Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I'll see you after practice tonight, right, babe?” Abby asked, leaning over the back of the shitty dorm room couch. It had seen better days. Like, for real, how many people had hooked up on that thing? It deserved to be lit on fire. 

At least this year, he’d been upgraded to a suite. No more eight-by-ten-foot rooms with roommates who didn’t know how to take a shower. Now, he had a fancy-ass single room with a connecting living room, bathroom, and kitchen. There were two other rooms attached, but those roommates weren’t so bad. 

Besides, the huge, luxury (only in Pittsburgh College terms could it be called that, compared to the outside world, it was still a fucking dump ) helped with the ladies. Or maybe it was just Abby who seemed impressed with his living arrangement. Maybe she just liked to sleep over because it was closer to her studio art seminars, and she hated trekking across campus in the winter. 

Frank leaned back to look at her. His girl. Head cheerleader to his captain of the ice hockey team. She had brown hair that fell just above her perfect rack. Yeah, he was a lucky guy. Though, he barely looked away from the television—can’t pause the game, babe—to kiss her goodbye. 

There wasn’t a ton of time before practice. And he really should have been using that time to study or coach Robinavitch would be on his ass again about his sleeping GPA. At least he was still in good standing, or whatever his advisor called it. Instead, he watched replays of old games, analyzing tactics and brainstorming new plays. 

Frank Langdon was a star hockey player, but maybe not the best student. He could weave through an aggressive defense for a goal, but aceing a test? Not exactly his strong suit. In his senior year of college, or his fourth year as the coach liked to call it, because he was likely to see a fifth if he didn’t just “get it together already,” he’d been named team captain. A huge honor and something he probably should have taken more seriously. 

But unfortunately, while also a star, he was kind of an asshole, and a little bit of an idiot. They needed him to win, though, which meant he could get all the help he wanted studying for tests and working on homework. In fact, he was blowing off one of those team study sessions at that very moment. What about being a good role model for the team? Coach Robby would ask. He’d shrug, say something like Well, you put me in this position in the first place, and you already knew the type of student I am. So, not exactly the most productive conversation in the world. Still, he should have at least tried to give a shit about anything other than hockey. One percent of a shit would be an improvement, even. 

What the fuck was he supposed to do, though? When everything he’d tried to get his grades up had failed? Even those mandated study sessions hadn’t resulted in consistent improvements. Besides, if he met the school’s GPA requirements, did it really matter that much? As long as he passed his classes for the last two semesters, he’d graduate just fine. He couldn’t be that much of an idiot if that were the case. 

An alarm went off on the table next to the couch, reminding him that practice started in an hour. Without it, he’d easily forget. That’s the way his brain worked, sometimes. If he weren’t looking directly at a clock, time would fly by. All of a sudden, he’d be an hour late and getting reamed out by a teacher or a teammate or the coach himself. 

So, he tried to be early instead. Get a few minutes on the ice by himself. That really helped to clear his brain out, too. Get rid of all the stress on his shoulders. Slam a few pucks into the goal, and everything would probably be alright. 

Pittsburgh College’s campus was massive. About fifteen different dorm buildings and at least four sports centers. In sunny September, the campus was full of bright green trees and students who hadn’t fallen into burnout yet. Unlike him, his burnout hit by approximately the second day of the semester. Summer always went by too quickly. Unless you were taking summer classes, making up for poor grades the previous year. Which, of course, Langdon was.

The winter sports pavilion, however, was only about forty feet from his front door. Ideal, really. Especially when he had to sprint downstairs after oversleeping or losing track of time or whatever mistake he’d made on any given day. Really, why had Coach made him team captain? 

Now, however, he walked those forty feet at a leisurely pace. It was only September, but a light dusting of snow had fallen earlier in the day, and it was cold enough that the crewneck he wore didn’t exactly cut it. Thankfully, he was inside before the cold started to bother him. Not that the cold really did. Growing up playing ice hockey kind of numbs you to that kind of thing. 

Through the front doors of the winter sports pavilion, named after some legacy from fifty years ago who’d died when they built the place, Langdon made a beeline straight for the ice. All his gear was in a bag slung over his shoulder, anyway. So, no need to stop in the locker room. He had his trusty skates, worn and long-used but equally loved, his stick, a few extra pucks, and his training pads, and was basically ready to go.

As soon as his hand touched the handle of the glass door leading into the rink, he was annoyed. Classical music floated over the loudspeaker, soft and melodic. Fucking twirl girls. That’s what the rest of the team called them. Because Pittsburgh College wasn’t made of money, despite what the sprawling campus would have you believe, the winter sports pavilion shared its space with one other sport, to be exact. The figure skaters. AKA girls with unitards so far up their ass and no regard for a fucking schedule, apparently. They were always on his ice when they shouldn’t have been. And nothing pissed him off more than having to talk to them. He knew exactly who it was, too. The same entitled girl who was always stealing his pre-practice time. 

He threw open the door and jogged down a few steps. 

“Trinity, what the fuck?” he yelled, dropping his bag to the ground with an echoing clatter. The girl, whom he hadn’t even really looked at, turned toward him then. Okay. Not Santos. 

She was petit, much smaller than Trinity Santos (head bitch), but then again, they were all fucking tiny. This one had blonde hair pulled back into a bun. She didn’t wear anything sparkling, just a pair of plain black leggings and a long-sleeve shirt to match. Both incredibly tight. He pretended not to notice. Or, at least, he tried. 

