prospect and refuge

“Hey, Luke: look man, I am so sorry for my friend over here,” cuts Charles, yanking you back with one hand around your elbow and the other covering your mouth, still halfway through a string of insults, “but we don’t get onto the field now, there won’t be a drum major this year.” 

Castellan rolls his eyes. Glares at you for a second longer—fucking obsessed—before wincing in apology. “Sorry, Beck.” 

The gall to sound fucking polite. Your face wrinkles, despite the warning look Charles gives you as Castellan peels away and gets lost in the rows of jacked-up, parent-insured cars. 

“Great going, major. The best start to senior year, cussing out our star wide receiver,” Charles mumbles. You huff and ease your foot onto the gas. 

—

Opinion | VAPA fights for fair funds 

Heralds Vol. 77, Issue 1  By Michael Yew 

Marching season has officially kicked off, which means band members have to wrestle on a passed-down uniform with too-short sleeves while the football team gets brand new jerseys and equipment. 

Zeus City’s VAPA groups have won more championships than the football team ever has. Last September, marching band took sweepstakes in nearly every round, placing first in regionals and fourth in state. Cheer, show choir and color guard also tend to take competitions by storm, establishing our school’s VAPA dominance. 

However, their efforts aren’t as recognized as the football team’s, which has been middling around the lowest state division for over a decade. Meanwhile, performing arts struggle with the leftovers of the football team’s funding. 

“It’s really unfair and discouraging,” freshman percussionist Percy Jackson said. “It’s my first year marching and I had to duct tape my broken snare harness because we don’t have money for new ones. My recycled uniform smells like [sic] and these ballers get custom practice jerseys—it’s totally wrong.” 

Jackson’s sentiment is shared widely among the student body associated with VAPA. Students such as color guard junior Miranda Gardener feel that their passions are put aside for a sport that contributes close to nothing to the school community. 

“Being in color guard is stressful, especially because a lot of us take hard classes, too,” said Gardener. “I love performing, but I’ve honestly thought about not trying out again. We deserve money too, and our football team just isn’t winning enough to warrant such an unequal funding gap.” 

Though the administration office and athletic department have not reached out in response to inquiries, one thing is clear: it’s time for financial equality amongst all student groups. 

—

It’s around that time of year where you could walk out of the classroom and see four people blowing their nose down the hall and one person pretending to use the bathroom but really just Googling the answers to a test. 

Luke Castellan is one of them, wearing thrifted Japanese denim and a stupid sweater that makes him look like some trust fund kid—great. Your nails are tapping absently at the edge of the hall pass, a click against the plastic that echoes hollow in the hall. 

It’s not like you hate Castellan. On a personal basis, you hardly know him, but just the inkling of his presence in the hallways is grounds for the knee-jerk, letterman-despising beliefs instilled by your predecessors in band. 

You do know that he accidentally pushed you off the slide in third grade; he cracks the occasional joke in class, most of which are always half-unfunny; and he’s a jock with intelligence, making it a lot harder to shit on him because he can clap back for himself and the entire team. 

Oh, and he’s a terribly slow driver. You’re still harboring a little soreness from The Incident—you know, the one from three weeks ago, on the first day of school. 

You made it to the field with the bell snapping at your heels. Didn’t help that Travis Stoll had quipped, “Oh, shit, I just told the freshmen that you actually died last spring. Had a whole eulogy and tribute video.” 

One of the freshmen had sadly nodded with a tissue crumpled in her hand. 

You really regret making that little junior shit your apprentice drum major. 

Castellan hears you coming, back curled in the position he’s taken over the water fountain. He gives you a cursory glance, goes back to drinking, and then looks at you again. You walk faster. 

With the double-take, he stands upright, dabbing the droplets on his mouth with the cuff of his ridiculous sweater. 

“Hey,” he says right as you cross tangent paths. He leans against the wall, pseudo-casual, hands stuck in the pockets of his jeans. Looks like he’s going to shoot you a snide remark, but then his eyes drift down, and his brows furrow. “I—your pass is a toilet seat?” 

Your face burns, heat licking from your neck to forehead. Your eyes flick to a deflated rubber duck sitting atop the fountain’s porcelain edge, the tail of which is punched out and threaded with a tag that reads HALL PASS. 

“And yours is a bath toy?” 

Red blooms over the high of Castellan’s cheeks, and he snatches the duck off the fountain, hiding it behind his back. 

“Whatever,” he grits, the bath toy making an airy sound in his tightening fingers. A sulky expression overtakes his face. 

You trail your eyes over him, from the downward draw of his brown to the brutal set of his mouth. Nothing gives away what he’s confronting you for, so you take a shot in the dark. 

“Is this about the football article?” 

Castellan’s face shifts slightly—puzzlement to realization to irritation, exhale coming out from his nostrils in a hiss. His jaw feathers. “You… why not, I guess. You’re the opinion editor.” 

“An opinion editor that respects free speech. Hermes thought Malcolm was pretty spot-on, though.” 

You flash a well-meaning smile—well, the one you use to quell the displeasure of your counselor when she asks how you’re faring in the college application process. 

Blinks coming quick, he sucks in a breath and says, “Well, tell Hermes that he doesn’t know what this team means to me.” 

(Did Castellan fail his Economics class? Is he taking out that frustration on a newspaper Hermes has no part in, other than advising and making sure nobody sets the archives on fire?) 

“Do you want that on or off the record?” Your mouth sharpens into something that could be classified as shit-eating. 

Castellan grumbles and pushes off the wall, twisting his body so your shoulders don’t check. He’s really selling the letterman superiority complex. 

He grouses and shakes his head to himself as he stalks down the hallway, muttering about quotes and deadlines. You scoff with your face twisted in confusion, watching his wound-up shoulders shrink in the distance. 

He’s so fucking weird. 

—

FROM: perciusjakcsn

(11:38) hey sarge do u know how to find annabeth (11:39) i need her to explain the crab cycle. preferably before p5

TO: perciusjaksn

(12:34) * Major, not Sarge (12:34) ** Krebs cycle (12:35) This is Annabeth. To paraphrase Khan Academy, the Krebs cycle describes a chain of reactions in the mitochondria to produce energy in living cells through cellular respiration. I won’t go through the details because the reactants and products are not on the test, and neither is the order in which the reactions proceed. If you have any more questions, my username is ‘anniebethc’.

—

Annabeth stabs her spork into her bag of salad, the flimsy plastic warping and crinkling as she draws out another mouthful of lettuce. 

“So,” you start, idly twirling your own spork as you read the message she sent through your phone, “giving hints about the test? That’s academic dishonesty.” 

Her cheek dips, held captive between her teeth. “It’s nothing.” 

You give her a suspicious look. “And when Connor asked you about glucose and you told him to fuck off, that was also nothing?” 

The girl’s look is withering as she works through a chew. You hold up your hands in surrender, letting go of the topic. Kids these days are so defensive. 

Annabeth’s gaze catches something behind you. You follow the line of her sight, tracing it across the cafeteria and landing on Castellan. He’s standing behind Percy in the lunch line, a giggle shaking in his shoulders and grinning wide at something Chris Rodriguez is telling him. 

You whip your head back to see Annabeth’s annoyed expression fall into one with more admiring fuzz and sparkles. 

“What?” she asks, noticing your twisted face. 

“Nothing,” you huff. “But, uh—Castellan? Really?” 

The girl squints, bewildered. “What—no! We’re neighbors, so it’s weird.” 

Neighbors? 

You’re shriller than you expect yourself to be, “We’re halfway through the semester and you’re telling me now that Public Enemy Number One lives next to you?” 

“He’s only Public Enemy Number One to band.” 

Emphatically, “Which you are a flutist of?” 

A lunch tray clatters onto your table. Travis slides onto the bench and is joined by Charles. The Stoll cracks his wrists, the pop of air loud even over the chatter of the shelter. 

Charles peels open his school lunch, cringing at the clumpy mac salad sitting in the bowl. He looks over at your food, eyes tracing the outline of the plastic cup and watching the steam escape over the lip. 

“Where the hell did you get instant noodles from?” blurts Travis. You tap a half-empty thermos in the pocket of your backpack. 

“Ask Clarisse nicely and her dad’ll get it from the teacher’s lounge.” 

Travis gives you a narrow look. It would’ve been almost threatening if his eyes weren’t occasionally glancing at your noodles. 

“How nicely?” 

“Six dollars.” 

He turns to Charles with irises overtaken by pupils, all glimmering and expectant—a poor attempt to make puppy eyes at your fellow drum major, because everyone knows how Travis can be. Still, Charles gives in with a sigh, fingers fishing a twenty out of his backpack. 

“Ah,” he warns right as Travis reaches for the money. “Two noodles, one for each of us. And then you’ll go to the vending machine for Cheetos and a Sprite. No more, no less.” 

Travis nods eagerly, snatching the bill and running off. You watch his back as he leaves; he nearly topples Castellan in his excited haste. 

“Six dollars is such a scam.” Annabeth's voice brings you back to the current situation. She’s got her brows quirked as Charles shuts the lid to his mac salad. 

“It’s better than this.” He holds up a bag of damp baby carrots and cringes. It is at this moment that you know what your next article will be about. 

—

[IMAGE: A snapshot of Percy Jackson from an up-down angle with the zoom set to 0.5x. The flash is on, bathing his horrified expression in harsh light. The background is dark, save for a group of teens behind the curve of his cheek in orange centaur shirts and jeans in various states of distress.] 

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perciusjakcsn SARGE WE MISS U BECKYS COOKING US 😨 | 📸 @.tysunposeidun 

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majmajmaj u’ll be cooked xtra crispy if i get there n find u still cant count rests 

↳ perciusjakcsn PLZ SARGE PLZ COME BACK FRM YBK  ↳ majmajmaj drum MAJOR peter 🖕🖕🖕  ↳ perciusjakcsn JUSTICE 4 PERCY 😞💔 

groovewood did u srsly just replace me as cameraman DUDE 😭 

beckygorf see major is merciful but yall always take her for granted till I host rehearsal.... 

—

The classroom is cold-hued, almost sterile under the cheap incandescent lights. 

Everything is blueish, backlit by the evening as it rolls over the horizon. You sigh when the ligaments in your neck rub just right to pop the bubbles between your bones. The door creaks—a tall figure, sticky with shadows, steps in right before you try to crack your knuckles. 

You almost don’t recognize him in that soft-looking cardigan—it's an upgrade from his trust-fund crew neck— and the pair of black frames slipping down the bridge of his nose. Castellan settles into the chair at the opposite ledge of the desk, the legs straining against the floor in an ear-itching scrape when he scoots closer. 

“Hey there,” he says, borderline breathless, to which he earns a narrow look from you. He gives you a thin grin in return as he fumbles with his laptop; you catch a deep etch to his smile lines at the corners of his mouth before they disappear. “So, I’m just going to ask you a few questions about stuff like band, Heralds, school life.” 

“This feels like an interrogation,” you tell him, running your thumb over your knuckles as you sweep your eyes around the empty room, “instead of a profile. Sure you aren’t trying to get me arrested? I have the right to remain silent.” 

“No, it's only a yearbook thing. Purely professional, I swear.” A small laugh skips out of him, the sound of it rattling behind his ribs. It sends something spiraling down your stomach, like a marble run made with your intestines. 

“So…” 

“About last week, in the hallway” —Castellan interrupts; he looks rather guilt-stricken, twisting his mouth and avoiding your eyes— “I was actually going to ask you for an interview, but I kinda got caught up in...” 

You swallow and wet your lips, falling quiet with an equal amount of guilt washing over you. “I know. I thought you were talking about the article until your dad talked to me.” 

Frankly, you can’t quite put your finger on how they’re related. Your journalism advisor is nothing like his son, in personality and appearance. Just the thought of them sharing the same genes makes you frown. 

Castellan pauses, working his tongue into the pocket of his cheek. “So, you know.” 

“Yeah,” you scoff, with some amusement. “Pretty fucking weird that your dad is Hermes.” 

“Yeah, I don’t really like asking him for favors, but—” 

“Sources.” 

“—they’re hard to come by,” he finishes, eyes flickering to yours. Castellan offers a wry, half-humored smile. “But anyways, it’s complicated, my dad and I.” 

He slides his phone between the two of you, the glossy screen emblazoned with a red recording button waiting to be pressed. Castellan sweeps out his hand, palm up, in offering. 

“I guess…it’s my bad for the parking lot thing. But everything’s complicated, right?” You click the button, the first waves of sound appearing on the pixels in zigzags. 

“What is your name and your extracurriculars?” Castellan asks, even though he should know, because you’ve gone to the same school for years. You tell him, and he tests it in his mouth, feeling the weight of it around his tongue like it’s the first time he’s heard of it. The marble run of your insides starts to roll faster. “Cool. I’m Luke—football, volleyball, and obviously yearbook.” 

“I know.” 

It falls quiet for a moment, the snick of keys pressed into their beds being the only thing filling the silence. “Okay,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “How’s it like being a Heralder? Any notable experiences?” 

You keep your answers short and sweet, leaving little room for misquotes and wrong context. “It’s a nice little community. We print every three weeks, so I have plenty of time to write and format the spreads.” 

“And off the record?” he asks, tucking back the corners of his mouth like he’s trying not to laugh. The little shit-eater, stealing your lines. 

“It’s peachy.” 

