Chapter 3 BREAKAWAY

We drive for two hours with nothing but the grind of tires and a slow drip of coffee going tap, tap, tap under my sneakers.

The van smells sour, sharp Jack's coffee, still clinging to the air.

Sometimes he looks over like he's gearing up to apologize or crack a joke, something to make the mess funny, but I lock my eyes on the window and pretend I'm asleep.

At the rest stop, I barely let Jack see my face. I just grab my bag, head for the buzzing neon-lit bathroom, and change out of my jeans so quick I almost rip the zipper.

The smell's stuck though, all burned and bitter. Jack hands me a half empty napkin pack, like it's going to fix anything. I watch them drop into the sink, limp and useless.

Nobody talks much after that. Some fake sleep, others pretend to scroll their phones. Breath fogs the glass, loose fields dragging past. The van turns into its own little planet, full of static and stale air.

Then, of course, Jay can't take it anymore. He starts humming, loud and wild, nothing in tune. Sam pegs a gummy bear at his head.

Jay ducked, grinning, and starts up louder, his feet drumming on the floor. The humming turns into our team anthem ancient, cheesy. I recognize the beat. Sam cuts in, turning it into a duet, and both idiots look straight at me.

"Victory's frozen in our blood! Knights don't break, we rise above!"

Now half the van's in on it, banging seat-backs, toes stomping. Someone whacks the back of my seat at every 'rise above,' and the harmony falls apart on purpose.

Jay belts out, "Rinaldi plays like he's got SKATES FOR HANDS—"

Sam cackles through the next line, everyone's faces craned toward mine.

I grind my teeth, glare over my shoulder. "Maybe try playing after you've been turned into radiator soup."

Sam waves his hands in front of his nose. "Wish you hadn't reminded us. Coach, crack a window before I suffocate."

Jay pushes his luck, singing, "Jack runs hot and spills a lot, but Luca gets the coffee shot!" The whole bus becomes their stage. Even Coach, stoic and tired, fights a smile. "Long drive ahead," he mutters into his clipboard.

Jack sneaks a sideways look at me, more thoughtful than smug. "Didn't know our star could headline a ballad," he says, not loud but not just for me.

I snort. "It's not art if you can't spell my name right."

Jack charades heartbreak. "I save my best sonnets for my rivals."

I elbow him. Not too hard. But just enough.

By the time we get to the training center, snow falls lazy and silent, flakes fat enough to swirl in the headlights.

The building towers over us, glass shining under banners and college flags. For a moment, everything sings of clean starts and nerves.

Mrs. Rayburn's already barking orders: "Bags out! Roster in hand! If you drop anything, I'll feed it to a snow blower." Her clipboard points every direction at once.

Inside, it's chaos. Gear bags pile up. Staff in matching jackets push us along with fake smiles. A couple college guys lounge above the lobby, watching us like they're talent scouts, already sizing me up.

Jack slides his bag right next to Coach. He pulls out the roster like he owns it: "Listen up!" He has this clear, ringing voice that everyone automatically tunes into. "Room assignments. Keys only if you promise not to swap Jay and Sam, I see you."

Jay yells, "Not yet, Captain!" and Sam shoves him toward the elevators. Jack continues, cool as a card dealer.

"Willis and Burr, 205. Taylor and Mark, 206 yes, co-ed, try not to set the fire alarm off." Nervous laughs.

He finds my key, flips it so it spins across his knuckles. "Rinaldi 208. Top-floor. Royal treatment." He tosses it, a perfect arc that lands in my palm.

"Roommate?" I ask, voice flat. I don't need drama. Not tonight.

He just smirks, all dimples and secrets. "Guess you'll see. Good luck, Luca."

Elevator's slow. Buttons sticky with old gum. I turn my card over and over, fighting the urge to second-guess every detail.

The hallway's empty, echoes swallowed by blue-grey carpet. I open the door.two beds, twin blue covers, window overlooking a cracked parking lot.

The air smells of cold detergent and hockey tape.

I line my shirts up, stack my gear to the left, and keep my back to the door. I don't want company don't need it.

Footsteps. Voices. Keys jangling.

I let out a slow breath.

Whoever walked through that door, at least it wouldn't be—

The handle turned.

The door swung open.

Jack Carter walked in carrying his duffel.

He stopped.

I stopped.

The air between us turned to glass.

"You." The word came out flat, dead. Like I'd just watched my season end in the first period.

Jack's grin flickered. Just for a second. Then he recovered, all that easy charm sliding back into place like a mask. "Look at that. Room 208."

I didn't move. Didn't blink. "Tell me you asked for this."

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

"Try me."

He dropped his duffel by the empty bed. The thud echoed off the walls. "I didn't ask. But I'm not exactly crying about it either."

My hands curled into fists at my sides. "Six months, Jack. Six months of your crap. And now I have to sleep three feet from you?"

"Relax. I don't snore."

"This isn't funny."

"No." He finally looked at me really looked. The smirk faded. "It's not. But it's what we've got, so maybe—"

"Maybe nothing." I turned my back on him, started yanking shirts from my bag. "You stay on your side. I stay on mine. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Don't breathe in my direction."

"Luca—"

"I mean it."

Silence. Heavy. Thick. I could feel him standing there, could feel the weight of whatever he was thinking. The heat from the vent kicked on with a low rumble, pushing stale air through the room.

Finally, his voice came again softer than before. "Look, I get it. The coffee thing. The bus. I know I'm not your favorite person."

I spun around. "You're not even a person I tolerate."

He flinched. Actually flinched. And for half a second, something flickered across his face that I'd never seen before. Not the joke. Not the mask. Something raw.

"Fine," he said quietly. "But we're stuck here, so maybe we figure out how to make this work. For the team."

"Don't pretend you care about the team. You only care about Jack Carter."

"That's not—"

"Shut up, Jack." My voice cracked on his name. "Just shut up and leave me alone."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand through his hair, the way he does when he's actually nervous.

Then weirdly he stepped closer. Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just... closer.

"Luca." He said my name like it cost him something. "I know you think I—"

BANG!

Coach's fist hit the door hard enough to rattle the frame. "Mandatory meeting! Five minutes! Move it!"

Jack's jaw tightened. He glanced at the door, then back at me. His eyes were dark now, stripped of all that theatrical bullshit.

"...Forget it."

He grabbed his jacket off the bed. Paused at the door. Didn't look back.

But his voice dropped so low I almost missed it.

"We're not done, Rinaldi."

Then he was gone, footsteps fading down the hall, swallowed by the echo of Coach's shouting.

I stood there, heart pounding, chest tight. The heater hummed. The window rattled in its frame. And I couldn't shake the feeling that something had just shifted. That Jack Carter had almost told me something real.

I grabbed my bag, slammed the door just a little too hard, and followed cold, furious, and unsettled in a way I couldn't explain.

Somewhere in this mess, one of us was going to lose.

I was absolutely certain it wouldn't be me.

Looking back...

I couldn't have been more wrong.