He knew this girl. He didn’t like, know her name, or anything. But she looked familiar. Just before a string of apologies started tumbling off her lips—he could see them forming behind furrowed brows and a look of confusion—Trinity herself appeared from the stands. The music cut out. 

“Hey asshole,” she said, a smile to compliment her charming tone. “Forgot to check the schedule again?” Trinity Santos had pale skin and dark, nearly black hair. He reminded her, probably in personality more than actual looks, of a vulture. 

God, she was the fucking worst. So annoying. So entitled. Even worse was the number of classes they shared. “Team has practice in an hour. Not sure what you’re doing here, exactly,” he said, levying all his comments at her instead of this new girl, who looked much too nice to be a part of Trinity’s army. 

“Now I understand why you’re failing basic math. You never learned how to tell time,” she barked, marching around the inner ring of seats to flash her phone in his direction. “You don’t have practice for another two hours. Jackass.” 

Angry, mostly at Trinity and her ability to embarrass him with ease, he dug his own phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants. He pulled up the school portal and quickly found the rink’s calendar. He, too, showed her his phone. Specifically, he showed her the day’s calendar, which only showed the team’s practice later in the evening. 

“You didn’t reserve it either, smartass.” He raised a brow, challenging her. 

The new girl skated over to the boards, looking at Trinity first and then Frank. Back to Trinity again. “Is everything okay?” she asked, a hint of innocence in her voice. Much nicer than the way Trinity spoke to him, at least. 

“Yes. Just getting rid of Captain Jackass over here,” Trinity said, shooting him a glare. 

“Hey,” Mel said, looking in his direction once more with big, doe eyes. “I’m Mel. You must be Frank. Right?” 

Her voice was so sweet, so unlike Trinity’s that the difference almost gave him whiplash. “Langdon,” he said, giving her his entire attention, forgetting that his arch nemesis was even in the same room. “Most people call me Langdon.” 

“Most people call him Captain Jackass, actually,” Trinity commented, under her breath, but loud enough for both of them to hear it. She wasn’t exactly the queen of being subtle. 

“Nice to meet you, Langdon,” Mel said, a soft smile gracing her lips. 

Were these two friends? He couldn’t help but wonder. Why would someone so seemingly kind like her be friends with the ice queen herself? Or maybe they were just forced to be friends because they trained together. He didn’t know, and he probably shouldn’t have cared either. 

“You too, Mel,” he said, kindly. 

Trinity looked at him oddly, like she was seeing a new side of him. She snorted with forced laughter. “Didn’t know you had a nice bone in your body, to be honest.” 

“I’ve got plenty of nice bones,” he commented. 

“Yeah, I just thought they were all broken from throwing yourself around on the ice like an imbecile.” 

They could get into it for hours over which sport was better. At least Frank knew the truth in his own mind. Of course, it was hockey. It didn’t even compare to ice dancing or skating or whatever they preferred to call it. And he didn’t have to play with a tiny piece of lycra up his ass. Which, on its own, served him up the win. 

“Was there a problem? With the schedule?” Mel asked again in that soft, I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I don’t want to get into the middle of it, kind of voice. “I was just finishing up, really.” 

Trinity and Langdon both said, “Don’t worry about it,” at exactly the same time with deeply different inflections to their voices. Trinity’s said Don’t worry about him while Langdon clearly meant Don’t worry about being an imposition, if you’re already done. 

They glared at each other as soon as the words came out in perfect synchronicity. Langdon turned his gaze back on Mel in order to keep himself from yelling. “Usually, the team starts showing up about an hour before practice to warm up. I’m,” he winced and made a point to specifically not look at Trinity, “ extra early. So don’t worry about it. I can wait while you finish up. Or whatever.” 

Smooth, Frank. Really smooth. Okay, so, maybe sometimes he put his foot into his mouth in front of pretty girls. And she was definitely a pretty girl. Obviously, he had a girlfriend whom he loved, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get flustered. Besides, she was in skin-tight clothing and starting to take her hair down from its tight bun. Anyone would get flustered in his position. 

Trinity looked at him like he had three heads. “Captain Asshole has a heart, wow,” she said, words dripping with sarcasm. She could probably see through him like glass. Even more annoying. 

“I only need half the rink,” Mel chimed in. “If you want to use the other half, that is. I don’t mind sharing.” 

He looked at Trinity. “Finally, someone with a solution,” he jabbed, and she rolled her eyes. Usually, they just fought over the space until it was time for the person who’d actually reserved it to use it officially. A loss for both of them, yes. But at least they got to keep the other from winning out, too. 

Unfortunately, it was impossible to be mean to someone who looked like the human embodiment of Bambi. He offered a half smile, scooping up his bag and hopping over the board into the small area where the team’s bench sat. “Thanks,” he said, and had a feeling this would be the start of a much less annoying partnership than the one he had with Trinity. Maybe the start of the two teams even working together. But who was he kidding, really? 

Chapter Text

She had to admit, it was much more difficult to focus on landing jumps with the sound of Langdon's hockey stick slapping against the ice. The puck skidding along, sometimes crashing into the boards instead of the net, shook both her confidence and her laser focus. Trinity joined her on the ice, talking her through a few different step sequences first with words and then with a demonstration. No matter how many times she tried, she just couldn't nail it. Which, for Mel King, was the most frustrating thing in the universe.

Finally, with a sigh, Trinity said, "Wanna grab a coffee?" She nodded toward the stands, like let's get out of here.

