Page 9

LIAM

E arly November in Boston means two things…

The air turns sharp enough to bite through your thickest sweater, and hockey season hits full throttle.

It's Saturday afternoon, three days after our second podcast episode went live, and I'm kneeling by the home bench, retying my skates for the third time.

Pregame superstition.

Three tight loops on the left, two on the right.

Connor taught me that when I was twelve.

"Sullivan, you planning to actually play today, or just fondle your laces until puck drop?" Coach Murphy barks from behind me.

I stand to my full height and grab my stick." Just making sure everything's tight, Coach.”

"Well, tighten up your defense while you're at it. Hartford's center has been averaging two goals per game."

"Not today he won't," I assure him, scanning the gradually filling stands out of habit.

That's when I see her.

Piper.

Sitting halfway up the home section, bundled in a UB scarf and beanie, looking ridiculously out of place among the rowdy hockey fans.

Her chestnut hair spills out from under the beanie, and she's clutching a notebook like it's a life preserver in shark-infested waters.

My jaw tightens.

“Ay, bruh. Is that... Piper?" Kellan asks, following my gaze as he skates over. “What’s she doing here?”

“Watching the game, apparently.”

"Derek know she's here?"

"No idea," I mumble. “She's probably just doing research for the podcast."

Kellan smirks. "Yeah, 'research.’” He claps my shoulder. “Well, don’t let ‘research’ keep you from keeping your head in the game, Sullivan."

Ryan skates past, following our sightline. "Holy shit, is that Pipe? She's actually watching hockey? Voluntarily?"

I force my attention back to the ice. “You bastards need hobbies. Let's just play."

The whistle blows, and we take our positions for warmups.

I deliberately avoid looking at the stands again, focusing instead on the familiar rhythm of blades on ice, the satisfying thwack of pucks against the boards.

But knowing she's watching makes every movement feel strangely performative.

Ninety brutal minutes later, we've demolished Hartford 4-1, with an assist from yours truly that had even Coach Murphy nodding in approval.

The locker room buzzes with post-win energy as we shower and change, Derek retelling the story of his second-period goal.

“Yo, Thompson, your sister's waiting outside," one of the freshmen calls as I'm pulling on my boots.

Derek's head whips up. "My sister's here?"

"Uh, yeah? Said she's waiting for Sullivan."

Ryan catches my eye across the room, barely concealing a grin that makes me want to jam my hockey stick down his throat.

I try to play it cool. “Probably for… podcast stuff?”

Derek's eyes narrow. "What podcast stuff? I thought you said you weren't doing that again."

I wince, remembering my declaration about staying away from the radio station. "Yeah, about that..."

"You told me—and I quote—'I'm probably never going to get within 10 feet of that podcast again,'" His frown deepens. “What happened to focusing on hockey?"

“Bro, don’t get your jockstrap in a twist, alright?” I sigh. “Look, the station offered us a regular slot. Looks great to scouts, you know? Shows I'm well-rounded.”

"Well-rounded.” He blinks. “With my sister."

“Trust me,” I insist, feeling the eyes of our teammates bouncing between us like a tennis match. “This doesn’t have shit to do with your sister. She likes me just about as much as Ryan here likes washing between his own ass cheeks.”

“Hey!” Ryan calls out.

"Relax, Thompson," Kellan interrupts, nudging Derek’s shoulder. “Unlike you uncultured swine, I listened to their last podcast, and lemme tell you: Your sister would rather lick a leper than hang out with this one voluntarily.”

Derek doesn't look convinced, but nods reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He glances up. “I’m sure you just being you really pisses Piper off.”

I grab my bag. “I think if your sister could volunteer me for sterilization, she would, Thompson.” I reach out with a fist. “You’ve got nothing to worry about besides maybe bailing her out of jail for manslaughter.”

He bumps my fist with his own. “Good thing I’ve got some savings to post it, just in case.”

Derek gets back to undressing and I head for the door, my steps seemingly heavy with every footfall I take.

They grow even heavier when I find Piper standing just outside the arena entrance, still clutching her notebook.

Her high cheekbones are pink from the cold, her chocolate-brown eyes unblinking behind dark lashes.

She offers me a small smile when our gazes meet. “Hey.”

I hoist my hockey bag higher. “Hey yourself.”

"Good game. I think. I mean, you won, so... good, right?"

"We did indeed win.” I grin. “So, what brings you to my natural habitat, Thompson? Studying jocks in the wild?"

"Actually, yes." She falls in step beside me as I start walking toward the parking lot. "I was observing team dynamics for our next podcast topic. The way you all communicate without words, anticipate each other's movements... it's fascinating from a relationship perspective."

"Is it now?"

"It is." She looks up at me, brown eyes bright. "And it gave me an idea for our first official 'Love Lab Experiment.'"

I stop walking. "Our what now?"

"Love Lab Experiment. Think of it as…practical exercises to test relationship theories in controlled settings."

"There is absolutely nothing about that sentence that doesn't terrify me."

She sucks her teeth. "Don't be dramatic. It's just applied research. And our first experiment starts right now."

"Now? I just played a full hockey game. I'm starving, sweaty, and?—"

"Perfect.” Grabbing my elbow, her gloved fingers press into my coat sleeve, and I feel the contact like a brand despite the layers between us. "We're going to Beans & Brews. It's crowded this time of day, which is ideal for the parameters."