He tuts, a snick of the tongue. The laptop he’s typing on is drenched in cold light too, the screen reflecting onto the lenses of his glasses, something blue-gray in the glassiness of them. “And what about band? In Malcolm’s article, which you oversaw, he said VAPA have a hard time balancing their schedules.” 

“Malcolm didn’t write that,” you remind him, a lilt to your words. You sink a little deeper into the chair, bones loosening at the peace and quiet occupying the room. “It was a quote from Miranda Gardener.” 

“But you agreed with her,” Castellan counters. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have kept it in print” 

Conceding, “The actual band period starts at seven-thirty during zero—we use that time to practice field drills—and after school, we all head into the music room for repertoire rehearsal from five to nine.” 

“How do you have time to do homework?” 

“I never said I didn’t have free time during Heralds.” 

He snickers, the sound of it a little hollow with the way he’s fully concentrated on his note taking. “You didn’t. Okay, moving on—favorite snack?” 

“Cup noodles from the teacher’s room.” 

Castellan furrows his eyebrows, tips his head as he tries to puzzle out how the hell you manage to get stuff from the teacher’s room. “Uh, favorite class?” 

“Uh…the lunch period.” There’s some stupid, uncontrollable smile dawning on you, though you thank the universe that it’s thin and within your repertoire of expressions reserved for non-friends. 

He snorts, this time, mouth wrinkling to prevent the audio pollution that would come with a full-blown giggle. “Worst class?” 

You think about it for a moment. “Calc.” 

He grins with his eyes shaping into crescents. Of course he’d agree. He’s in your period, and you saw Dr. Medes pass back Castellan’s differentiation test with a fat, red 36/50 burned onto the paper. “First choice of college?” 

“I’ll let you know once March comes.” 

Castellan shakes his head, chuckling. He has almost imperceptible crow’s feet.  

You wait for a minute, watching his screen go by through the surface of his glasses. Castellan’s eyelashes aren’t long, but they’re thick and dark. His eyes are a mid-toned brown, just shade muddier than hazel. Like fresh-turned dirt. Or milk chocolate brownies. Or— 

He hasn’t asked anything in a while. You cough awkwardly. “Anything else?” 

Castellan looks like there are words fighting on his tongue, fingers carding through his messy curls. His lips are blushed, almost a bruise with the way they’re so damn red. You think how Castellan had walked into the classroom breathless. 

You know it’s bad journalism to assume, but you’re going to assume that there’s a girl waiting on him. 

“Never mind, don’t answer that.” You make a show of checking your phone, retinas seared with the sudden brightness of the screen. Percy’s horrific selfie, born from the terrors of rehearsal led by the meticulous Charles Beckendorf, is your escape card. “Beck needs me in the room. Connor could be starting another riot with the saxes. Just...talk to your dad if you need another quote.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, clueless and almost apologetic for supposedly keeping you. He lowers the lid of his laptop with a suggestion of a genuine smile etched over his mouth, “good luck at practice.” 

The eagerness to escape recedes as you reach the door. You turn back for a moment that stretches into what feels like eternity, and for the first time in ZCHS history, a drum major tells a jock: “Good luck at homecoming, too.” 

—

[IMAGE: Luke Castellan in semi-formal dress, set in a dark classroom. The photo looks like it’s been taken on a digital camera, nostalgic and slightly grainy, with the telltale bright spot of a flash blooming at the center. 

He is posed like he is about to stand up from his perch on a desk. His head is turned, showing his sharp side profile. Luke’s face is pensive, one hand in his pocket and the other at rest, fingers laid over his thigh. 

He’s wearing a fitted white button up and a pair of neat, pressed slacks. His tie is black, rumpled, the knot loosened around his neck. Over his shoulders is a slouchy, muted orange cardigan with the equestrian mascot of ZCHS sewn into the breast. There are a pair of computer glasses sliding dangerously down his nose.]

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lukestellans  we never go out of style 📸 @.luvvbeaus 

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luvvbeaus 🔥🔥🔥 

↳ tankadreww men who listen to tay >>  ↳ conmanstole sent you this comment | bye ts so performative 🤣🤣 

anniebethc You knotted your tie wrong. 

↳ lukestellans ask ur dad to help me pls 🙏 

—

You don’t get to write your article about how shitty the school lunch is. Instead, that little bitch of a sports editor, Ellis Wakefield (he’s a pro at defending the football team’s misgivings), managed to make Hermes strongarm you into picking up an assignment on the homecoming game. 

So, now you’re scribbling out lede after mediocre lede onto the reporter’s notebook balanced in your palm, the paper of which scrubs uncomfortably against your cheap gloves. 

But never mind that. You’re supposed to be marching out for the pregame warmups, but… 

“Are we actually incapable” —the sections are in complete disarray; everyone is being jostled around; the noise of nearly a hundred mouths in motion is starting to grasp for an all-time high— “of lining the fuck up?” 

Charles’ wide, orange-fitted frame sidles up next to you, a megaphone in hand. You shove the notebook into your jacket and take the device in silent thanks, switching it on and cringing at the feedback. 

You raise the megaphone to your mouth. “Attention!” 

It’s a mad dash into formation, teens in orange scrambling to their places. Someone yelps when a tuba swings in a wide arc above their head. A flutist trips over a saxophone. Drumline frantically assembles, sliding clumsily into harnesses and setting off at least two cymbal crashes. 

“What a goddamn clown show.” Mr. D, absentee band director, walks up behind you and Charles, scowling at the mess. He takes a swig from the Coke can that’s practically glued to his hand before snatching the megaphone. 

“PETER JOHNSON, YOUR HARNESS IS LOOSE. LEE VASQUEZ—IS AN OBOE A CLARINET? DIDN’T THINK SO. COLE STALIN, IF I HEAR CARELESS WHISPER ONE MORE TIME, I WILL THROTTLE—” 

From the crowd, Connor Stoll’s face twists in pseudo-confusion, hands coming up to pat at his ears and shrugging. A laugh ripples through the ranks. 

Mr. D looks like he’s going to have a stroke with the way his expression seizes, purpling like a raisin. His mouth crumples in on itself like the opening of a drawstring bag, beard bristling as he burns a narrow glare into the sax section. 

You take the megaphone back gingerly, dialing back the volume with a grimace. “Alright, homecoming game, and we’re against our one-sided rivals, Jupiter Prep.” 

The band groans. Mr. D wanders elsewhere. 

You tighten your mouth with equal displeasure. “Yeah, I dunno why they always choose a team we’re definitely going to lose to, either.” 

“For the glory?” one of the French horns suggests. Someone else blows a Donald Duck-esque raspberry; you think it’s Tyson, because he has a weird talent for impressions. 

You shrug—probably. Though it’s not very glorious when you lose to the same guys for the last decade or so. 

With a heavy sigh, you speed through your pregame laundry list, product-disclosure-in-commercials style. “Please do not boo if our team scores a touchdown. Don’t laugh if you hear something demeaning from the opposite stands. And clarinets: it is absolutely unacceptable to be bribed by your section leader and burst into Squidward’s theme mid-fight song.” 

Said section leader, Travis—maybe you’re going to revoke his apprentice drum major status soon—lets out a squawk of indignation, the shriek of it echoing around the side of the field. Charles holds out his hand for the megaphone, which you pass over. 

He clears his throat. “Thank you, major. Uh—Jupe Prep is always going to decimate us sports-wise, but we spank 'em pretty hard in academics and band comp. Please don’t tarnish our reputation as regional champions, I don’t think I can survive that.” 

Short and sweet, he sets down the megaphone and gestures for the band to start marching around the track for warm-ups. You follow the path of the oval, feet tracing the white running lines, dust running over your shoe prints. 

At the far side of the field is a giant inflatable centaur, the breakaway banner held between its feet. It’s a football thing for the players to run out at the beginning of the game. Except, you’re pretty sure that most schools do not run out under the legs of a stupidly expensive, balloon-ified mascot. 

The football team is lazing behind the banner, hiding with the glossy-faced cheerleaders under the shadowed belly of the centaur, though they won’t need to for long. The sun has already begun to sink, slouching closer to the horizon as the floodlights flick on and the stands start to fill with stragglers. 

Luke Castellan catches your eye over a cheerleader's shoulder. You recognize her curvy build and the curl to her honeyed hair, and most of all, the pom-poms in her hands. Charles stiffens from beside you, back going rod-like, chest puffing out. 

Silena Beauregard turns, waving guilelessly like a good cheerleader as the formation passes. Your fellow drum major nearly stumbles, eyes going unbelievably wide. 

“Do you think they’re dating?” Charles hisses, just as half the band gives Castellan a downturned thumb and a lot of deeply unimpressed head shaking when she turns away. 

“Dunno,” you mumble, pumping the baton above your head to tempo. “But…he interviewed me a couple days ago. Looked like he came straight from a make out.” 

Charles makes a sad, defeated little sound, grousing under his breath about god forbidding a band kid having a crush on a cheerleader, and the universe having to plant that slow driving, football playing Castellan into Silena’s life to pitch Charles into eternal misery. 

Someone from the trombones plays a limp womp-womp meant for Castellan, but it’s just a beat off and awkwardly late for the humiliation ritual. 

Charles heaves a rough sigh at the audible reminder of his cursed dedication to Beauregard’s beauty and grace. 

Poor guy. 

—

[VIDEO: A shaky clip from the lit-up bleachers at Zeus City High School’s football field. The camera pans over the heads of a sea of half-asleep marching band teens in garish, orange uniforms, instruments drooping with the nodding of their heads. 

The spectators groan, the commentator remarking that Sherman Yang has missed yet another throw. Someone from the rival side hollers loudly—Zeus City? More like Zeus Shitty!—to which their lavender-hued cheerleaders titter, sending a ripple of amusement echoing through the opposite bleachers swathed in purple. 

A majority of the ZCHS marching band heckle and jeer at that, too. The camera zooms in on the two drum majors standing upfront. You’re shaking your head and thumbing the space between your brows. Charles Beckendorf is avidly gesturing to the tied score.]

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travstole  yikes…. 

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majmajmaj apprentice status officially revoked 

↳ travstole ragebajted much??  ↳ majmajmaj ok graecus scum who was the one who broke the no phone rule? 

conmanstole poor becky d, no one’s listening to him 😢😢 

↳ perciusjakcsn ‘poor becky d’ as if ur not the reason y he has premature wrinkles 🫵🤨 

—

“This is probably the highest score I’ve seen on that board,” comments Charles, fiddling with the hem of his uniform, the seams of which are unraveling. “Another touchdown and we’d actually win our first homecoming game in ten years.” 

“There are twelve seconds left,” you say, glancing at the clock. You’re starting to sound like Annabeth when you say, “We’re tied, on our last down, and haven’t moved. Sherman Yang also can’t throw for shit, so the likelihood of an actual win is so low that—” 

The rest of your words are swallowed by the commentator. 

AND THAT’S CASTELLAN GOING LONG, READY TO RECEIVE YANG’S PLAY—OH GOD, HE CAUGHT IT, HE’S RUNNING TO THE END ZONE AND NOT ONE JUPITER EAGLE CAN CATCH UP—A MIRACLE TOUCHDOWN TO WIN THE GAME! 

You wince at the roar that engulfs your side of the bleachers, parents and students and alumni rising in a tidal wave of celebration. 

The cheerleaders jump and scream, pep flags dancing in the air, pompoms glittering. People are embracing and cheering like they’ve just won the lottery. You even see a grandma shed tears and kiss a toddler she is literally not related to on the cheek. 

FOR A DECADE, THE CENTAURS HAVE STARED AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BARREL. TONIGHT, THEY FLIP THEMSELVES RIGHT. A TRUE HOMECOMING FOR ZEUS CITY HIGH SCHOOL. 

“What the fuck,” you spit, jaw refusing to completely close. Nevertheless, you’re obligated to turn and raise your hands, counting everyone in for the fight song. 

It’s the worst rendition you’ve ever heard. The clarinets stumble on a run, and the trombones are way out of tune. Color guard dances in the stands too, and they’re flubbing their movements because your band is so incredibly off-beat with how their shocked fingers are slipping off the notes. 

But nobody pays attention. They’re all fascinated with Luke Castellan. Star athlete Luke Castellan. Drenched in Gatorade Luke Castellan. Good for him. Fuck him. 

He’s running a victory lap, zipping around the field in his ugly, soaked orange jersey, arms thrust skyward in celebration. You think that the big, taunting 11 painted on his back will haunt you for the rest of your days. 

His pace peters out by the time the song ends and he reaches the stands, giving sweaty, full-bodied hugs to whoever’s closest to him in his conquest. You huff as he strolls along the track you’d marched on only hours before. 

He’s all damp, curls plastered to his forehead and sweat beading over his brow. His breaths come out as icy puffs in the mid-October air. An exhausted blush blooms over his cheeks, eyes glassed over, lips bruised and chest straining for  breaths. 

Castellan points at nothing in particular, angling his finger at the bleachers with a winning grin. A number of girls titter—even color guard, Jesus Christ, they need anti-football reconditioning—and many pull out their phones to snap pictures of him. 

He’s looking straight at you, though. Like he’s some puppy with something to prove, with crinkled eyes and a triumphant energy that makes your insides squirm. The floodlights are blinding, a glimmering sheen refracting off his Gatorade-slick skin. 

This…this is Luke from yearbook. Not the Public Enemy Number One jock, but the guy who apologized for his bad mood and kind of made you laugh during your interview. The Castellan who (you loathe the admission so much that it burns) is...he’s not the worst, and pretty...chill. 

