Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

By the time they reached 415 Elm Street, Milena was floating in that highly specific, dangerously pleasant space between her second and third drink. The humiliation of Professor Zhang’s lecture hall had officially dissolved into the cool November air. She felt invincible. She felt like a person who went to house parties.

The house smelled like stale beer, pine, and whatever cologne twenty college athletes collectively agreed to wear. Martin found them within thirty seconds of walking through the door, his voice booming over the bass-heavy speakers.

"Bea! You made it!" He caught Bea in a massive hug, immediately turning his megawatt smile to Milena and Mae. "And the roommates. I'm Martin. Kitchen's that way, keg is tapped but there's seltzer in the fridge."

"I'm going to find the seltzer," Mae yelled over the music. "Do not move!"

Milena did not move. She leaned against the hallway wall, sipping from a red Solo cup that had mysteriously appeared in her hand, content to just watch people. It was nice. She was normal. Everything was completely fine.

And then the front door opened again, and James Harvey walked in.

Milena stopped breathing for exactly two seconds.

She knew who he was. Of course she knew who he was. She sat in the third row of the student section every home game. She knew he led the team in primary assists. She knew he played right wing, she knew he had a habit of tapping his stick twice against the ice before a face-off, and she knew his points-per-game average was currently sitting at 1.4.

She had never, under any circumstances, planned to be in the same residential hallway as him.

He looked exactly like he did on the ice—quietly observant, moving through the chaotic space without actually letting it touch him. He was wearing a dark jacket over a white t-shirt, keys hanging from his fingers. He didn't yell over the music like Martin did. He just nodded at a few people, his dark eyes scanning the room until Martin clapped him on the shoulder.

"Harvey!" Martin turned back to the girls. "James, this is Bea, and... sorry, I didn't catch your name?"

Milena’s brain, which had successfully rebooted after the tequila, suddenly hit a fatal error.

"Milena," she said. Her voice sounded entirely too loud to her own ears.

James looked at her. He had very dark, very steady eyes. He didn't look through her the way a lot of guys at these parties did. He actually looked at her.

"Nice to meet you," James said. His voice was lower than she expected. Calmer.

"I," Milena started. She desperately needed to stop talking, but the three drinks had dismantled her emergency brakes. "I am going to the kitchen."

She pivoted so fast she nearly took out a floor lamp, fleeing into the crowd.

Milena woke up on Sunday morning, stared at the ceiling of her dorm room, and reconstructed the night in order.

The bad lecture. The bar. The party. Martin. The introductions.

The drinks.

The corner she backed herself into, where somehow, around midnight, James Harvey had ended up standing next to her while waiting for someone to finish using the bathroom.

Mae having a sudden migraine and taking an Uber home early.

Bea disappearing with Martin.

James looking at Milena, who was swaying slightly near the kitchen island, and saying, "Do you need a ride back to campus?"

The car ride.

Oh god. The car ride.

Milena sat up in bed.

She lay back down.

She did not move for eleven minutes. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn't stop the memories from playing behind her eyelids. She remembered the dashboard lights. She remembered him turning the heat on for her. She remembered herself saying—with complete, horrifying confidence—that his assist numbers this season were "criminally underreported by the student paper."

She remembered him smiling. Just a little bit. He hadn't stopped her.

She reached blindly for her phone on the nightstand.

The ice rink in the middle of a Sunday afternoon smelled exactly like Milena feared it would: frozen water, heavy gear, and the distinct, echoing silence of an empty arena.

James was waiting by the plexiglass near the benches, still half-dressed in his practice gear—black track pants, his padded undershirt, his skates making him look monstrously tall against the concrete walkway. He had a gray Stanford Hockey hoodie slung over his shoulder.

Milena stopped exactly three feet away. "Hi."

"Hey," James said. He didn't look amused, which was the worst-case scenario. He just looked... normal. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out her white card. The little picture of her from freshman year looked remarkably less sweaty than she felt right now. "Here."

"Thank you." She took it, making sure her fingers didn't touch his. "And really—I'm sorry about the car ride. I don't usually... talk that much. Or at all. My friends usually have to check my pulse."

James watched her for a second. His eyes were a very dark, quiet brown. "You said my assist numbers were criminally underreported."

Milena closed her eyes. "I was intoxicated."

"You used the word 'unconscionable' twice when talking about the Daily's sports section," he added, a tiny, barely perceptible twitch occurring at the corner of his mouth. "And then you fell asleep while explaining the physics of an edge-stop."

"I am currently looking for an opening in the earth to swallow me whole," she whispered.

James handed her the hoodie along with the ID. "You left your lanyard attached to it. It was caught on the seatbelt." He paused, adjusting his gear bag. "And for the record? The Daily does miss the second-assist tracking on away games. I checked this morning."

Milena blinked. "They do?"

"Yeah." He picked up his sticks. "See you around, Milena."