"Parameters,” I repeat as she steers me toward campus like a scolded two-year-old. "Of course there are parameters."

Twenty minutes later, we're seated in the university's most popular coffee shop, surrounded by students hunting for Saturday study spots.

The warm, coffee-scented air is a stark contrast to the biting cold outside, and I've shed my coat to reveal the UB Hockey sweatshirt beneath.

Her beanie now removed, Piper sits across from me, shaking her chestnut brown hair around her shoulders.

The strands are heavy. And thick.

They look soft, I think to myself.

On top of that, the color seems to match the light dusting of freckles across her nose I’ve only noticed until now.

"Here's the experiment.” She slowly stirs a packet of sugar into her latte like a chemist making a concoction. "We're going to practice active listening techniques while pretending to be a couple."

I nearly knock over my black coffee. “Pretending to be a what now?”

“A couple," she repeats calmly. "Research shows that couples who employ active listening techniques have 32% higher relationship satisfaction rates. We'll role-play the techniques, then discuss our observations on next week's episode."

"And we have to pretend to be dating because...?"

"Because the context matters for authenticity," she explains, and I start feel like that two-year-old child again. "Don't worry…Not like I’m going to jump you under the table or anything."

The mental image her words conjure makes me take another hasty sip of scalding coffee.

I eye over the ceramic mug. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

She blinks. “As a heart attack.”

I set down my cup. “Then…alright, I guess. What's active listening involve, exactly?"

"First, maintaining appropriate eye contact," she begins, her gaze locking with mine.

Her eyes are actually more interesting than I realized.

Dark brown, yes, but with shimmers of amber near the pupils.

"Second, reflective responses that validate the speaker's feelings," she continues. "And third, asking thoughtful follow-up questions rather than immediately shifting to your own experience."

"So... basic human conversation?"

"You'd be surprised how few people actually do this effectively." She smooths her notebook page. "Let's start. Tell me something important to you, and I'll demonstrate proper technique."

I hesitate, suddenly aware that most of my go-to conversation topics are either hockey or jokes.

Neither seems appropriate for whatever this is.

"I'm hoping to play hockey professionally," I finally say, figuring it's safe territory. "After graduation. There are scouts watching our games this season."

She nods, leaning forward slightly. "That must create a lot of pressure. How does it feel knowing your performance now could affect your future career?"

The question is unexpectedly thoughtful, avoiding the usual "that's cool" or "you're definitely good enough" responses I typically get.

"Honestly? Terrifying," I admit, surprising myself with the candor. "My brother was supposed to be the NHL player in the family. After he died, it somehow became my responsibility to fulfill that dream, and sometimes I'm not sure if I'm playing for me or for him."

Piper's eyes widen slightly. "Your brother..."

"Connor.” My throat works. “He died six years ago. Skiing accident."

She blinks. Once, then twice. "That's why you were so good with that caller. About the…sister.”

I shrug, reaching for my mug again. "Maybe."

Her hand moves across the table, not quite touching mine but close enough that I can feel its warmth. "I get it, you know. Trying to live up to someone who's gone."

I glance up. “Your mom?"

She nods. "Heart attack when I was sixteen. She was this brilliant journalist, always talking about the big stories she'd cover someday. The fellowship I'm applying for? She was shortlisted for it before she died."

“Mmm. Following in her footsteps, huh?”

"Partly," she admits. "It's like...carrying her torch, I guess. Stupid, right?"

"Not stupid.” My fingertips tap on the mug. “I get it. More than most people would."

For a moment, we just look at each other, the silence turning into taffy between us.

And as it stretches, I notice the heart shape of her rosy mouth, the button-tip of her nose. The stubborn set of Piper’s chin.

They all…work.

For all of Piper’s…drawbacks, she is attractive. Very fucking attractive.

In the back of my mind, I knew. But sitting here, watching her, it’s more than evident than ever.

The coffee shop noise fades to background static as I register how close our hands are on the table, how easy it would be to bridge that small gap.

"Well," she says abruptly, straightening. "That was... good active listening. Very effective technique demonstration."

Just like that, professional Piper is back.

"Glad to be of service," I reply, trying to match her shift in tone. "Do we get participation trophies for this experiment, or...?"

A hint of a smile. "We'll discuss the results on Tuesday's prep session."

As we gather our things to leave, I notice several students watching us with poorly concealed interest. One girl is definitely taking a photo.

"I think we've got an audience," I murmur, nodding subtly toward them.

Piper follows my gaze and sighs. "Great. More fodder for the 'shipping' community."

"The what now?"

"Don't ask.” She pulls on her coat. "Abigail will explain it with far too much enthusiasm if you're curious."

Outside, the late afternoon sun paints a golden glow across the brick pathways.

We stand there, and it almost feels as if the brick is quicksand. I can’t seem to move. Or speak.

"Thanks," Piper says finally. "For... participating. I know it's not exactly how hockey players typically spend their post-game hours."

"You mean they don't all engage in awkward relationship science experiments? I'm shocked."

She smiles—a real one this time—and that button nose of her twitches.

"See you Tuesday?" she asks.

"Yeah," I nod. "Tuesday."

I watch her walk away, her chestnut ponytail swinging with each step.

I don’t realize I’m still watching her until she turns a corner and she’s gone.