"I really shouldn't have caffeine past 2pm," Mel said, breathing deeply after a few especially strenuous maneuvers. At least she didn't land on her butt. Trying to impress Trinity was hard work, and she was fairly certain she hadn't made a good first impression. She'd been skating since she was a kid, and her collegiate-level scores were certainly nothing to scoff at—but Trinity's were even better. And she'd even been invited to the US Figure Skating Championships, which Mel could only dream of. In fact, she dreamt of it often. Trinity hadn't won, but her scores were still impressive, especially for someone younger than herself. Not that age equaled talent, Mel knew, but she still found herself being envious of the younger skater before her. But maybe under Coach Collins and with Trinity's help, this could be her year. Just put in the work, she told herself, over and over again like a mantra. If you just put in the work, you can do anything.

Trinity laughed. It wasn't a joke. She'd been serious. Having caffeine too late really messed with her ability to sleep, and if she didn't get a full eight hours, it threw her entire schedule out of whack. "Herbal tea then," Trinity said, with a slight roll of her eyes. "My treat. Come on."

"Sure, yeah," Mel said, following her mentor—but not quite friend—off the ice. She turned back to look at the hockey player, Langdon, who'd stopped practicing and was following her with his eyes. Without hesitating, she raised a hand to wave goodbye, a pressed smile on her lips. He smiled too. His face was shiny, sweating. A few brown strands of hair fell over his eyes, and their eyes held for what some might consider a beat too long.

The pair sat in silence at a small coffee shop on campus, one of those ones where you can use your meal credits for snacks and drinks, and stuff. Trinity had ordered some large iced espresso drink that seemed like it contained both a thousand calories and way too much caffeine for the afternoon, and Mel got exactly what Trinity had suggested: a nice, unsweetened herbal tea.

"I saw you at Nationals last year—" Mel started to gush, wanting to talk about how she'd studied Trinity's routines afterward, and had even tried out some of her step sequences.

"Oh, god. So you saw me completely eat shit, then?" Trinity asked, a playful tone to her voice.

"No, I mean—" she tried again.

"It's fine," Trinity laughed. "I mean, I did eat shit. Really."

Mel remembered watching the routine, remembered seeing Trinity storm off the ice with what looked like tears in her eyes after a fall that prevented her from placing. If she had landed the move, she would have had a chance at third. However, that seemed like maybe something Trinity didn't want to talk about. Mel had enough insight to know not to put her foot entirely in her mouth. Though she did want to ask about how Trinity bounced back so fast. Falls and failures tended to put Mel on her ass metaphorically as well as physically. And sometimes, she had a hard time picking herself back up. A fall in her short program, for example, during the Eastern Sectionals the previous year, had only shaken her confidence, resulting in an even lower score for her free skate. Trinity had placed first. No falls for her.

"Part of the sport, right?" Mel said, uncertain how else to fill the silence that stretched out between them. "I must have fallen like, at least six times today," she said, forcing a bit of laughter, even though she was still deeply upset with herself.

"Don't beat yourself up about it," Trinity said, like she could see through Mel that easily. "Transferring to a new club takes some adjusting. I'm sure you'll be back to killing it soon enough. We just have to work on your confidence."

Trinity had enough confidence to go around, but Mel had never exactly gotten comfortable with the idea of everyone's eyes following her around the ice. She skated for herself, caring more about how it made her feel than actually performing for the people watching. It was the feeling of freedom, her skates on the sparkling ice, and how easy it felt to glide through the air. Almost like flying.

"Yeah, thanks," Mel said with a wavering smile.

"What was your last club like, anyway?" Trinity asked.

"Oh, I didn't really belong to a club. A few family friends coached me. I used a community rink." It had been a small operation, but everyone she'd trained with had been dedicated to her improvement. It had been sad to leave her small team behind, but they'd all wished her well, wanting her to succeed more than anything else.

"Wow, really? That's kind of insane," Trinity commented. "Being a part of a club, like Pitt, is going to change your life. Besides, Collins is a legend. She doesn't invest in anyone she doesn't believe in."

"Good to know," Mel said. The application process for Pittsburgh College had been a nightmare. Her anxiety hadn't let up until the very last second when she received her application letter and financial aid offer, complete with a full ride from the Figure Skating department. Getting into the school itself had been easy, but impressing Collins? That was another beast entirely. How many days had she spent working on her audition tapes, and how shaky had her hands been when she'd skated for Collins in person for the first time? But none of that mattered anymore, not when she was enrolled and ready to improve.

Changing the topic, she raised a brow at Trinity. "So what's the deal with the hockey team?" she asked. Honestly, she had been looking for the right moment to ask since the moment they'd sat down. That Langdon was strange. Handsome, so obviously handsome. But strange, equally. He'd been so different with her and Trinity. "You and that Langdon guy," she tried to say his name casually, like she didn't want to know every last detail about him. "You didn't seem to get along."

"Sharp eye, Mel," Trinity laughed. Mel smiled for a second before realizing her teammate was probably making fun of her. "Frank Langdon is the hockey team's captain and also a huge pain in my ass."

She assumed as much. But that didn't answer all the other questions she had about him. Ones that she couldn't really ask without admitting to finding him dreadfully gorgeous.

"He's always on our team about scheduling time to be on the ice, even though he never does. And he's dating this girl, Abby. Head cheerleader, thinks figure skating isn't a real sport. Super annoying," Trinity continued, fiddling with the straw in her coffee.

"If he gives you any trouble, let me know. I'll kick his ass for you," Trinity said. Mel didn't doubt that she'd actually do it. Though she had a feeling Langdon probably wouldn't fight back. Or maybe she was wrong. Hockey players were known for getting into all kinds of fights, weren't they? Shocking that he had all his teeth if that was the case. It was so very interesting, to Mel, how different the two sports were despite sharing the same home base.

