatically.
“Look, I don’t care if you’re hooking up with your hot tutor. I’m just saying, the guys are heading to that bar near campus. Prime opportunity to blow off some steam. Plenty of puck bunnies already texting me about meeting up.”
“I’ll pass,” I say, pocketing my phone.
“Your loss.” He claps my shoulder. “But Dean? If this thing with Shaw is serious enough to keep you from celebrating a win like this, maybe it’s not just hooking up.”
I watch him walk away, joining the rowdy group heading for the door, trying to ignore the uncomfortable truth in his words.
The hotel room is quiet after the chaos of the locker room. My roommate Asher went out with the team, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the muted sound of traffic sixteen floors below.
I should be reviewing game film. Or working on my prosthetics design. Or sleeping.
Instead, I’m scrolling through Nora’s Instagram.
It’s not much—she rarely posts, and when she does, it’s mostly academic stuff. Conference photos. Library stacks. The occasional coffee shop study setup. Nothing personal or revealing.
But there’s one post from last spring that I keep coming back to. Nora on a hiking trail somewhere, hair pulled back inher usual practical ponytail, a rare smile lighting up her face as she stands on a rocky overlook. She’s wearing hiking boots and a faded t-shirt with the periodic table on it, looking completely different from the controlled, professional version I usually see.
The caption reads:Annual reminder that there’s a world outside the library. Back to the books tomorrow.
I like this version of her. The one who climbs mountains for fun but still wears a science shirt while doing it. The one with mud on her boots and a genuine smile. The one who doesn’t overthink everything.
I want to text her, ask about the hike, where it was, if she goes often. But that would mean admitting I’ve been looking at her Instagram from a year ago. And it would mean breaking another rule.
No texting unless it’s about hooking up.
So I set my phone aside and try to focus on the game notes Coach sent us to review. But my mind keeps circling back to Nora. To the party. To Kyle Evans with his hand on her back, leaning too close, smiling too wide.
To the text I sent her.
We need to talk when I get back Sunday night. My place. 9 PM.
It wasn’t a question or a suggestion. It was a command. And I’m not sure if I had any right to issue it.
I’m not sure of anything anymore, except that I can’t wait to see her tomorrow.
Sunday drags. The bus ride back to campus feels interminable, every mile stretching longer than the last. We arrive mid-afternoon, and I head straight to my apartment, ignoring Gavin’s invitation to grab food with the team.
