(Max’s POV)
"My legs are done." One of the guys dropped onto the bench across from me, yanking at his laces like they’d personally wronged him. "Cross ran us into the ground today."
"He does that when he’s pissed." Another voice, from somewhere near the lockers, not bothering to lower itself. "Somebody wanna tell Marcus what happens when he benches somebody halfway through?"
"Not touching that." Marcus, from further down, and a couple of guys laughed.
I kept my head down, working my own skates off slower than everyone else, shoulder throbbing under the pad every time I moved wrong.
Two lockers down, fabric rustled — Lucian pulling his jersey off, and I looked up without deciding to.
I looked away just as fast, focus dropping hard onto the laces in my lap.
"You good?" Knox dropped onto the bench beside me, towel around his neck, watching me with a grin that had already caught more than I wanted it to.
"Fine."
"You sure? You’ve got a face like you just saw a ghost."
"I said I’m fine."
"Uh-huh." He didn’t push it, which was somehow worse than if he had. "Cap check that shoulder before he benched you, or did he just decide you were done for dramatic effect?"
"He checked it."
"He checked it." Knox repeated it slow, like he was turning the words over for something hidden underneath them. "Didn’t know Cross did house calls."
"Max."
I looked up. Lucian stood at the end of the row, bag over one shoulder, hair still damp, that flat unreadable look back in place like it had never slipped at all.
"Let’s go."
"I have class." The words came out fast, faster than I meant them to. "International trade. Across campus."
"I’ll drive you."
"It’s fine, I’ll walk."
Something moved behind his eyes, there and gone, too quick to name, and his jaw ticked once before he answered. "Suit yourself."
He turned and was gone before I’d even gotten my second shoe on, the door swinging shut behind him hard enough that a couple of guys glanced up from their own lockers.
"Well." Knox stood, stretching, entirely unbothered. "Guess I’m your ride to lunch, then. You eaten?"
"Not since this morning."
"Tragic. C’mon." He grabbed his bag, already walking. "I’m paying, before you even open your mouth to argue."
"I wasn’t going to argue."
"You were absolutely going to argue. I can see it on your face." He held the door for me, smirking. "You’ve got a very readable face, has anyone ever told you that?"
"No."
"Well, you do. It’s a problem for you."
We came out into the hallway just as Lucian disappeared through the far doors, not looking back once. I watched the doors swing shut behind him a beat too long.
"There it is again." Knox’s voice, amused, right beside my ear.
"There’s what again?"
"The face."
"I don’t have a face."
"Everyone has a face, Max. Yours just does a lot of talking." He grinned, pushing through the exit into the cold afternoon air. "C’mon. Food. You can tell me all about your very complicated non-feelings over fries."
The cafeteria was loud, trays clattering, half the tables already full. Knox cut through the line like he owned it, ordering for both of us before I could get a word in.
"Grilled chicken, extra fries on his." He nodded at me without waiting for confirmation. "He took a hit today. He needs the calories."
"I can order my own food."
"You can. You’re just slow at it." He was already swiping his card at the register, waving off my hand reaching for my wallet like it was an insult. "Sit. I’ve got this."
We found a table by the windows. Knox dropped into his seat and immediately stole a fry off my tray before I’d even sat down properly.
"Hey."
"Tax," he said, mouth full. "For the coaching. And the sandwich. And emotional support."
"You didn’t give me emotional support."
"I’m giving it right now." He gestured at himself with the stolen fry. "This is emotional support. Look at me, supporting you."
I huffed something close to a laugh, and he grinned like he’d won a prize for it.
"So." He leaned back, arms crossed, all mock-casual. "You and Cross."
"There’s no me and Cross."
"Didn’t say there was. I said you and Cross, like — the whole thing. The benching. The house calls. The ’let’s go’ ’no I have class’ standoff back there." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Didn’t peg him as the protective-big-brother type. Guy barely talks to anyone. Didn’t think he had it in him to care that much about somebody he’s known a month."
"He’s not protective. He’s annoyed. There’s a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes."
"Huh." Knox didn’t look convinced, but he let it drop, stealing another fry. "Okay. Annoyed. Got it."
"Stop stealing my fries."
"Buy your own next time." He said it without an ounce of remorse, already reaching for a third.
I swatted his hand away before he could, and he laughed, loud enough that a couple of people at the next table glanced over.
"You’re doing the face thing again," he said, still grinning.
"I’m not."
"You’re thinking about something you don’t want me asking about." He held both hands up before I could argue. "Relax. Not asking. Eat your food before I decide to make it my business."
"You already made it your business."
"That’s different. That’s called caring." He kicked my foot lightly under the table. "Eat."
I ate. He talked about practice, about some away game next month, about a professor he hated, filling the silence easily, effortlessly, the way people who’d never once worried about being too much always could.
I laughed more in twenty minutes with Knox than I had in three weeks with anyone else in this city.
I didn’t let myself think too hard about why some small, stubborn part of me kept glancing toward the door anyway, half-expecting someone else to walk through it.