"He was kind of nice to me," Mel said. His voice had turned much gentler when he'd spoken to her. The vitriol with which he'd spoken to Trinity seemed to melt away.

"Well, duh. You have this whole thing about you. It's impossible to be mean to you. It would be like bullying a kitten," Trinity teased.

She didn't love the analogy. After all, she was a fully grown adult. But she couldn't argue against it. She didn't want people to bully her. Especially not Langdon. Not the way he did Trinity. What were these thoughts? She was far too busy with the, well, everything going on in her life to even think about having a crush. Besides, hadn't Trinity just said he was dating some cheerleader?

"Right," Mel said, laughing in the way she always did when she didn't completely understand what someone was saying to her, whether it was a joke or a dig. Some things just went over her head, and not just because she was short. "Thanks for the tea, and the company, and the extra help with training, too. Really. I appreciate all of it." She glanced down at her phone, double-checking the time. "But I should really get going."

"Oh yeah, no problem. Happy to help or whatever. See you later?" Trinity said, standing up with Mel and walking to the exit, where they went in separate directions. Trinity deeper into campus, probably to some deluxe single suite she'd bribed the school to give her, and Mel off campus.

The day had already been insanely exhausting. Two back-to-back classes, team practice, and then extra training with Trinity. But none of that mattered. That tired feeling developing behind her eyes could only be pushed away or ignored. The few hours she got to spend with Becca were the most important of her day. She wouldn't miss out on them for anything.

"Mel!" Becca said, holding onto her backpack straps as she skipped down the steps and into her sister's arms.

"Hey Becca," Mel said, trying to inject some cheer into her otherwise tired voice. "How was your day?"

Before the move, Mel's life had been much more consistent, and she'd had the free time to care for her younger sister, spending every moment possible with her, even taking her to the rink when she trained and working on homework in any spare time around Becca's schedule. Moving to Pittsburgh, however, had been a big decision, for more than one reason. It not only meant uprooting Becca and moving her from the few friends she'd made back in Nebraska, but it meant enrolling her sister in a program that would allow Mel to have more freedom. And despite everything, the excitement of the move, the nerves of starting at a new school, and everything she felt about it—she was miles more concerned about Becca and how she was adjusting.

Because both sisters fell on the autism spectrum, change could be difficult. But Becca seemed to be taking the change in stride. She'd supported the decision from the get-go, wanting her older sister to chase her dreams. That didn't stop Mel from worrying. Worrying, after all, was etched deep into her DNA. Even while she'd been sitting in classes and twirling on the ice, she'd been thinking about Becca.

"It was great," Becca said. "Everyone is so nice, and there's this girl, Sasha, who's teaching me how to knit with my fingers."

"That's awesome!" Mel said, and she really meant it.

"What about you? How was your day? Did you nail that triple toe loop yet?" Becca asked, hopefully. She'd always followed Mel's scores. She could even guess, almost exactly, what her score would be—spotting all the deductions the judges would. That didn't mean she agreed with them, though. Becca would always give her full points.

"Not yet, but I'm working on it. Just for you," she said. "Should we grab a pizza? Maybe watch a movie?" Mel asked.

She tried not to think about the pile of assignments she had, all due by the end of the week. Getting a head start on those now would give her more time to train later. But no, sacrificing time with Becca was not the answer. Maybe there would be time between tutoring sessions at the student center, a work-study job she'd picked up in order to help with Becca's program payments and their bills. If she weren't meticulously organized and dedicated to her craft, she would have crumbled under all the pressure placed on her shoulders. But, for the most part, it had all been self-inflicted, and she refused to see caring for her sister as a burden, despite how much energy it took some days.

"Yes, please," Becca said, the notes of cheer in her tone enough to keep Mel's mood from crashing after the long day.

Back at home, after picking up an extra-large pepperoni pizza and plenty of sides to go with it, the girls watched The Princess Bride in their comfortable two-bedroom apartment—only a few minutes from campus. They'd both seen the romantic comedy hundreds of times, at least—it was Becca's favorite. So when Becca fell asleep on the couch, Mel didn't bother waking her. Instead, she used the moment of surprise free time to get a head start on those assignments, all the while thinking about the jumps she'd missed during practice and the way Frank Langdon had looked at her.

Chapter Text

"Langdon," Coach Robby said, just as he was making his way out of the locker room after a long, grueling practice. Working on plays for hour after hour instead of studying didn't have the intended effect. The team had been disorganized and out of sync. No one was where they were supposed to be when they were needed, and Langdon couldn't seem to get anyone to listen to him. Even his motivational speeches fell flat. So when Robby called his name with a set of raised brows and a hand held out toward his office, it wasn't exactly unexpected. Dreaded, yes.

"Take a seat," Robby said. They'd walked down the hall in complete silence, Langdon following Robby close behind. Robby closed the door behind them both and ushered the team captain toward a seat across from his desk. The coach's desk was lined with trophies and accolades from his years in charge. At least ten, but the number seemed to change every time someone asked. The walls were full of team pictures, school flags, and medals. There was a special case on the adjacent wall for championship trophies. The most recent one was dated before Langdon's freshman year. So, you could say the team had been in a bit of a slump. Langdon was supposed to change that this year. With the mess of a practice behind them, neither had the most hope.