You tip your hat, which should register to most of your bandmates as a simple adjustment to your uniform. Castellan offers a tiny wave that you definitely shouldn’t find a little endearing, and turns away. 

And then, your journalism advisor comes up to Castellan with a dark-haired woman. He hugs his mom, but makes a bitter point of turning his back to Hermes. 

Luke Castellan looks very much like his mother, with the same eye shape and fuller pout. Bony shoulders, defined face, straight and dark brows. He’s got the same arrow-like nose as Hermes, however, and that inky black hair. 

He turns for one last look at the emptying stands. Behind you, your bandmates begin to pack up, carrying their instruments down the bleachers. 

You throw him a bone—or an olive branch—letting the corner of your mouth quirk up, though you doubt he can see it from this far. Luke shrugs with a thin, furtive smile and you lose sight of him as he ducks out into the parking lot. 

Slipping your hand into your jacket, you tug out your reporter’s notebook. You study the Herald’s logo, the scratched-out ‘grafs on shitty school lunch. 

And then below, with fresh, scrawling ink— 

School pride v. clique prejudice: can band, football coexist with rivalry? 

You consider it with a hovering ballpoint and your jaw working. Would it really be so bad to dissect something like this? 

“Major.” Charles bumps your shoulder, beaming so brightly that you’re afraid it’ll hurt. “Sections leaders are getting popcorn chicken from that Taiwanese grandma. You coming?” 

“It’s ten,” you note, following with a staged yawn that billows in the cold air. You flip your notebook shut in a way that’s obviously not casual, but your fellow drum major doesn’t comment. “‘S also your turn to drive, so drop me home first and then catch up with everyone.” 

With an eye roll, he starts pushing you toward the exit gate. As you hop off the bleachers, he says, “Y‘know—surprisingly—I’m actually hoping football does good for once.” 

“Yeah.” You scuff your shoes against the asphalt, a few pebbles skittering away from your path. “And Castellan…not so bad, after all.” 

“Yeah, except for the Silena thing.” 

“O-kay, big guy, I’ll talk to him about that,” you say, with sardonic dryness. 

“Seriously?” 

“You kidding? No!” 

“Luke, you’re so not funny.”

The fear gripping at your heart washes away easily. You’re irritated, since you’d been so excited to show him the tickets, and he’s chosen right now to—to joke with you about something serious. He’s messing with you. He’s kidding.

He shakes his head again, training his eyes firmly on the ground. He won’t look you in the eyes despite how hard you’re trying to get him to. “I’m being serious.” 

You glance around the treeline, on edge suddenly. Luke sometimes teases you about how you always lean closer to him when you’re nervous, but something in the back of your mind stops you from doing it now. 

“Sure,” you huff, taking the envelope from his hands. The tightness of his grip has left crinkles in the paper, and his eyes trace your movements as you stuff it back into your pocket, not in the mood to look at it anymore. You wonder when you should start packing for your flight. “This has gotta be one of your most random jokes.”

He’s breaking up with you. You almost laugh again at the idea, but something in your throat stops you, a lump that you can’t seem to swallow. Luke begged you to stay in bed with him a few hours ago. He’d held your hand on the walk here. It’s a lame excuse for a joke.

He rubs his knuckles into the palm of his opposite hand, his eyes still drifting. Why won’t he look at you? “Killer, I’m not—”

“What did you actually want to tell me?” you cut in. Your heart is racing—in anticipation or curiosity, you’re not sure. Maybe both.

The cicadas start up a relentless chirping that quickly gets on your nerves. It makes you feel hot all of a sudden. You want to go back to your cabin. Or Luke’s, now that the air conditioner there is fixed. You forgot your camp necklace somewhere there and still keep forgetting to go look for it. Maybe he’ll help you search tonight, before it gets too dark out.

Luke opens his mouth to speak, and it feels like a strike across the face.

“I’m sorry.” His voice breaks at the end, turning warbled and so unlike him it makes you shiver. You’d been… scared, earlier. Scared of Luke, your best friend. But as you look at him now, it sounds like he’s scared of himself. “I’m not lying to you, I—I can’t do this. We need to break up.”

The air is muggy enough to worsen your exhaustion, an inescapable stickiness dragging your eyelids in the direction of the ground. Your head is cloudy.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, finally looking back up at you. It stops your heart in your chest. Luke is near crying, sadness clinging to the lines of his eyes. “You know that I— I have always cared about you more than anything. You need to know that. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Luke is serious, you realize.

The pitying expression on his face isn’t going to give way to the gleam of his smile. He isn’t going to pull you under his arm, making fun of how you’d actually believed him, smothering your face with teasing kisses.

Luke is serious, and he’s going to break your heart.

You nearly flinch when he steps closer to you, kicking up a bit of dirt with his sneakers. He slides his thumb into the curl of your fingers and pries them away from your palm.

You’ve been digging your nails into your skin. Hot crescent shapes embed themselves there, and he takes it upon himself to study the marks, turning your wrist over with his shaking hands.

“Please don’t touch me,” you choke out quickly, a reaction that has him stumbling backwards toward the water.

Not when you’re going to leave, you almost say. You can’t get the words out.

Luke’s eyebrows crease as the quivering in his hands gets worse. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

You feel your fingers curl into your palms again, wincing now at the sting. “It’s okay.”

The words are an impulse you can’t control. Nothing about this is okay, but comforting him is second nature.

You want him to hold you, but you aren’t sure if it would make it worse.

The thought is almost dystopian. Luke has been the most consistent form of comfort in your life. Associating his touch with hurt sounds paradoxical.

His entire face crumbles. “I can’t do this to you anymore,” he says, the words coming out rough. “I’m so sorry, killer.”

It’s a trick of the light, but his hair looks a little longer, the way he used to like it when you were kids. The way it’s styled is why he looks younger, but the look on his face is why he looks older beyond his years. He looks tired. Weary. You think he’s been needing more sleep.

“What happened?” You scratch at your arm. “Are you—can you tell me what happened?”

You’re standing about a foot away from him. With how much your chest aches, you would assume that wasn’t the case.

He exhales quickly, and then clears his throat. It sounds gutted. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”

“Luke.”

You think about him at six-years-old, that year when he got really into hockey. You weren’t as into it as him, preferring to watch him skate through the glass, but he refused to play without you. He taught you how to skate himself, amused when you would fall but there to help you up every time.

After you realized that life as a skater was not for you, you elected to play goalie for him instead. Getting pucks shot at you was probably the last way you wanted to spend your free time, but Luke made up for it — he made you hot cocoa after the walk back to your house every single day.

You think about Luke, standing on a chair to reach the microwave, his nose red from the cold. He would let you stir in the cocoa powder and would pour the whipped cream straight into your mouth even when your mom would get upset with him.

You can’t reconcile that version of him with the one standing in front of you right now.

“It’s nothing,” he says, firmer this time. He swipes at his eyes again, and the tears lingering there are gone, like a trick of the light.

You can still feel the imprint of his palms on your spine from a few hours ago. The spot where he likes to press his face into your neck has practically carved a crevice into your skin. 

You know Luke Castellan better than you know yourself.

It’s why you know he’s lying, and it’s why you can’t tell the difference between your own heartbreak and anger. 

The lump in your throat wanes while the heat in your chest rises.

A lifetime of friendship. Years of having no one but each other, years of being in love with each other. And he’s throwing it all away under flimsy excuses and without being able to look you in the eyes. 

Your eyes burn with the sting of frustration. You were going to leave camp together. You were going to spend the rest of your lives together, and Luke won’t even give you a proper reason as to why he’s doing this. 

“If you’re breaking up with me, then at least be honest with me.” The fabric of your shirt sticks insistently to your lower back. Your voice breaks halfway through, and you force out a bitter laugh alongside it. “You’re lying. Why—Why are you lying? It’s me, Luke. It’s just me.”

He turns to face the water, clearing his throat, and if you didn’t know any better, you would’ve thought he was getting choked up about this.

He trips over his words, starting and stopping before he rips the bandaid off with his teeth. “I’m not lying. I don’t want to—I won’t keep you in a relationship where you aren’t loved the way you should be. I can’t do it. You don’t deserve that.”

It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in, but when they do, it feels like a blow to your chest.

He thinks he’s doing what’s right. 

In some sick, convoluted way, Luke thinks he’s protecting you, just like he always has. And he’s trying to protect you from himself.

If he wasn’t actively breaking your heart, it would be almost funny. Luke thinks he doesn’t love you right.

You don’t think anyone could ever love you like he does. Quietly, loudly, silently, when you’re away, when you’re together, when you’re asleep, when you’re not paying attention— Luke Castellan loves you more than anyone else in your life. 

He loves you when he rubs the sleep from your eyes and kisses you awake in the morning. He loves you when he dunks your head underwater just to wipe the water from your face when you come back up. He loved you when he asked you to run away with him, and he loved you when he went on your quest with you. He loved you when he would chase you around at recess until your legs didn’t work anymore, and he loved you when he would let you lay on his chest so your back wasn’t pressed against the rocky forest floor.

“You think you don’t love me the way I should be?” Frustration makes your head hot. You itch to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he understands. “Luke, you—you’re such an idiot. I know what love is because of you. You love me better than anyone else in my life. You always have, and… you’re all I have.”

You know that he’s going to tug at the hair at the back of his neck before he actually does it. His nose wrinkles when he squeezes his eyes shut. He’s having a hard time looking at you. “Stop.”

“You’re my best friend.” It’s hard, knowing that the words don’t even begin to cover the extent of what you feel for him. It’s hard to think of the words that could describe it. “I don’t want anyone else’s love. I don’t need it.”

“You aren’t getting it.” He rubs at his temples. He’s irritated, now, just like you.

“Then help me understand!” you cry, desperate. “You’re not making any sense, aren’t you seeing that?”

Luke sighs, a ragged sound that tears from his chest. His eyes crack open finally, the darkness of his irises being nearly swallowed up by the red in his eyes. 

This whole conversation is giving you whiplash. It seems like he’s hurt one second, broken up about this just as much as you, but he’s apathetic the second after. 

It sounds like you’re begging because you are. You wish he would give up this stupid game and come back to camp with you. 

You’re beyond desperate now, because your best friend is looking at you, and you know before he speaks that you’ll never forget the look on his face.

“I don’t love you,” he says simply. “You deserve better than that.”

Your stomach lurches. The blood rushing in your ears cuts out the sound of the insects hiding in the green behind you.

It’s me and you, killer.

You think about the way he pulls you into a hug sometimes, just so he can mumble jokes in your ear. Just yesterday morning, he’d cut your toast for you since you’d been half asleep at the table.

You know Luke loves you. It’s why you don’t believe him, and it’s why you scoff, the sound thick with disbelief.

“You know me, Luke. You know I’m not stupid enough to believe that. I’ve known you for my whole life. You can’t just—how do you fake the way we felt about each other?”

He shakes his head. You can’t tell if he’s averting his eyes again because he’s feeling guilty or because he’s lying. “I realized that… you’re a lot more serious about this than I am. And I—I care about you. I don’t want to be a dick. You deserve someone who is just as serious about the relationship as you are, and—”

You take a step back, and Luke trails off, losing track of his words. 

Embarrassment makes your face so hot it burns. You know you aren’t crazy. It had felt like a fact that Luke was serious about this — he still is. He has to be. 

“You said you didn’t think you could leave here without me.” Tears prick at your eyes before you blink them away. “Luke, we—we talked about our future together. You said you wanted a…”

You stop yourself from finishing your sentence. Admitting it would hurt more, but the reminder of it makes anger surge through you.

Luke wanted a family. He told you he wanted a family, and it turns out it all was a lie.

For a split second, he looks almost… upset. But it’s gone before you can call him out on it, and his gaze freezes over again. 

“I didn’t know what I wanted, alright? I still don’t. I—Look, come on. Killer, we’re kids. We’re still figuring our shit out, yeah? Isn’t that what everyone says? I thought I had feelings, but—I dunno. I was drunk when we kissed. Really drunk, and so were you—”

The sick feeling in your stomach is swallowed by a hollow emptiness. Luke keeps talking, muttering about how he was confused, and how you were too, but none of it is real enough to process.

“Luke,” you say, willing yourself to keep your voice steady. He stops talking, and the silence in the clearing is enough to make your ears ring. “You have to understand why I don’t believe you.”

There’s no point in you explaining, because you know him, and you know he understands. 

Your perception of love is based on each other. Even when you didn’t see how much further your feelings went beyond friendship, you’d always known that you loved each other. It was as factual as the color of the sky or the pull of the Moon on the sea’s tides. The Earth orbited the Sun, and you and Luke loved each other. 

Did you? Or had you made that all up? Were you so blinded by your own feelings, the strength of your own emotions, that you’d assumed he felt the same way? Had he not loved you this whole time?

You think back to that morning on the dock, the day after you’d first kissed. Luke had insisted on keeping your relationship a secret because of Chiron. 

How much of it was because of Chiron, and how much of it was because he didn’t actually love you?

Luke scoffs, and you feel your entire body draw tight with tension. 

Whatever ‘care’ he claimed to have for you seems to disappear as he cocks his head, a disbelieving smile playing on his lips. “Are you being serious?”

Images of the two of you at this same spot a few years ago flash through your head. I hope you know it’s been a definite yes for the past decade, he’d said.

You think you’re going to be sick. You’ve never been truly afraid of Luke. Afraid for him, sure, but you’ve never looked at him and felt anything other than completely and utterly safe.