Frank could see it on his face. The disappointment. All too familiar, nearly a mirror of his father's. You have to get your shit together, Frank, he would always say. If you don't make straight A's, we're not going to pay for your tuition. Well, jokes on them, because there wasn't an A in sight, and they hadn't stopped paying, either. Probably could thank his mom for that one. If she ever picked up the phone.

"Save the lecture," Langdon started, collapsing into the chair with a huff. He was already disappointed enough in himself, he didn't need to hear it from someone else too—especially not Robby. When your coach believes in you, you're supposed to step up. Langdon was trying his best, trying to fill the role he didn't understand why he'd been given. But something wasn't connecting. Maybe he wasn't the man for the job.

Robby sighed, too. Both exasperated by each other for different reasons. "No lecture, Langdon. Just wanted to check in. See how you're doing," he said, a hint of kindness to his voice, even if Langdon was blind to it, if he could only see the disappointment behind it all. No matter the words Robby spoke, he could only hear you're not good enough.

It was in that office, in front of Robby, that he'd made thousands of promises. I'll get my grades up. I'll whip the team into shape. I'll get us that championship trophy. So far, no dice.

But Robby leaned forward, scanning him as if with X-ray vision, like he could see everything under the act. It made Langdon deeply uncomfortable. Despite how hard he tried not to care, to show people that he didn't care, that failures rolled right off his back, Robby always knew the truth. That caring too much, really desperately caring about the outcome of things, was what broke him the most. Putting in effort to fail anyways? It crippled him. So, yeah. Sometimes he gave up. Sometimes he got mad.

"Yeah, everything's all good," Langdon said finally. He leaned back in the armchair, hands gripping the ends of each arm, loosening when he realized how tense it must have looked.

Robby didn't speak for a moment. Again, doing that over-analyzing thing, searching the captain's eyes, looking for the truth behind his flippant lies. "You sure?" he asked.

Fuck, man, he wanted to say. I don't know. But how do you communicate that you're a fuck-up that no one should waste time on to someone who's already wasted time on you? He couldn't find the words. It seemed like he could never find the right words. Even after taking English 101 twice. "No, yeah," he said in that sort of contradictory way, growing less confident.

"You can talk to me, Langdon. About anything. I'm your coach, that's what I'm here for."

I know that. Langdon sighed. He hated how well Robby knew him. Hated that it wasn't as easy as lying about his feelings to get out of a conversation. Hated that he was such a fuck-up, such a failure. "I'm going to get my shit together, really," he said, finally. How many times had he said those words, though? And how many times had he really, truly believed them? Only to fail anyway. Fuck.

"I believe you," Robby said, in the way that he always did. And he really meant it to, which sucked even more. "And I'm here to help, with whatever you need. I can set you up with a tutor or find one of the guys to help you with whatever class you're in. If you need a co-captain, I can make that happen, too. Anything else, just let me know."

A co-captain? What, did he think Langdon wasn't good enough to run the team by himself? See, this was the fucking problem. Langdon both loved and hated himself in equal measure. Both thought he was the best for the job and the worst. But those were his thoughts, when someone like Robby brought light to it—that hurt.

"It's fine," he said, through gritted teeth. He didn't want help. What he wanted was to figure shit out on his own. To be a good fucking player and captain as well as a, well, average student. He should be able to manage that. It shouldn't be that fucking hard. "I can figure it out."

Robby sighed. "There's nothing wrong with asking for help," he said.

It sure felt like there was. It felt like giving up.

"I don't need help," he said, stubborn as ever.

"You sure?"

Did Robby need to doubt every word that came out of his mouth? When he'd made the same promises before, probably. That didn't make it sting any less.

"Fuck," he said, dropping his head into his hands. "No. I'm not sure." Letting the words out, the ones he'd been wanting to speak aloud for weeks now, actually felt good. "I want to be able to do it on my own. I should be able to just get my shit together, you know? Everyone else can manage just fine. Why not me?"

Robby's eyes softened. "Hey man, I get it. But we can't do everything alone. Everyone needs help sometimes. It's not a bad thing. Besides, maybe you'll learn something, and you won't need help the next time you're in this position. Hell, maybe you'll learn something, and you'll never be in this position again."

That didn't sound so bad. "Okay," he said, dreading it already but needing, even more, to get out of his own head. "A tutor, then?"

"I think that's a great idea," Robby said, like it hadn't been his own. He slid open a drawer next to his desk and rifled through it for a moment before presenting a brochure for the student center. "The student center has tutors for almost every class. You can schedule sessions online or in person. Try that out, let me know how it goes."

Langdon stood up and took the brochure, glancing at it briefly. It was full of smiling kids working together on homework assignments, projects, and study guides. How bad were their GPAs, exactly? Were they on the brink of unsatisfactory academic standing?

"Thanks," he said, turning to leave.

"Anytime," Robby said, and he almost let Langdon get away. "And Langdon?" he said, just as the captain reached for the door's handle. "If you don't bring your A-game to practice, neither will the team."

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and exited the room, early crashing into someone trying to enter. "Coach Collins," he said with a nod, passing by her and finally, finally, making his way out of the pavilion and into the chilly nighttime air.

"He said that to you?" Abby asked, her mouth aghast with shock. She loved to go on and on about how badly Robby treated him. Which, of course, was fine when Langdon thought it, but hearing someone else complain about his coach only got under his skin.

They sat in the somewhat empty dining hall. Dinner service was almost over, but they managed to snag some of the scraps before the focus turned to late-night snacks instead, and all the meal stations shut down. The dining hall was huge, with multiple different stations along one curving wall. Stuff like hamburgers, build your own nachos, pizza, Asian cuisine, breakfast food, and so much more. There was even a sundae bar. But Abby always stayed away from that, something about watching her figure. Langdon indulged when she wasn't around.

"Yeah, but it's no big deal," he said. "How bout you, how was your day?" It was easier to put things on her. She liked talking about herself way more than he did, and he didn't mind listening. He and Abby had been together since freshman year. They'd met at orientation and fallen for each other immediately. After a long talking period, he'd asked her out during spring semester, and they'd been together ever since. Well, maybe not ever since. They'd broken up a few times here and there over stupid shit. But they always found their way back to each other without much time passing. They were better together. Or at least that's always what Abby would say. Frank heard it so much he started to believe it. Even if some of his friends had conflicting opinions.

Abby tossed her hair over one shoulder. "Oh, you know. Same old, same old," she said. Which likely meant studio art classes and cheerleading practice. He probably should have known exactly which event they were working toward, some championship or tournament, but he could never keep those things straight. "Made what I thought was my best work today, but as always, Professor Walsh hated it. They never seem to get what I'm going for," she said, frowning. "Otherwise, practice was great, but it always is."

Of course it is, he wanted to say. Your team listens to you. Adores you. Plus, they won non-stop titles and trophies and everything under the sun. They weren't in a dry spell like the hockey team. Their funding wasn't at risk. Maybe if they lost another championship, the rink would finally go to Collins and her ice queen for good, and Santos would never have to worry about him mixing up practice times ever again.

"They'll see the vision someday, I'm sure." He tried to play the supportive boyfriend, he really did. But it was especially difficult when all he could think about was the mountain of homework and the look on Robby's face—the disappointment. Always the disappointment. Was he a disappointment of a boyfriend, too? He already sucked at school and rallying the team, right? What was one more thing to fail at?

But Abby just dropped a hand on top of his and smiled, like she could tell what was going on without him having to say anything. "I'm sorry things aren't going great with the team, baby. Really. But school stuff, you always figure that out, right? I mean, you've only failed a few classes, and you always make them up over the summer. What's the worst thing that happens? You take a few extra classes this summer?"

"The worst thing that happens is that my GPA gets too low, and they kick me off the team. The worst thing that happens is that I get a fucking lecture from my family about what a disappointment is when they have to pay for yet another semester," he said, pulling his hand away from hers. She was so perfect. It was hard to explain his own discrepancies to someone like that. Someone who had it all together. Maybe she would never really get where he was coming from. "I should go," he said, standing up with his tray. "Need to get some work done before I crash, you know?"

"Okay," Abby said sadly. "I love you."

He tried not to sigh. But with his back already to her, a small one slipped out without his permission. "Love you too," he said, exhausted.

As soon as his ass dropped onto the couch, tired and sore from practice, he had his laptop open. Navigating to the student center's website, he quickly found the tutor schedule and scanned through it, looking for anyone with availability similar to his, anyone who took similar classes. There were only a handful of names, and one stood out like it was in bold. Mel King.

The list of classes under her name seemingly went on forever. Psychology classes. English classes. Political science. Math. Chemistry. Biology. Who was this girl? He wouldn't book with her. Didn't plan to. But still, he navigated to her personal schedule, looking at the time slots available. He even went as far as to click on one of them and fill out the information before backpedalling, selecting another student, and submitting the form. Yeah, that would be better. Getting too involved with the twirl girls wasn't the best idea. Plus, Santos would never let him live it down if he was actually tutored by one of them.

He closed his laptop, pulled out the required reading for his Social Psychology class, and almost immediately fell asleep with it on his chest, only for his suitemate to wake him up hours later in the middle of the night.

Chapter Text

Mel never worried about fitting in. Okay, well, maybe it was wrong to say never, but she didn't worry any more than the average person. She knew she was different. Strange sometimes, and a little sensitive. But that didn't make her wrong or unlikable or even unlovable. She'd learned early how to harness the things that were different, how to make sensitivity a strength instead of the weakness many perceived it as.

Transferring to a new school? It wasn't as scary as it could have been. Sure, it was stressful, moving Becca and traveling across the country in a car that was probably already on its last legs. But she never felt fear, especially not when it came to fitting in or making friends. Truthfully, Mel King made friends almost everywhere she went.

Maybe it was because she was honest and real, but people seemed to gravitate toward her. It was finding and keeping the people that deserved her companionship—and wouldn't take advantage of her kindness—that was the difficult part.

Fortunately, she'd found kindness, sensitivity, and real, true friendship within just a few days, in a woman around her age named Samira Mohan. Thank god Professor Abbot had paired them up for a project on the first day, since the rest was pretty much history from there. Not that it had really been all that long since they'd met, but it kind of felt that way.

"What are you doing after this?" Samira asked. The psychology classroom was small, with only about twenty students in it in total. Professor Abbot stood at the front, doing something on his laptop while the students worked independently. The desks spanned the width of the classroom and were on steps, giving it a stadium feel. Samira and Mel always sat next to each other, which was pretty easy, since the classroom was never more than half full.

"Practice was this morning, so nothing. I just have to pick up Becca later, but otherwise, I'm free. What were you thinking?" Mel asked. Any free moment she had that wasn't spent skating, studying, tutoring, or taking care of Becca, she spent with Samira. Unfortunately, she didn't have a ton of free moments.

Samira smiled. "I love it when you're free," she teased. "Depends on what you feel like doing. You haven't been by the ballet studio lately, so we could always get some stretches in—or if you're feeling a little lazier, we could grab some cruddy dining hall pizza and watch a movie?"