Of course, you’ve seen glimpses of it in other people — brief moments of fear. Luke’s reputation as the best swordsman at camp wasn’t made up out of nowhere. People have left sparring matches with him joking about how scary he can be, and it’s something you’ve always chalked up to how good he is. And he’s really good. So good that the placement of his blade at your throat can feel just as gentle as the caress of his own hands. He’s had your life in the palm of his hands more times than you can count, and it’s never occurred to you that Luke is someone you should be nervous around.

But Luke steps closer to you, and… you remember suddenly that he’s always been somewhat tall. It only becomes really obvious when he uses his height like this — like a weapon.

His presence is only magnified by the cold, relentless stare he drills you with. The shadows under his eyes darken each second you don’t respond, and you begin to understand exactly why people find Luke so scary.

The look in his eyes is terrifying. 

“Y’know, I didn’t believe it when people said it,” Luke says, something sharp in the way he mutters it, “but holy shit. You really are as conceited as people say you are. Is it really that hard to believe someone doesn’t love you?” 

He steps closer to you, and you’re surprised you find yourself moving away from him. 

Because this is Luke.

Isn’t it? 

He was the only person you trusted enough to let close to you when your mind was rewritten with the strength of poison. A few nights ago, when he was half-asleep and just as lovesick as you, he reminded you how excited he was to leave camp together. 

The light feeling in your chest whenever you see him, the one that feels like a million butterflies in your stomach, has been replaced with the paralyzing feeling of dread.

Deep down, you realize it. 

You have passed the point of no return.

He won’t be able to apologize, pressing kisses into your hairline while he cradles the back of your head. There will be no coming back from this conversation.

Luke takes another step closer, and you don’t fight him on it.

“I don’t expect you to get it,” he continues, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off of his chest. “I mean, you’re daddy’s favorite, right?” Luke smiles at you mockingly, baring his perfect white teeth. “His perfect daughter. His pride and joy. And it’s the same way with your mom! I bet you could run back to her and have her welcome you back with open arms, too. Even after you got up and abandoned her like that.” 

You had no idea it would be so easy for Luke to take your heart in his hands and wring it out. He’s pressing into a bruise, poking and prodding at it and waiting to see how you react.

“You don’t get what it’s like to have to beg for scraps of attention from your parents like a fucking dog. Attention is all you’ve ever known.” 

The words come out easily, like he’s been waiting forever to say them. Jealousy and hurt is woven between every syllable. 

“It’s all you’ve ever gotten from me, your mom, your dad…” He’s half-smiling when he speaks. “I can’t even blame you. It’s not your fault you can’t believe some people might actually not like you.” He laughs gruffly, rubbing at his neck. “Give me a goddamn break.”

You blink hard and try to think about the feeling of Luke’s arms wrapped around your shoulders. A lump rises in your throat when the thought of it only wracks your body with discomfort. “You don’t mean that.”

Please, you want to beg. Take it back before you can’t fix any of this.

“I don’t?” he asks, a sick smile spreading across his face. “And how do you know that?”

Something inside of you shatters. You shove him backwards with shaking hands, your jaw clenched in anger. “What is wrong with you, Luke? Are you even listening to what you’re saying?” It’s a weak attempt at trying to knock some sense into him. “You… you don’t even sound like yourself right now.”

His eyes roll. “Yeah. ‘Cause the gods forbid that anyone is fucking honest with you for once.”

His words embed themselves into your skin and fester there. “Luke,” you say desperately, though you aren’t sure what you’re begging him for.

“Can you stop trying to fix me?” His voice rises so much a flock of birds erupts from the treeline. “There’s nothing wrong with me. You can’t make me better by—by figuring me out, or whatever the hell you think you’re always doing.”

“I’m not trying to fix you, asshole, I’m worried about you!” you cry, your voice wet and hurt. 

“You’re not trying to fix me?” he echoes, amused. He rubs the heel of his palm against the spot you shoved him, his hand twitching. “Isn’t that why you ran away with me in the first place? You left your shiny house and your perfect family because you felt bad. All you’ve done is pity me our whole lives, and try to fix whatever the hell is wrong with me. I’m sick of it.”

You bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from crying, drawing blood without realizing. Each of his words has the intended effect — you don’t think you’ve ever felt so hurt in your life.

“I left with you because I loved you, Luke.” You take a step closer to him, trying to stop your legs from shaking. “That hasn’t changed. Everything I do is because I love you.”

He held your hand on the way here. You wonder what you did wrong.

Luke shrugs. “Sorry that you feel that way, then,” he continues, driving the knife in further. 

Your voice is thick. You know this can’t be him talking, but it’s hard to remember that when it feels like your entire world is falling apart. You shake your head in denial. “You can’t push me away, Luke. It won’t work.”

You remember a conversation you had, a million miles away from here, with a man you know you’ll never see eye to eye with.

But promise me. He’s going to need you. Stick together, no matter how bad it gets, you understand?

Your throat feels dry.

“Leave me alone, yeah?” His voice is fraught with anger. He inhales once before saying, “It’s over.”

He turns around, heading back the way you came. 

Panic shoots through you. Luke is leaving. He’s going to leave you here and it’ll never be the same again.

Without thinking, you reach out and grab at his shirt, tugging him back towards you. You release the fabric as soon as he’s close enough. The thought of coming in contact with his skin makes you too nervous to hold onto him for any longer.

He looks stunned at your outburst, his resolve slipping for the briefest moment.

You speak through gritted teeth. “Luke, you are— you can’t seriously think I’m going to let you walk away from this. You’ve been my friend for my entire life, and you think I’m going to let you go without a fight?”

His jaw clenches, and you press on, frantic. “When we left Connecticut, I made a promise to you. ‘I’m with you forever,’ remember? Unless you’re choosing to forget that, too.”

Luke is quiet, his expression unreadable. You know he didn’t forget it. The promise is repeated to each other all the time, whether it’s with your words or kisses pressed to shoulders. 

After a second, he drags a hand down his face, working a hand over his jaw. “Please don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“You are the one who is making this hard.” You refuse to cry in front of him, but he seems to test your resolve with every second he stands in front of you. “Luke, I gave you everything I have ever had. Fuck, I even promised your dad—”

Luke freezes, and for the first time since the conversation started, you think you catch a glimpse of the real him. The mention of Hermes stuns him, his eyes shining with shock and hurt. You’ve dug your hands into a lifelong wound that hasn’t quite healed over yet, and you know it.

“My dad?” He repeats slowly. “What did you promise him?”

You don’t quite know what to say. So you tell him the truth. 

“I saw him during the last trip to Olympus.”

“That’s when you saw him,” Luke says lowly, his tone dangerous. “I asked what you told him.” 

Luke’s tone is so biting, and the admission comes out easily. You can’t tell if it’s because he’s scaring you or because you don’t want to disappoint him.

“He asked me to promise to stick together,” you admit, wincing at the sound of your own voice. 

Your heart drops when Luke staggers backwards, and the words pour out of you.

“And of course I said yes, Luke. I didn’t have to promise that to anyone. I was always planning on doing it. And—I just thought that he wanted peace of mind, or something, I didn’t—”

“You—how could you do that?” He runs a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched. “My dad? You went to speak to my dad?”

“He came to talk to me,” you explain frantically, panic rising quickly. “I think—He’s an asshole, but he was worried about you.”

Luke laughs. “Yeah, well, he’s about a lifetime too late, isn’t he?” His chest has started heaving, his anger boiling over. “Gods, what were you thinking? I didn’t need you to go behind my back and make little promises with my dad about me. He didn’t care about me when I was a kid who needed him, and he didn’t care last year, either. He doesn’t get to worry about me.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s honest. “I wasn’t thinking when I said yes.”

“Yeah, you weren’t.” It’s harsh and it hurts, but you understand exactly why he’s so upset. His laugh is bitter. “He doesn’t deserve a say in my life, and I just… I can’t believe you promised him that.” 

“I know, and I’m sorry.” You’re floundering now, because you know exactly what he’s thinking. He thinks part of your loyalty is because of a promise you made to his dad. But it’s not. Not a single second of your relationship has been because of him, and you’re desperately trying to communicate that to him. “But I hope that you understand why I did it. It—none of this has ever felt like an obligation to me, staying with you is just—”

“I get it,” Luke says, cutting you off. “You did it because you’re a people pleaser, yeah? You always have been.”

Your head throbs in time with your heart. “Please don’t do this to me. You’re saying this to be mean, Luke. You don’t mean that.”

He sighs. “I’m just being honest, sweetheart.” Venom drips from his tongue, burning the wound he’s made in your chest with his words alone. “Why d’you think I kept you around even when I didn’t feel the same way?”

His words ring in your head. 

Kept you around.

You feel the urge to crawl out of your own skin. It doesn’t feel like yours. 

Every kiss, every brush of your hands under a table, every time he’d pulled you into his arms with a lopsided smile…

It’d been because you were easy.

As one last act of kindness, Luke turns around. He is nice enough to break your heart with his back turned.

You feel flayed open. You know none of those words were an accident, each one chosen to strike at the chords in your heart. He knew exactly what would hurt, and as you watch him walk away… you aren’t sure that he feels bad for a single one of them. 

Monsters aren’t afraid to take any form — even if it means they look like your best friend.

But it takes a monster to know one, doesn’t it? 

It’s desperate and cruel, but you want him to understand exactly what his words have done to you. Maybe he would finally be able to see what he’s done, and—fix this, or apologize, or realize how insane he’s being.

Your voice wavers when you call out to his retreating form. “You need me just as bad as I need you, Luke. Or else…” You inhale sharply. “You would’ve left me about a hundred times over now.”

His figure grows smaller as he heads towards the gap in the trees.

“And I knew it, Luke,” you say, your throat tight. “You couldn’t have… you didn’t just like me when you got to put your hands up my shirt. You weren’t just using me. It was real. I know it was.”

His shoulders roll. He does not turn around.

When you know someone as well as you know Luke, it’s easy to find — a red hot laceration carved into his skin, one that will never quite heal. 

It’s a vulnerable spot for you to dig your fingers in and hurt.

Your stomach rolls with unease as the words fall from your lips. “For someone who hates their dad so much, you sure are similar.”

Luke doesn’t stop walking, but the pinch in his shoulders lets you know that he heard you. Dead grass crackles under the soles of his shoes.

“You’re walking away, just like he did. Guess you had to learn it from somewhere, didn’t you?”

He stops moving.

When he turns around to face you, he looks more like a stranger than the other half of your soul.

The fury burning in his eyes would have scared you a few minutes ago. But you soak up his anger readily, almost desperate for any ounce of true emotion from him. His indifference was fake, you’re almost sure of it, but this is real. 

The way he barely contains his rage as he stalks through the grass is real. The feeling of his breath fanning over your skin is real. The shame and guilt surging through your bloodstream — it’s all real.

You regretted the words immediately after you’d said them. You had said it to hurt him, and it had worked. But you don’t feel any better now that you have. 

“I am going to say this once.”

He’s standing up straight to make himself taller. You look into his eyes and try to remember the little details of his face. He’s staring at you so intensely you wonder if he’s doing the same thing.

“Stay away from me. It’s over,” he says, and it is final.

There’s a cut by his lip. His eyelashes are so long that they brush against his cheeks when he blinks. A light sunburn kisses the top of his face.

You tear your gaze away from the freckles he insists don’t exist so you can look him in the eyes. 

You don’t see anything.

“In a few hours, you’re going to realize what you’ve said to me. And it’s going to hurt, Luke.” The words you spit at him in your own moment of rage already sting with regret. “It’s going to hurt the same way you hurt me, and I think it’ll hurt worse.” You watch his jaw work, his teeth grinding together. “And when you stop putting on this act, I am going to feel sorry for you. Because I won’t be there to comfort you when you realize what you’ve done.”

He smiles, and for a second, you can see the boy who drew smiley faces with sunscreen on your back. The same one who bought you flowers when he was jealous about you having a crush on someone else, and the same one who looks for you after nightmares.

The illusion shatters when he cocks his head. “I’ll make sure to remember that.”

For the first time in nineteen years, Luke Castellan turns away and walks out of your life.

notes: surely u guys saw this coming right HAHA. i love luke castellan but i never said he was smart. can you guys believe its been like 1.5 years since the last part like woah my deepest apologies guys. i listened to lover u shouldve come over while editing this and woahh when i tell you 5:04 in the song came on and i was fighting for my life lol

As Danielle Layden breathes in, stepping outside of her dorm after successfully unpacking (most) of her belongings, her head is spinning. 

She’s back at Boston College for her second year and it feels both familiar and also completely new territory. She instinctively looks to her side because she wants to tell Will something but then she remembers. Her hand goes to her phone, but she knows he’s busy today.

She blinks. She needs to get going because she promised Ryan that she’d grab dinner with him and the guys today after he nagged about it the whole ride here. She was always going to say yes, but she was just giving him a hard time. It’s become one of her favorite things to do.

“You know he really likes you, right?” Will had said over the phone when she told him about Ryan offering her a ride back to campus. “All the guys do.”

“I know, but they’re your friends, you know? They don’t have to be mine too.”

“Do you like them?”

“Yes?”

“Then they’re your friends,” Will stated simply. “Friends do favors for each other. They like you more than they like me most days. 

And she knows he’s just saying that to make her feel better, but she can’t help but smile. “Are you with Mack?”

Will snorts lightly. “What makes you think so?”