Any time spent together would be perfect. Samira understood Mel in ways that many others didn't. The two could simply exist together without stress. Silence passed as easily as conversation, and Mel never had to mask, never had to pretend to be someone else. "Oh god, the studio, please? Coach Collins and Trinity have been working me to death."

"Coming from you, that must really be saying something," Samira commented.

Okay, fine. Maybe Mel had a tendency to suffer in silence. It was something she was working on. It was something she hoped to work on. Soon. Once everything else died down. One she was more settled into life in Pittsburgh. Maybe next semester.

"It's just a big change from what I'm used to. Back home, I could practice whenever I wanted. My coaches were fairly relaxed. But Collins, she really pushes me to get better, which is nice. It's definitely nice. It's just hard."

They spoke in hushed tones, as not to distract the other students or call too much attention to themselves.

"Ballet can be the same way. I've had lax teachers and strict ones. Even though the strict ones have made me cry on the drive home, they're also the ones I've learned the most from, you know?" Samira said.

"I hope that's the case. I think with Collins' help and Trinity's extra training, I might be able to really do something. Win something. I'm already improving, I can feel it." Just thinking about it amped her up, got rid of some of the tiredness behind her eyes, made her want to jump right back into the rink and practice for hours on end. But in equal measure, she needed to know her body, needed to know when to rest. This was one of those times.

Professor Abbot raised his head, making direct eye contact with Samira immediately, like he'd memorized where she sat. Samira's cheeks turned red as a smile crossed her lips. Mel's eyes shifted between the two of them, suddenly feeling as if she were interrupting something deeply personal.

Mel cleared her throat gently, just loud enough to get Samira's attention back. "So what's going on with, um, that?" Mel asked, eyes very obviously shifting toward their teacher.

Samira chuckled under her breath, almost a giggle. Shy on the matter compared to Mel's open book personality. Not that she had anything particularly juicy to share. Except maybe how she thought about Frank Langdon when her eyes closed at night. But no, that wasn't anything important. Not really.

"What do you mean?" Samira asked, big brown doe eyes looking at Mel full of innocence.

Mel's brows furrowed together in confusion. Did she really not know? That seemed entirely impossible based on the palpable sexual tension she'd just noticed. It couldn't possibly have gone over Samira's head. She was smarter than that. "You and, you know," Mel said, lowering her voice to a whisper, "Mr. Abbot?"

If Samira's eyes could have bugged out of her head, they would have. She nearly snapped the pencil she held between two fingers. Okay. So, maybe she didn't know.

Holding her hands up in defense, Mel said, "Just the way he looks at you, and the way you look at him. I thought… maybe there was something there."

"He's our teacher!" she said, but despite the fact that she was shocked, she didn't seem uninterested. Which Mel found incredibly interesting herself. "I mean, do you really think…?"

Mel shrugged. "I guess I'm not the best judge of romantic advances. It just seemed obvious to me. Have the two of you ever talked about anything not related to psychology?"

"Not really," Samira said. "I mean, he's complimented my homework and asked about my weekends, but isn't that just normal teacher stuff?"

"Samira," Mel said, deadly serious. "Mr. Abbot has never once asked me about my personal life." She shook her head, trying not to laugh. "He also doesn't look at me like that," she said, tilting her head to the side, pointing at him without being incredibly obvious, because she was almost positive he still made eyes at Samira from across the room.

Samira's cheeks turned red again. Mel tried not to think about Langdon and her own reddening cheeks. He was just so aggravatingly handsome. In a way that made him difficult to get out of her head. She'd had crushes before, even serious boyfriends, but why was he so stuck in her brain like this? She'd only been in his presence for twenty minutes maximum, and yet?

"Well, um," Samira said, her voice lower, the words not coming out as naturally as she stumbled over them. "Do you think… what do you think?"

She tapped her pen on the table. "I mean, some people are really into the student-teacher thing. I think they find it hot, the whole age difference. It's like dating your boss, kind of. But maybe hotter than that?"

"Mel!" Samira exclaimed in a half-whisper, causing a few heads to turn in their direction.

"Sorry," Mel laughed awkwardly. "I can be blunt sometimes, I think."

Samira shook her head, "No. Don't be sorry. I love that about you. I just wasn't expecting it. But no. Never change." And that was why they were friends. Every new thing they learned about each other was another thing to like.

"Um," Mel said, through a smile. "Thanks. That's really nice." She paused, looking back over at their professor, who seemed to be looking around the classroom. Probably looking for reasons to casually glance at Samira some more, but Mel was no expert. "They say you often find love in the place you least expect it. So, I don't know. I say go for it, if you're interested."

"What about you, anyone caught your eye lately?" Samira asked, nudging Mel's shoulder with her own.

Why did she have to be so terrible at lying? Like, the false words just would not come out, no matter how hard she tried. For a moment, she didn't say anything at all, which was maybe even more telling. Samira's brows shot up at the admission in her silence. "It's not—it's nothing."

"Doesn't seem like nothing," Samira said, drumming her fingers on the table, trying not to seem too interested and failing.

"I think we have to finish this worksheet by the end of class, right? We should really—" Mel started, trying to veer the conversation in a different direction so she didn't have to discuss her shameful crush. But the look on Samira's face, one of genuine interest, stopped her words in their tracks. "Okay. There's this guy on the hockey team that Trinity can't stand. They got into a huge fight over scheduling the rink or something, I'm not sure. But he was nice to me. He looked at me, and I don't know. I felt something."

"Mel," Samira said carefully. "Are you talking about Frank Langdon? Like, been with head cheerleader Abby Hart since freshman year, Frank Langdon?"