“Because you’re always together.”

Will grins at the screen before going back to whatever he’s doing in the kitchen. “Not yet. I’m going over to his for dinner soon though.”

“Tell him I said hi.”

“Another example right there, actually,” she gives him a confused look as he continues. “Mack likes you and he hasn’t even met you yet.”

“Mack likes me because I always make fun of you.”

“That too,” Will’s eyes soften and Danielle misses him so much. “You know I love it, right?”

Danielle hums, “Hm?”

“You bust my balls all the time, but I love it. And I love you. And I miss you.”

“Will,” she says softly, trying her hardest to not let her voice crack at the sincerity in his tone.

He swears under his breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“You’re not making me upset,” she grins shakily. Or tries to. “I miss you a lot too.”

“Are you all packed?”

She snorts. “No.”

He rolls his eyes. “Get Lenny to help you.”

“Absolutely not. I trust him less than I trust you, which says a lot.”

“Have you met Jayne yet?”

“Yeah. I met her the other day. She’s nice. Deals with Ryan’s shit so automatically I know she’s a good one.”

“Just like you deal with mine.”

Her lips quirk up. “Just like I deal with yours.”

Danielle’s pulled out of her thoughts when her phone buzzes in her hand. It’s a text from Gabe, confirming that she’s still coming over and that she doesn’t have to bring anything because apparently they’re surprising her with their cooking, which worries her. But she just rolls her eyes to herself and begins her short journey to the house. 

She barely knocks on the door before it swings open and Gabe lifts her up in a hug, making her laugh. “Hi Gabe.”

“It’s been so long,” he mutters into her shoulder. “How are you?”

“It hasn’t been that long,” she rolls her eyes. “I’m good. What smells so good?”

Gabe grins, closing the door behind her and waiting for her to slip her shoes off. “Lean’s cooking steak.”

“Ryan can cook?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” A brunette who she’s 99% sure is Aram says with a grin. He sticks his hand out. “Hi, I’m Aram. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Dani,” she introduces herself warmly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You’re the one who’s stolen Smitty’s heart, eh?”

Danielle is taken aback a bit and lets out a laugh that she hopes sounds genuine. “He talk about me that much?”

“He never shuts up about you,” Jacob says, coming behind Aram. He wrestles Danielle into a hug. “Hello Danielle.”

“Jacob,” she drawls out. “Where’s Rachael?”

He clicks his tongue. “I see how it is. You only like me because of my girlfriend.”

“Well, isn’t that why you all like me? Because of my boyfriend?”

“No,” Ryan comes into view, eyeing the three guys pointedly. “What are you guys saying to her?”

“Nothing!” Gabe, Aram and Jacob say in unison. 

Ryan narrows his eyes at them, before looking at Danielle, who just shrugs with a smirk. “Heard you’re cooking steak?”

“Yeah, but-”

A familiar head of strawberry blonde pops up behind Ryan’s shoulder. “Dani!”

“Oh thank god,” Danielle breathes out. “Someone sane.”

She and Jayne embrace and Danielle catches Ryan’s soft glance at the two of them. “He is cooking steak, or trying to. Do you mind helping me with the salad?”

Before Jayne’s even done finishing her sentence, Danielle barrels her way into the kitchen to help, ruffling Ryan’s hair on the way. She busies herself with chopping vegetables as Jayne rattles her ears off. The Bowdoin College sophomore is much more talkative and outwardly warm compared to Danielle, but Danielle finds that she doesn’t mind it at all, especially in an environment like this surrounded by close to ten hockey players that she still finds herself trying to get used to. Various guys from the BC hockey team — both she knows and doesn’t — pop in and out of the kitchen to introduce themselves, none of them bothering to help Ryan, which doesn’t surprise Danielle at all. She knows how intense he can get. It’s why him dating someone as easygoing as Jayne fascinates her.

It’s just Ryan and Danielle when she’s hovering around him when he merely starts the timer on his phone, searing the steaks. “How are you?” He asks. 

She hums. “I’m good.” 

He turns slightly to look at her with a look that she can’t quite decipher. “You sure?”

She narrows her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Defensive,” he comments. She wants to smack him but she refrains. He rolls his eyes. “I’m just asking how you are.”

“About Will?”

“About whatever,” he says pointedly. “That could be Will. That could not be.”

She swallows, uncomfortable with the soft, concerned look in Ryan’s eyes. “I’m fine. Really, I am. Excited. New year, new classes, new people to annoy,” she bumps his hip as she says the last part of her sentence and he chuckles. “I miss him,” she admits. “But life goes on.”

“That it does,” he says, plating a steak and gesturing to Danielle to help him move the tray out of the way. He has two more left to sear. “You’re always welcome here, you know? I know we’re not the same, but we miss him too. And we love you. Even the boys who just met you.”

“Don’t speak for them so soon,” she shoots him a close-lipped smile. 

He shrugs. “It’s true. It’s hard not to like you.”

“And as if I’d want to come by more,” she scoffs, trying to make the mood less serious. “Seven guys in a house? No thank you.”

“But who else is gonna make sure we’re not living in a pigsty?”

“You are,” Jayne says, coming back into the room and giving her boyfriend a look. “Don’t make Dani or any of the other girlfriends clean up your messes.”

“Yes ma’am,” Ryan responds automatically, going back to cooking. Jayne rolls her eyes as Danielle just observes, watching those two move seamlessly around each other like they’ve known each other for years. Which, yeah, they have, but Danielle’s friends from high school who were dating each other have since broken up — some peacefully, some with a fight — so Ryan and Jayne being together and making it work is something that Danielle respects greatly. 

Jayne turns to look at Danielle with a pointed look. “I’m serious, Dani. Don’t clean up their messes for them.”

Danielle just smirks, bringing the large bowl of salad to the dining room table. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jayne helps set the table and yells for the others to come in, before grinning. “Let them clean up your messes instead.”

“I wouldn’t trust them to do anything for me,” Danielle says and Jayne laughs in approval while Ryan protests in the background. 

Dinner is surprisingly really fun, to the point where Danielle really enjoys everyone’s company and lets herself get added into a group chat at the end of the night. Every single of the guys — Aram, Jacob, Drew, Ryan, Will, Gabe and Timmy — are never boring and Danielle finds herself laughing a lot, heart warm and mind excited for this school year. She never would’ve imagined herself to be in this position even six months ago, marking the men’s hockey home opener down in her phone calendar and making a mental note to make sure she has a jersey to wear to the game. 

But Will has brought so much to her life, even when he’s not here. 

At the end of the night, she notices Gabe lingering like he wants to tell her something. So she gives Jayne one last hug before stepping outside on their front porch, Gabe closing the door slightly behind them.

“If you’re about to give me a talk, I already got it from Ryan,” she starts. 

Gabe rolls his eyes. “I’m not here to give you a talk.”

“It sure looks like you are,” she adjusts her bag on her shoulders. “Remember, I am older than you.”

“By, like, a month!” 

“Doesn’t make it less true,” she lets out a deep breath. “What’s up, Gabriel?”

“You sure you don’t need me to walk you home?”

“Gabe,” she deadpans. “It’s a 10 minute walk at most. On a Friday night. Where the campus is littered with people. I’ll be fine. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No,” he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Are you gonna be in the library Thursday mornings again? Like last year?”

“What, you wanna come and harass me?”

“Maybe,” he says petulantly. “What’s your schedule gonna be like?”

“I have a two, three hour block from like, 11-2.” She tilts her head to the side, taking Gabe in. “You free then? You wanna just have that time to hang out? Kinda like a weekly thing?”

His eyes light up and she can’t help but ‘aw’ a little in her head. “Really? You’d be down for that?”

“Sure,” she kicks his foot with hers playfully. “It’ll be a nice little thing to look forward to every week.”

“Awesome,” he says with a grin that she reciprocates. “Text me when you’re home?”

“Will do. Goodnight. Thanks for the invite.”

“You’re welcome anytime,” Gabe says. “I mean it.”

She smiles, giving him one last hug before walking back to her dorm. 

*****

“You’re serious?”

“About what?” Danielle asks casually, making sure her AirPods stay in as she’s FaceTiming Will while walking out of class.

“What you just said,” Will’s voice flows through her ears. “You’re telling me you got an A on your first law case study of the year in a class that’s notoriously brutal and the professor wants to keep it as an example for future classes?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” she tries to brush it off. 

Will won’t let her. “Oh shut up. Baby, you’re so smart. Embrace it.”

“Not really my style, William.”

He huffs, “I know. I wish it was sometimes.”

“You love me just the way I am,” she teases. 

“I do,” his voice drips with sincerity and Danielle fiddles with the ring on her finger. “What are you up to the rest of the day?”

“Today’s night class day but until then, I’m not sure yet,” she sighs. “I probably should get some work done because I have three essays due in the next week or so, but I also could just nap.”

“Get some work done,” Will urges gently. “Because if you don’t, you’re gonna hate yourself next week.” She’s a bit annoyed because he’s right, as she debates her next move. She changes direction to a cafe by campus she likes. He smirks triumphantly. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she rolls her eyes. “I kinda want a coffee but I already had one this morning and I’m trying to cut down on spending too much money.”

“I’ll Venmo you,” he says easily. 

She looks down at the screen. “Will, no.”

“Too late,” her phone pings with a notification from Venmo, indicating that Will just sent her $20 with ‘coffee❤️’ as the caption. 

“Coffee is not $20.”

“Then get a snack with it.”

“Will,” she deadpans. “I don’t need this coffee.”

“Let me do things for you once in awhile, okay?” He says with a light smile but a serious tone. “It’s nothing. I would’ve gotten one for you if I was there anyways.”

“Thank you,” she stops fighting back. 

“What are you gonna get?”

“Take a guess.”

“Blueberry matcha?”

“Am I that predictable or do you just have a really good memory?”

“Both,” he says, setting his phone up against the mirror in his bathroom to get ready for practice. “And I’m also predictable because I know you know what I’m gonna say next.”

“That you think matcha tastes like grass, I know,” she drawls out. “Real original, dude.”

“It’s not even about being original or not, it’s just the truth,” he shoots back. She watches him mess with his hair in the mirror and lets herself just stare. He’s so goddamn pretty. She’d never tell him that though. Turns out she doesn’t need to, because he catches her staring. “You’re gonna run into someone if you keep looking at me.”

“Shut up,” she says weakly as he laughs. 

“Never,” he comments with a dreamy smile on his face. “You’re not alone. You’re my favorite sight to see.”

“Stop,” she warns. She hates the sappiness because she doesn’t know what to do with it, even all these months later. It’s grown so much since they’re not physically together anymore and she’s still trying to get used to it. 

“Fine,” he rustles his phone on the other side. “Oh shit, I gotta run. I’ll call you tonight?”

“Aren’t you hanging out with Macklin?”

“I can step away for a bit to say hi to you.”

“It’s okay,” she assures. “Just call me tomorrow. You two have fun.”

“You sure?”

“100%”

“Okay,” he says softly. “Good luck studying. Enjoy your matcha. Have a good class. I love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

The call disconnects and she sighs, putting on some music. 

(She feels guilty after ordering a blueberry matcha and a croissant, not because of the money, but because she can’t stomach either of them. She ends up throwing them both away after class)

***** 

“You have your ticket?”

“Yes, Mom,” she drawls out. 

“You’re going with Tracy and Rachael, right?”

“Gabriel,” Danielle deadpans over her lunch in this study lounge. Or more accurately, the lunch she’s trying to eat but she doesn’t have the appetite for. “This isn’t my first rodeo. And I’m more responsible than you and you know it.”

“I just wanna make sure!” Gabe says, putting his hands up in defense. “Sorry I’m excited.”

A pang of guilt appears and Danielle sighs, kicking his foot under the table with hers. “Sorry for being a bitch. I’m excited too.”

“Are you coming by Saturday after the game? I know you said you couldn’t make it to the actual game.”

“What if I said no?”

Gabe narrows his eyes. “Don’t test me, Dan Dan. I’d hunt you down.”

“Of course I’m coming over,” she says. Changing the subject, she nods to his notebook in front of him. “What class?”

“French.”

“Yikes. Can’t help you out there.”

“I’m sure you could find a way,” he says, nodding to the textbook in front of her. “You?”

“Public Policy and Political Capitalism.”

“Sounds hard.”

“It’s kicking my ass,” she admits. “But we move.”

He nods to his almost-finished latte. “You wanna finish it off? I’m feeling too jittery already.”

She shoots him a thankful smile. “Thanks, G.”

“Anytime,” he kicks her foot with his underneath the table. “You not hungry?”

She swallows at the sight of her barely eaten salad. “Guess not.” 

He hums and lets it go, thankfully, before switching subjects to whatever the hell Gabe is thinking at that very moment. Danielle is still trying to figure out Gabe’s ever-fluid thoughts as he has the ability to jump to multiple topics within a minute. It used to slightly annoy her, but she’s grown to embrace it just like she’s grown to love him as a friend.

When Friday rolls around, Danielle is biting her lip, staring at two options for a top laid out on her bed. She has her favorite BC crewneck on the right and then on the left, one of Will’s old jerseys he gave her before he moved to San Jose Smith 6 blaring up at her like it’s wanting her attention. She knows all the guys would get a kick out of her wearing Will’s old jersey, but there’s an uneasiness that rises to her throat when she thinks about wearing it, especially because he’s not here anymore. And especially at a time where BC hockey fans are at its most intense thanks to last year’s success. 

“Just wear the jersey, babe,” Tracy says as Danielle jumps, startled. “You know you want to.”

“But is it weird?” Danielle asks, fiddling with her ring. “What if people come up to me?”

“No one’s gonna come up to you,” Tracy says firmly and Danielle has no choice but to believe her. “And if someone’s weird about it, you can just snap back. I’ll snap back at them for you, even. You won’t be the only one wearing something with his name on it, I’m sure. I’ll bet we’ll see some Sharks jerseys too.”

“It is a nice jersey,” Danielle admits, remembering that when Will asked her which one she wanted, she pointed at the white one without even thinking. “And when else would I wear it?” She snatches the jersey off her bed before she changes her mind. “Thanks.”

Tracy just grins easily. “What else am I here for?” She nudges her roommate’s shoulder. “I’m sure it’s a bit weird going to a game without Will on the ice, but we’ll have fun. And I’m excited to meet Rachael.”

Danielle grins at that. “I think you two are going to get along pretty well.”

“Indoctrinating yourself into the WAG group, aren’t you?” Tracy says jokingly. 

Danielle throws on the jersey, “Does it count when mine isn’t here anymore?” 

“I think so,” Tracy takes Danielle’s hair out from underneath the jersey. “I know you still flinch away at that title, but I’m just poking fun. I know you’re-”

“I know,” Danielle assures. “It’s, I don’t know, I like them, the guys, I mean. And I’ve met some of their girlfriends and they’re cool too. It just feels a bit weird sometimes still, especially now that Will isn’t here. I just, I’m trying to get over it, and I think I am mostly. But-”

“But going to a game with your boyfriend’s jersey on to see his ex-teammates who are also kinda your friends now is weird,” Tracy finishes and Danielle is always so thankful to have been randomly paired with a roommate freshman year who is now her dear friend.

“Yeah,” Danielle chuckles, clasping on a bracelet before sighing. “I don’t know. I wonder if I would’ve met, like, Gabe and Ryan, at all if it hadn’t been for Will, and now that our main connector isn’t here, it’s just, I don’t know. Something I’ve been thinking about.”

“You know,” Tracy starts thoughtfully as they leave their dorm. “I’m sure they’re both thankful to have you around, even if they don’t tell you. I’m sure they miss their friend too."

“They tell me all the time, actually. ” Danielle admits. “It’s kinda nice, just hearing it, I guess. Even if I don’t necessarily believe it yet.”

“Sweet boys.”

“Well, I don’t know about that.”

They meet up with Rachael at the front of Conte and Danielle is right because Tracy and Rachael both hit it off immediately. By the time they’ve reached their seats and warmups have started, Danielle forgets she even has the jersey on. She snaps a pic of the arena and a quick selfie and sends it to Will, before pocketing her phone. She doesn’t expect a response, knowing he’s playing a game tonight, but right after the national anthem plays, she sees that he liked both photos and sent a “❤️love the jersey. have fun baby!” and for a second, it feels like he’s out on the starting line between Ryan and Gabe. 

During a media timeout, she feels someone tap her shoulder. “I love your jersey!”

Danielle grins wryly at the redhead girl. “Thanks!”

“Can I ask where you got it customized? I’ve been looking to get one with a player’s name and number.”

Suddenly, Danielle feels an emotion she hasn’t felt in awhile: panic. “Oh. Well, uh, it’s kinda-”

“She’s dating him,” Rachael comes in. “Will. She’s dating Will.” 

Well, that’s one way to respond. 

Danielle almost braces for the response, but immediately calms down a bit when the redhead nods knowingly, a friendly smile on her face. “That’s one way to get a custom jersey.”

Danielle chuckles weakly. “Yeah, I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“It’s all good. I’ll just have to search online more.” The conversation then dies and Danielle feels herself letting out a deep breath as Tracy nudges her in encouragement. 

The game is fun and Danielle realizes how much more she knows now purely through watching Will’s games last season. A dominant 5-0 win caps off a fun home opener and Danielle makes sure she sends a message into the group chat that she was added to when she went over for dinner with “congrats on the win! see you guys tomorrow.” She turns down Tracy’s plan of heading to a party tonight and instead decides to head back to take a breather. Halfway through the game her gag reflex started acting up and she doesn’t wanna go out feeling like that.

By 11 p.m., all the lights except for the fairy lights are off and Danielle is snuggled in bed, but the pit of anxiety that sprung up slowly throughout the game has grown twofold and she doesn’t know what to do with it, aimlessly swiping on her phone. Her mind is running too quickly on loop for it to settle down and sleep, but it can’t settle on one thing she wants to think about. She realizes she didn’t eat dinner as her stomach grumbles loudly, but her snack bars are too far away and she doesn’t wanna get out of bed. She keeps debating on whether to click on Will’s contact, but she knows he’s hanging out with Macklin and she doesn’t want him to worry about her, knowing that if she’s calling this late at night he'll immediately jump to the worst conclusions. And she doesn’t wanna bother any of her friends. 

Somehow, she falls asleep, even though her mind is racing a million miles an hour and she hasn’t felt this sort of anxiety for a few months now. To be honest, she hasn’t felt this sort of anxiety since her and Will started dating. And the most annoying thing? She can’t pinpoint why she feels like this, which, yeah, that’s how her anxiety works. It’s how it’s always worked since she was a kid. 

Danielle wakes up disoriented, as she had forgotten to shut the blinds the night before. Her eyes drift over to Tracy’s side of the room, and Danielle blinks as her friend’s backpack is nowhere to be found. It takes her too long to remember that Tracy had mentioned she was going to the library early to study so she could go to the game tonight. which Danielle had decided earlier in the week to turn down in favor of hanging out with a friend she met last year in class before heading to the boys’ house. 

She ends up laying in her bed pretty much all day, only leaving to go to the bathroom or snack on some of her bars. She just couldn’t get herself to do anything, knowing that it’s going to be one of those days and she just has to will her way through. 

Despite her clouded mind, she drags herself up to get ready to go hang out with Mari at around 8, because she knows she’ll have a good time. It takes her too many mental pep talks to walk to Mari’s dorm, but she does it. And she’s proud of herself for doing so. 

She and Mari aren’t close enough to the point where Danielle feels comfortable necessarily telling her about this, but it’s a good thing, because Mari’s bubbly self is distracting enough for a good chunk of time. Her phone buzzes at around 10:20 from Gabe, telling her that all the guys are hosting something small and sends her the address. 

She doesn’t need her GPS — the address is right by her dorm — and after giving Mari a hug, she’s on her way, hands shoved in her sweatshirt pockets. As she gets closer she only raises an eyebrow. Small gathering my ass. The house is bustling with people already, flashing lights on the inside and people littering out on the porch. For a brief moment, she debates cancelling and walking away. But she promised she’d be here.

As she sees girls coming in and out with some variation of a white top and jeans, she instinctively retracts inward. Truthfully, she hadn’t even thought about it as she was leaving her dorm and threw on a BC crewneck over black, ripped skinny jeans. And usually she wouldn’t care, really, but tonight, she feels like her middle school self again at a dance where everyone seems to be cooler than she’ll ever be. 

Dodging her way through people, Danielle beelines through the front door. She’s quickly taking in her surroundings and debating where to wander when she feels a gentle tug on her elbow. 

Turning around, she’s met with a dark-haired guy who honestly, she may or may not recognize. She’s not really sure. “Hey, wait, are you Danielle? Smitty’s girl?”

She blinks. “Yeah. Hi.”

He puts out his hand to shake. “I’m Eamon. I’m on the hockey team.”

“The captain, right?”

“Yeah. It’s nice to finally meet you,” he steers them both more into the home. “Welcome. I live here, actually. The guys should be around here somewhere. Did you just get here? Oh! Do you want a drink? We’ll go to the kitchen first.”

It takes Danielle a moment to catch up before she plasters on a friendly smile. “That’d be great, yeah. Did you guys win tonight?”

“We did.”

“Congrats.”

“Thanks,” he nods to the various bottles of alcohol and mixers on the table. “Anything look good? We have a lot of shitty beer that I assume you don’t want. I can pull out my non-existent bartending skills.”

“Rum and Coke?” She asks hopefully. 

“You got it,” she just watches as he plucks a purple solo cup, cracks open a can of Coke from the fridge and uncaps the Bacardi. “What are you studying?” 

“Political Science. Hopefully law school eventually.”

“Smart.”

She leans her hip on the counter. “You?”

“Business.”

“Good for you.” She hopes it doesn’t sound sarcastic.

“Thanks,” his eyes shift over her shoulder and before she can ask what’s going on, she feels a slap on her shoulder and familiar voices surrounding her, as well as a hand ruffling her hair. 

“Dan Dan! You made it.”

“Eamon already buttering you up, eh?”

“We missed you tonight!”

Her grin feels the least forced as Gabe kisses her on the cheek and Ryan ruffles her hair as she playfully whacks Jacob’s stomach. “Hi guys.” She shoots Eamon an apologetic look as he hands her her drink, but he shakes his head, unbothered, as Gabe keeps yapping in her ear about something and Eamon gets pulled away by another person. 

She takes a hefty sip of her drink. “How are you three?”

Gabe grins easily. “Good, good! We won!”

“I heard. Congrats.”

“How are you?”

“Good, good,” Danielle echos. “Uneventful day, but here I am.”

Ryan peeks into her drink. “What do you got?”

“Rum and coke.”

He hums. “Huh. That’s Smitty’s go-to drink.”

She could tell them that that’s the reason why she got it and it’s become hers as well. When Will had made it for her over the summer, he got the ratio perfectly and she hasn’t been able to recreate it since. 

Instead she settles with a small smirk. “I know. But it’s better than any beer, shitty or not.”

Aram comes over and swings an arm around her shoulder. “Dani! Come on. A bunch of the guys have been dying to meet you.”

It’s probably the alcohol, but she’s gigglier than usual as she meets the rest of the team. She finishes her drink quickly before another Rum and Coke gets put in her hands and she’s feeling good. Really good. She feels like she’s walking on air. 

In the middle of speaking to Drew, she sees familiar faces from the Women’s Law Center that Danielle is a part of — Chelsea, Rhea and a few other people. She quickly excuses herself before heading over to the girls, feeling slightly relieved that it’s not just hockey boys she knows here. 

“Ellie, baby!” Chelsea exclaims, corralling her into a hug. Oh yeah, she’d definitely drunk. “What are you doing here?”

Danielle chuckles. “What do you mean?”

Rhea rolls her eyes playfully. “Chelsea. Remember whose house we’re at and why you’re here, girly.”

“Why are you here?” Danielle tilts her head in question. 

Rhea grins. “Cute guy invited her.”

“Who? Where is he? Point him out to me.” Danielle eggs on as Chelsea blushes. She subtly points to a guy that Danielle very much recognizes. She gives the brunette a look. “Are you serious?”

“Yes! What?”

“Gabe?”

Chelsea’s glazed eyes light up. “You know him?”

Much more sober, Rhea laughs and exchanges a look with Danielle, before patting Chelsea on the head. “Remember how she knows those guys?”

Chelsea blinks so Danielle helps her out. “Gabe is one of Will’s best friends.” Not to mention, starting to become one of her closest ones, but she doesn’t need to mention that right now. 

“Oh my god. How did I forget that? Do you know him well?” Chelsea’s eyes widen. 

Danielle laughs. She’ll play along. “Gabe? Yeah, I know him enough. He’s a sweet guy.”

“You know, I think I wrote him off because of the whole athlete thing, especially hockey. But he’s just so nice.”

This is so entertaining for Danielle as she nods and nudges Chelsea with an encouraging smile. “Well what are you doing here? Go work your charm on him.”

Chelsea listens and bounces over to Gabe as Rhea and Danielle stay back and observe. Rhea laughs. “She’s so out of it.”

Danielle shrugs. “She’ll be fine. He won’t do anything. Gabe’s a good guy.”

“How have you been?” Rhea asks, leaning against the wall behind them. “I know you couldn’t make it to the last meeting but it still feels like I haven’t seen you in a bit.”

Danielle feels a pang of guilt rush through her. It feels like that’s a constant emotion she’s been feeling since the semester started. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. I’ve been a bit MIA lately.”

“Ellie,” Rhea puts a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Literally no worries. I know you’re busy. It’s no big deal. Aren’t you in Public Policy and Political Capitalism?”

“I am, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, taking that class alone gives you the pass,” Rhea laughs. “Is it still Prof. Dingledy?”

“You bet it is.”

“God, she’s fucking killer.”

Danielle lifts up her cup to bump it against Rhea’s. “I’ll cheers to that.” Rhea’s eyes light up and Danielle’s immediately suspicious. “What?”

“Wanna do shots?”

She shouldn’t. She hasn’t eaten since…well, in her drunken haze, she can’t really remember. But she feels light and Rhea is great and she’s in the house of someone she knows, kinda, and her brain doesn’t feel like it’s weighing her down for the first time in a few days. So she nods, and Rhea immediately beckons someone over — Danielle thinks she might recognize him, but she’s not completely sure — and suddenly, a shot filled with a clear liquid is pressed in her hand. 

“What’s in this?” Danielle asks, leaning closer to Rhea. 

Rhea grins. “Tequila. And this is my brother Khan. So nothing fishy is in it besides tequila, trust me.”

Danielle flashes Khan a toothy grin. “Thanks!” He just salutes her before Rhea is counting down. Danielle knocks it back and it burns but it feels so good. She feels the most light she has in days. She takes another one off the tray before Khan lingers off and knocks it back immediately. 

“Woah,” Rhea remarks. “You take your alcohol well.”

She doesn’t. She was never a partier in high school and she prefers just sitting back with a seltzer or two. But she’s tired and she’s upset and anxious and everything is getting to her right now and all she can think of is how bad but good this feels.

In the next 20 minutes or so, she’s had three more shots before she suddenly halts whatever she’s saying to whoever. Her stomach’s churning. Honestly, everything’s kinda a blur.  Rhea immediately is concerned but Danielle starts practically running in search of an empty bathroom. Thankfully, the first corner she turns when she runs up the stairs (which, why she did that instead of staying on the first floor, she’ll never know) is a bathroom. She barely gets the toilet seat up before she starts puking.

It burns. God, it burns. She groans, trying to tuck her hair back behind her ears as she hugs the toilet bowl. She feels the sweat on her forehead forming and can vaguely make out some familiar voices nearby, but all she can focus on is throwing up. 

“Oh fuck,” she looks up and squints at the guy who’s appeared in the doorway. She thought she had closed the door. Before she can say anything, the guy has dashed away and she goes back to the toilet bowl. 

She doesn’t know how much time passes but at some point, when she’s leaning her forehead in her elbow that’s resting against the toilet rim, a familiar voice slices through the fog of her brain. 

“Dani?” She looks up and blinks rapidly, to see both Ryan and Gabe standing in the doorway, very concerned looks on their faces. 

She must look like a mess, as she salutes them, trying to muster a smile. “Boys.”

Gabe steps forward first, a deep furrow inbetween his eyebrows. “What the fuck? Are you okay?”

She’s about to respond, but her stomach speaks for her and she leans over the toilet bowl again. She feels someone taking her hair in their hands. When she feels okay enough to flush and sit back up, she sees Ryan handing her a bottle of water. She takes a tentative sip as Gabe runs his fingers through her hair in an attempt to undo any knots. Both actions are surprisingly tender and cause Dani’s eyes to water. 

“You okay to move or need to throw up more?” Ryan asks. 

Danielle coughs into her elbow. “<ore water?” Ryan wordlessly hands the bottle back over and she rinses her mouth before chugging it. She chuckles dejectedly. “I probably look like shit.”

“You’ve had better days,” Ryan says with a small smirk. She just rolls her eyes as Gabe sinks down on the floor next to her, Ryan perching himself on the sink. “Did something happen?”

“I don’t think so,” she blinks in rapid succession a few times. “Just drank. A lot.”

“Clearly.” She hits Ryan’s leg and he kicks her. 

“Alright,” Gabe steps in, a wry smile on his face. “What do you wanna do? Please say go home. For your sake.”

She chuckles as Gabe helps her up and they walk out of the bathroom. “Yeah. I probably should. In a second though.”

“Wanna get some air?” She nods at Gabe. He smiles. “I’ll steal some chips from the kitchen. When’s the last time you ate?”

She doesn’t respond, and both boys turn to look at her in concern as they’re walking down the stairs Danielle pretends not to notice. In a flash, Gabe goes into the kitchen and grabs a bag of chips and another water before Ryan suggests they go outside to get some air. 

In classic college party behavior, they can’t find anywhere proper to sit. So Danielle just plops herself on the grass and Gabe and Ryan follow. She takes a moment, looking at the house and listening to the muted bass and watching people file in and out. The sights and sounds feel like a college party, which both comforts Danielle and also gives her a sense of longing, even though she’s right here. 

“What happened?” She turns her attention back to Gabe, who stares at her inquisitively. “I feel like I saw you and then like 20 minutes later Jimmy was rushing down and panicking saying he saw you throwing up.”

“Jimmy?”

Ryan clarifies. “James. Hagens. One of the-”

“The freshman on your line, yeah,” Danielle remembers Will mentioning him. She groans into her hand. “He saw me throw up? That’s so embarrassing.”

“No, no,” Gabe assures. “It’s not a big deal. He was really worried, actually. That’s why he came to find us.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“I’m sure you’ll meet him officially soon. He’s been wanting to meet you.”

“You need to stop saying that to me,” Danielle laughs weakly. “I’m not as great as you two think I am.”

The joke falls flat as Danielle bites her shaky lip. The anxiety is back full force now that she’s thrown up and sobered up. She doesn’t want Gabe and Ryan to see her like this. Hell, she’s barely lets Will see her like this. 

But well, it’s kind of too late for that at this point. 

“Did you get roofied?” Ryan snaps. Not at her, but at the idea. 

She shakes her head. 

Gabe, too observant for his own good, repeats his question from before. “When’s the last time you ate? A full meal, not a snack.”

Danielle just looks at him and then she can’t see him anymore, because she squeezes her eyes to try to prevent tears from falling down. She wipes her eyes. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I can’t remember.”

She just continues silently crying. Then, she feels a presence next to her and both of them have shifted from sitting across from her to being next to her. 

“Has this been a thing in the past?” Gabe asks.

‘Has what been a thing?”

“You not eating.”

And yeah. That’s when Danielle knows that Gabe knows. That they both know. Or at least an idea of it. 

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Hasn’t been this bad in a bit. Pair that with diagnosed anxiety and sometimes you get a shitshow.”

“Does Will know about this?” Ryan asks firmly.

“About what?”

“The anxiety. The not-eating.” Gabe says softly, in contrast to his best friend.

“Yes and no,” she whispers. “I’ve talked to him a bit about the anxiety. I’ve never talked about the eating.” 

“Dani,” Gabe continues in his signature gentle tone that has Danielle now audibly sobbing as Ryan rubs her back. “He needs to know. And from you, not us. Not eating? With the anxiety? That’s not good.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she snaps through her tears.

“Woah,” Ryan interrupts sharply. “Gabo’s not patronizing you. We’re just trying to help.”

“How?” She asks the rhetorical question. “I mean, if I weren’t Will’s girlfriend, would you even be out here with me right now?” Silence settles as Danielle keeps crying and hiccupping. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually, voice cracking. “Fuck. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.”

Gabe offers a chip from the bag with a small smile as a truce. “I know. Eat. And drink some more water.” She forces herself to eat a few chips and takes the water out of Ryan’s hands as he keeps rubbing her back. 

It’s minutes before she speaks up again, trying to control her hiccups. “It was getting better. All of it. It was a lot worse when I was in high school. But it’s been really bad lately and I-I don’t really know what to do.”

“Is there anything we can do to help? Or look out for?”

She sighs, “I don’t know.” 

Gabe nods encouragingly. “Have you thought about talking to someone professional, maybe?”

Danielle shrugs. “I stopped going to therapy back in high school. I could start that up again, probably should, to be honest, but I don’t know.” She smiles sadly. “I’m sorry. About all this.”

“Stop,” Ryan says. And if it wasn’t him and he wasn’t talking to her, it would sound harsh. “You don’t have to be sorry. We’re your friends, Dani. We want to help and be there for you. We care about you a lot, okay?” She just leans into his side gratefully.

She looks to Gabe and chuckles weakly. “Sorry for taking you away from your romantic adventures.”

Gabe grins. “No biggie. Now that I know you two know each other, it’ll make it easier. I’ll have other chances.”

She snorts. “That’s the spirit.” She chugs the rest of the water. “And sorry for taking you both away from the party and-”

“Danielle,” Ryan scolds and repeats. “Stop.”

She swallows her urge to fight back. “Okay. Thank you, then.” Ryan wraps an arm around her shoulder and squeezes it briefly. She never grew up with friends like these two who have immediately taken to her in such a short time. She’s incredibly grateful for it.

“You wanna head back to your dorm?”

“It’s probably for the best,” Danielle wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s right there. You guys don’t need to-”

“Shut up,” Ryan says gruffly, making sure she’s steady on her own feet. Gabe offers a comforting smile that has her smiling shakily back. 

They start walking away from the noise towards her building. “Are you two around tomorrow morning?” She says, her voice the most steady it’s been since she threw up. “Maybe we can grab breakfast? Bring whoever else wants to come.”

“Yes to breakfast,” Ryan says. “But no to the second part.”

“Huh?”

Ryan exchanges a look with Gabe. “Just us three,” He says firmly. 

A wave of gratitudes suddenly rushes through her heart. “Okay.”

They go as far as going up to her room with her (she’s momentarily thankful that Tracy is staying over at her situationship’s place tonight), both maneuvering around the room like they’ve been here multiple times before, with Gabe making sure she has a glass of water by her bedside and Ryan picking up a framed picture of Will and Danielle that was taken over the summer. They both turn around as she quickly changes and she decides that she’s too tired to do anything other than swish some mouthwash around her mouth. 

She hugs them both tightly before they leave, racking her brain on how to tell them how thankful she is for them. But she thinks they know, as they exit her dorm and shut the light off on the way out. 

(The Sharks touched down in Colorado a few hours ago and he and Macklin went to grab dinner. Will knew that Danielle was gonna be at a party the guys tonight so he didn’t think to check his phone, knowing she was safe and trusting she was having fun.

It wasn’t until they were walking back to the hotel when he pulled his phone out. Will’s breath hitched at the notification that Ryan had texted him 7 times an hour ago.

Leno

Before I begin, don’t panic

Dani got pretty drunk tonight at the party to the point where she was throwing up and everything

Gabo and I took care of her and everything and walked her home and made sure she was in her bed 

We’re getting breakfast in the morning with her so we’ll check in again then

I’m not gonna get into it all, but she was saying some things about her anxiety and not eating that worried us but she’s fine and safe 

Just wanted to let you know

Also start answering my calls asshole you’ve sent me to voicemail twice in the last week 

“Everything good?” Will hears Macklin ask, who noticed his friend’s immediate shift in energy.

“I don’t know,” Will says, rapidly rereading the texts. “Leno — Ryan — texted me about Dani.”

“You said they were at a party tonight, right?”

“Yeah. He said Dani got really drunk and…she’s fine,” he assures, hoping saying it out loud will convince him. “Ryan and Gabe took care of her and I trust them. But apparently she threw up and everything.”

“I get it,” Macklin says. “Call her in the morning, though. Nothing you can do about it now.”

“Yeah, I will,” Will mutters to himself, sending a thumbs up to Ryan before shoving his phone back in his pocket. His mind is racing now but Macklin’s right. He can’t do anything until the morning. 

Macklin, sensing his friend’s tenseness, nudges his shoulder. “Are you hiding her from me, Smitty? When do I get to meet her?”

“We call pretty much everyday,” Will says with an eye roll. “You’re welcome to pop in anytime. She wants to meet you too.”

“Is she coming to San Jose anytime soon?”

Will sighs. “I think? She’s talked about coming out here for part of her winter break.” Will bites his lip. “You were long distance with your ex-girlfriend, right?”

Macklin’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Yeah. For the last four months before we broke up.”

“How did you do it?”

“Well, we broke up kinda because of it, buddy. So I don’t know if I’m the best person to ask.”

“Sometimes it seems like there’s no end in sight and this season’s just barely started,” Will barrels on, almost embarrassingly fast or else it’ll never leave his mouth. “She’s got three more years at BC and I know I’m thinking too far ahead but it’s, well, sometimes it’s all I can think about.”

“I get that,” Macklin says softly. Almost too softly to which Will, who has picked up quickly on how to read Macklin Celebrini, notes for later. “You miss her. Of course you’re thinking about being in the same vicinity.  But, I mean, you said it yourself. Too far ahead.”

“It’s also not, you know, great to get a text about her not from her at midnight saying she drank too much and threw up.”

“Dude, I know we had weird college experiences but even you know that’s normal,” Macklin says, and Will is thankful to have someone like Macklin who knows how to tell him to chill out. “And you said you trust Ryan and Gabe to look out for her. They said she was okay.”

“But-”

“You love her? You trust her? You trust your boys?”

Will blinks. “Of course.”

Macklin thumps Will in the shoulder as they walk into the lobby of the hotel. “Call her in the morning. I’m sure she’s okay.”

The NHL is hard, and he just got here. But damn. Will is so lucky to have Macklin right next to him every step of the way.)

*****

Danielle wakes up in the morning to three texts from Will. 

William Smith ❤️

Morning honey 

Leno texted me that you maybe had a bit of a rough night last night 

Call me when you wake up, okay? Doesn’t matter how early it is for me. Love you xoxo 

She squeezes her eyes shut and lets out a soundless laugh. Of course Ryan texted him. 

She’s not due for breakfast for another hour or so. After she tosses around for a few minutes, she goes to brush her teeth and wash her face before sitting back in her bed and clicking on Will’s contact. 

He answers immediately, face popping up on the screen. “Good morning.”

She chuckles. “Hey. I was half expecting you not to pick up. It’s early over there.”

He smiles and she wants to reach into the phone and touch his hair. He looks so sleepy and cute. “What part of ‘doesn’t matter how early it is for me’ didn’t click?”

“Sorry,” she stifles a yawn. “Woke up a bit groggy.”

“Yeah, I bet,” he says softly. “How are you? You feeling okay?”

“How much did Ryan tell you?”

“Not too much,” he says. “Just said you drank a little much and he and Gabo took care of you.”

“That’s it?” Danielle asks doubtfully.

“Whatever you’re thinking about, I think Leno wanted me to hear it from you directly,” he says softly. 

No one says anything for a minute or so, before she takes a deep breath. “You’re gonna hate me.”

“What? Why would I hate you? I could never hate you,” he asks, confused and sincere. 

“Because I should’ve told you sooner,” she whispers. 

“All I care about is that you’re okay and safe and happy,” Will says and Danielle wants to shrink into herself for ever thinking otherwise. “Whatever you want to tell me, I’m here. Always.”

So she tells him. She talks about her lifelong anxiety, how that spiraled into poor eating habits that she thought she had gained control of by the time she came to college. She talks about how she used to count her calories in a little notebook that she used to keep under piles and piles of paper in her desk drawer so that no one would find it. She talked about being forced into therapy by her parents, who were just trying to be parents, and how it ended up being helpful to a certain degree. She talks about prom night, and how her date — who was a classmate she was friendly with — made some harmless comment that she can’t even remember anymore that sent her spiraling down and how she cried in the bathroom for 30 minutes in her navy blue dress. 

She talks. And continues talking. And Will just listens, sometimes chiming in for a clarifying question but mostly letting her speak. She sees the warmth and love in his eyes even over the phone, especially as she wipes tears away with her sweatshirt sleeve. His sweatshirt, actually. And he’s still looking at her like that as she talks about the worst and ugliest parts of herself. 

Even then, she’s a bit terrified once she’s signaled that she’s finished and they’re in silence as Will formulates his thoughts. 

“Thank you for telling me all that and trusting me with it,” he starts. “I know that’s not easy. Thank you.”

“I should’ve told you earlier.”

“Hey,” he chides gently. “None of that, okay? I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t talk to me about it.”

She waves him off. “It’s not your fault. I don’t know. I just-it’s hard to talk about, you know? And when it’s not really showing itself, it doesn’t really come to mind to talk about it.”

“Did, last year…did I miss something?” Will runs a hand through his hair. “Were you struggling with the anxiety a lot and I just didn’t notice?”

Her heart splits in half at how broken Will sounds at the idea of him not noticing something. She wants to shake him and make him understand that he’s noticed everything about her from the very first day. She rushes to assure him. “No, no. I mean, it never really goes away, but it didn’t really affect my day to day last year. Probably because of you, to be honest.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiles a little. “I don’t know. When I’m with you, it’s like my anxious thoughts just…disappear.”

Will bites his lip and tilts his head to the side. “I love you. I’m so sorry you’re going through all this and I can’t be there.”

“It’s okay,” she says. Because it is. It has to be. She smirks. “Leaving Ryan and Gabe to deal with it is kinda funny.”

Will snorts. “For you, maybe. Scared the shit out of me seeing Leno’s texts last night.”

“Sorry,” she says softly.

His voice also softens. “Don’t be. I’m glad he did.”

“You have really good friends, Will. I’m glad they’re mine, too.”

“Me too,” he grins. “He mentioned you’re grabbing breakfast later?”

She looks at the time on her phone. “Yeah. I should probably actually get ready for that. You have a game today, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Against Dallas.”

“Shit,” she curses. “I’m sorry for waking you up early. I know you like sleeping in on game days.”

“I’m the one who told you to wake me up and I was already half awake anyways,” Will says softly. “Any plans after breakfast?”

Danielle shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably take it easy. I don’t have much homework this weekend, somehow. It’s nice out today, so maybe read a book outside or something. I’ll try to catch the game tonight before I end up asleep.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Uh, yeah I do,” she says with a ‘duh’ voice. “I barely get to watch you as is. I’ll at least watch the first period.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I’m your girlfriend, dumbass,” she deadpans. “What kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t watch your games when I can?"

“There she is,” he beams. “You’re back.”

“What? Because I’m being mean to you?”

“Exactly.”

“You need to stop spreading that around, dude,” Danielle says with an eye roll. “Your teammates are gonna think I’m the devil.”

“I think they actually would like you more because you’re mean to me,” he says. “Speaking of, Mack keeps asking when he’s gonna meet you.”

Danielle straightens up. “Oh, actually. I talked to my mom the other day about winter break plans.”

Will lights up. “And?”

“I think I can swing a few days after Christmas.”

“Into New Year’s?”

Danielle chuckles, eyebrows raised. “You sound excited about that.”

“I wanna give my girlfriend a New Year’s kiss, sue me,” he shoots back, before softening. “Really? You’ll come?”

“If you’ll have me.”

He snorts. “As if I wouldn’t. Let me know dates when you can and I’ll let Patty and Christina know, yeah?”

She grins. She’s missed him so much. “Yeah.”

“I’ll call you before the game, okay? Tell Lean and Gabe I said hey and thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“For looking out for you when I can’t.”

She nods with a close-lipped smile. “I’ll talk to you later. Love you.”

“Love you too,” he blows a kiss into the phone before Danielle’s staring at herself again. 

She takes a deep breath, looks at the time, and shoots a text to Gabe and Ryan saying she’ll be there in 15 minutes. Ryan sends her the location of the cafe and she almost rolls her eyes. He’s so predictable. 

As she’s literally steps away from the cafe, she hears her name. Turning around, she hesitates. Why does this guy look so familiar?

He clocks the confused look on her face. “I’m James. I’m on the hockey team. We met last night. Kinda.”

She groans. Had she realized she was going to be around hockey so much, maybe she would’ve gone somewhere else for college. “You were the one who saw me throw up.”

A wry grin comes on the freshman’s face. “I am.”

“Sorry,” she sticks her hand out. “I’m Dani. But you already know that.”

Lucky for her, he plays along, shaking her hand with a friendly smile. “It’s nice to meet you. Officially. You headed to meet Gabe and Lean?”

“How did you know?”

He holds up his smoothie that she hadn’t noticed before. “Was just there. They practically shooed me out the door, said the empty seat was for you and no one else.”

She feels a pang of guilt. “You can come with me and eat with us. I don’t mind.”

He shrugs with an easy smile, “Nah. We’ll just hang another time.”

There’s something about James that’s different from his teammates. Something quieter and sharper. In his introduction. The way he stopped her in the street. In his lack of judgement. 

So she grins easily. “I’ll get your number somehow.”

“Ask Will, he has it.” he says with a wry grin. Danielle doesn’t know why, but that confuses her momentarily, before she realizes that oh, yeah. Of course. Hockey is just one small circle. She’s slowly learning that. 

She just nods, before James nods back and walks away. She shakes her head at herself before continuing to walk into the cafe. 

*****

“Yeah, I can give you Jimmy’s number,” Will says with a laugh, the shaky connection clipping the end of it. “Should I be worried?”

“You should ask him what I looked like when I was throwing up,” she responds dryly, smiling as her response makes Will laugh. She tilts her head to the side, briefly admiring him getting dolled up in his suit for the game. 

“Trick question,” he says. “Because he’d probably say you still looked pretty.”

“Relax,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

“I feel like you’re almost looped into the circles more than you were when I was there.”

She shrugs. “It’s just happening, I guess. We were still so new last year too during the season. Plus, I don’t know. They miss you. I think having me around helps with that, or so I’ve been told.”

“Jokes on me. They’re gonna eventually like you more than they like me and I’ve known a lot of those guys for years.”

“Probably,” she changes the subject. “You should wear the pink tie with that.”

He looks up while buttoning up his shirt. “Yeah?”

“It would go well with that shade of blue.”

He disappears from the frame for a second before coming back with the tie. “Thanks, baby. You have good taste.”

“I have passable knowledge of color theory,” she corrects. “You have more style than I do.”

“Hey,” he protests, looping the tie around his neck with a pout. “I love your style. Like when you put your hair up with all your claw clips.”

“I got a new one the other day, actually,” she rushes out of the frame to her dresser to grab the lemon claw clip. “I saw it on Newbury Street when I went last week with Tracy.”

Will looks up and smirks as he’s tying his tie, hands twisting in ways that can only look so natural as someone who’s been tying that kind of fabric for years. “You? Buying something? On Newbury Street?”

“I know, I know,” she drawls. “I’m losing my touch. But it was a cute pop-up and they were having a sale, and I don’t know, been a rough week.” 

He snorts, happy that even through the worst, his girl can still throw witty comments around like nothing. “I love it. It’s cute. Very you.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Really?”

“Yeah. Girly and bright and sunshine on the outside. Brash and harsh and blunt like a hockey player the second you talk. Like a lemon. The sweet and sour thing.”

She just stares at him for a second before letting out a bark of laughter. “That was bad. You’re fucking impossible.”

“Oh yeah?” His eyes glint with mischief and love. “But you still love me, so what does that say about you?”

Danielle sighs. “Alright. This is all you’re getting for a pre-game pep talk. Send me James’s number when you can. Don’t crash your car.”

“You didn’t even give me a pep talk.”

“Exactly. It’s not like you need it, cocky ass.”

“Rude,” he adjusts his tie and tugs at his hair one last time. “Do I look okay?”

“You look great,” she blows a kiss at the screen. “Good luck. I love you. I’m gonna grab a quick dinner and then tune in.”

“I’ll score just for you.”

“Sure, dude.” The last thing she hears before she hangs up is his laugh. 

*****

(“Dude, come on,” Macklin whines one day as he and Will’s legs are dangling from the perch they’re on, overlooking the ocean after a lunch of delicious tacos.

Will locks his phone and looks up. “What?”

“You’re texting Dani again, aren’t you?”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Will responds with a tinge of sharp defensiveness. 

“What’s wrong,” Macklin starts with an exaggerated eye roll, “is that you keep saying that I’ll get to meet her over the phone but it hasn’t happened yet.”

Will’s shoulders drop and he chuckles. “That’s it? You’ll see her during New Year’s.”

“That’s still a month away,” Macklin says.

“Jesus, you’re whiny,” Will rolls his eyes, unlocking his phone again. He does the quick math. She should be out of her morning class. Without another word, he clicks on the FaceTime request. Macklin lights up. 

Within two rings, Danielle’s face pops up, sipping some sort of coffee. “Hey, dude.” She then registers Macklin next to him and grins. “Oh! Hi. I don’t think we’ve met yet.”

“Hi!” Macklin says with the excitement of a toddler. “I’m Macklin.”

“I know,” she says wryly. “Will talks about you all the time. I’m Danielle. You can call me Dani, though.”

Will chuckles. “Hi baby. You just get out of class?”

“Yup,” she says. “What are you two up to?”

He flips the camera momentarily. “By the beach. Just had tacos for lunch.”

“Yum,” she hums. “What kind?”

“Mack got chicken. I got steak.”

“That honestly sounds so good. Maybe I’ll get tacos for dinner.”

“Nope,” Will says, causing Danielle to give him a confused look. Will just smiles easily. “You told me to remind you that you have leftovers your mom brought to you when she saw you a few days ago, remember?”

She groans. “Fuck, you’re right.”

Macklin, who has been listening in peak interest, smirks slightly. “Gross. You’re that kind of couple.”

Will shoves the younger Canadian, who just giggles. “And what does that mean, Mack?”

“Lay off him, Will,” Danielle says, before turning her attention back to Macklin sweetly. “That goal you had against Calgary was super good yesterday.”

The younger boy’s eyes light up. “You watch the games?”

“As many as I can,” Danielle says, amused. “You were alright too, Will.” Will just rolls his eyes. “I’ll let you guys enjoy your beach view. Call me later?”

Will nods. “Of course.”

“Give Mack my number too. We can talk shit about you.”

Macklin cackles even as Will hangs up the phone.)

*****

When Danielle touches down in San Jose, she feels like she’s lived seven lives. Though, she’s never travelled well on planes so it shouldn’t be a surprise to her. 

She feels gross as she stands in the plane’s aisle, earbuds in as she waits to get off the plane and into the San Jose sun and most importantly, to Will. The first thing she’s going to request is a coffee so she can make the best out of her time here. 

As soon as she’s off the plane, she practically running towards the arrivals, knowing that Will is waiting. Her eyes dart around before she spots him with a bright smile on his face, dressed in all black trying to stay incognito. 

To Danielle, his curls will always give him away. 

She practically runs over and lets out an uncharacteristic squeal as she pulls him into a tight hug. He holds her close, tucking his face into her hair. 

“Hi,” she chuckles, leaning back and giving him a quick kiss. 

“Hi baby,” he rushes out, holding her face in his hands, eyes bright and scanning her face. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“I am too. I feel gross though.”

“You look beautiful.”

She rolls her eyes. “Kissass.”

“We’ll stop by the house first so you can drop your stuff off?” Will suggests, swinging her duffle over his shoulder as they head outside. 

“Yeah,” she says softly. She looks at him for a moment before leaning into his side, to which he grins at. “Missed you.”

“Missed you,” he echos.

“Wait,” she says, causing them to stop and Will to look at her worriedly. She just grins sheepishly. “Can we get coffee first?”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I already grabbed you one on my way here. With an almond croissant too. It’s in the car.” She stares at him and her stomach flips. Her throat feels wonky and she opens her mouth to say something but nothing comes out. He just grins. 

When they get in the car, Will just turns to her and smiles. In the middle of chewing on her croissant, she gives him a look. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, grin still on his face. 

Skeptical, she shoves him lightly. “What?”

“I love you.”

She chuckles a bit. “I love you too.”

“No, like,” he swallows, grabbing her hand that’s not holding the croissant and rubbing his thumb on the ring he gifted her earlier this year. “I really love you.”

“Don’t you dare tell me-”

He rolls his eyes, “Of course I’m not proposing to you.”

“I’m just making sure!”

He shakes his head fondly, wiping the corner of her mouth because of a stray croissant piece. “I’ve missed you so much.”