Mel grimaced. "Yes? But it's not anything, really. I just saw him that one time, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about him, you know? Like, he's just hot. Stupid, stupid hot. And I can't get him out of my brain, it's frustrating."

Samira laughed and Mel shot her a glare. "Why are you laughing? This is serious. It's detrimental to my mental and physical well-being," she said.

"You know, I think someone wise once told me something about love finding you in unexpected places or something like that," Samira said.

"Professor Abbot doesn't have a girlfriend."

"How could we possibly know that?" Samira asked.

"I don't know, but I think you should find out," Mel teased right back, feeling at her most comfortable around her friend.

After all that, they dove back into the assignment. With only a little bit more than half the class left, they still managed to crush it no problem. The two were likely vying for spots at the top of the class so far, and no one else even came close. So it didn't really matter if they spent half the time talking about their potential crushes. School was one thing they didn't have to worry about. Love, however? Another story.

Samira decided, after Professor Abbot dismissed them, to linger in the room for just a few moments. Mel took the hint (it was a very obvious hint) and quickly made her way to the campus dance studio, where Samira took classes and studied under a team of professional dancers. She was constantly impressed with Samira, just as Samira was constantly impressed with her. Even though, really, they were two women completely overworking themselves. Mel with all her extracurriculars and Samira with her Psychology and Dance double major. How they both managed to keep their heads above water, neither would ever know.

The quiet was nice for the time being. It gave her a few moments to reset her brain. To attempt and drain Langdon out of it completely. Not that that really worked. Her mind conjured him up in all sorts of compromising positions, and she had to physically shake him free, jumping up and down like she had water in her ears. It was safe to say that that did not work either.

Moving on, she worked through a few stretches Samira had taught her in previous weeks, bringing her ankle up to rest on the bar and reaching her hands over her head, leaning forward to try and touch her toes. She was surprisingly flexible, but the stretch still relieved a lot of the soreness buried deep within her muscles.

It wasn't long before Samira came bounding in with a smile on her face. Good news, then? She dipped into the changing room and returned in a soft pink unitard and matching sheer tights. Mel always thought she looked like such a princess, especially whenever she danced. It was mesmerizing.

"So?" Mel asked, holding one ankle behind her butt, folding her leg in half to stretch her quad. "How'd it go?"

"I got nervous," Samira said shyly. She wasn't as brash as Mel was. Not that Mel wouldn't get nervous in a similar situation, but where Mel would talk and talk without stopping herself, Samira would clam up. "Asked him about his thoughts on the prisoner's dilemma instead. But he seemed to like that. And I think you're right, by the way."

"What can I say," Mel joked, entirely unserious, "I know these things."

"You stretch all the thoughts of Frank Langdon out of your body yet?" Samira asked.

Mel could only shake her head. "Not even close."

"You should talk to him," Samira said. "Maybe if you get to know him, you'll stop liking him. You know what I mean? Since it seems like this whole thing is purely physical, maybe his personality will turn you off."

"That's ridiculous," Mel said. For one, it wasn't just his looks. That was the worst part. It was the way he'd gone gentle in speaking with her. Fighting with Trinity in one moment and then speaking kindly to her in another. It didn't make any sense. Why had he been so nice when she knew he was capable of being a huge asshole? It was more intriguing than anything else, like a mystery waiting to be solved, a package half unwrapped with the contents still obscured.

"Just consider it," Samira said, looking like she was about to drop another line of advice, probably calling back to everything Mel had said not forty minutes ago to her about Mr. Abbot.

"Fine," Mel said, if only to stop the conversation, which definitely did not help with her spiraling thoughts. "I'll think about it. But no promises."

Chapter Text

You know when teachers say something along the lines of, "You can't study for this test all in one night," or "You can't finish this essay in just a few hours." Well, Frank Langdon made it his personal mission throughout undergrad to prove those teachers wrong. Unfortunately, so far, especially in the Spring semester of what Robby called his 5th year—not at all demeaning by the way—the teachers had only been proven right, over and over again. His essays, written in just a few hours the night before, and his tests crammed for, again, the night before, all returned with low grades. Cs. Ds. Even Fs.

As he prepped for a Psychology test, memorizing keywords and rereading passages from the week's reading, he actually felt good. He'd woken up at the crack of dawn that morning for hockey practice, which went like shit, again. After that were two classes with a few hours break in the middle, which he used to visit the student center. He'd met with a boring, stuffy nerd-type guy who had a bit of a lisp. Incredibly stereotypical and not very helpful on account of how hard he was to understand, but the kid helped him figure out a solid study plan for the night. Maybe the universe was trying to get him to sign up for a slot on Mel King's calendar. Even he knew that was playing with fire.

After class, he'd hunkered down immediately, sitting at the desk in his single room with the door firmly closed so as not to be bothered by anyone. However, Abby never considered herself to be just anyone. No text first, no warning of her arrival, but there she was, perched on the side of his bed, drumming her fingers against her thigh and eying him curiously as he highlighted important pieces of information. Everything kind of felt important, so more of the page was highlighted than not.

She didn't say much of anything, only watched, which was equally unnerving. Sometimes, he'd stop working, start tapping his pencil, and feel her eyes searching for his, waiting for him to turn toward her. But he knew, if their eyes did meet, she'd initiate a conversation and throw him completely off track.

A few more minutes passed before she finally said, "Can you take a break?" while throwing her body back onto his bed with a long, exaggerated sigh. It had probably only been twenty minutes total.

"No, I can't take a break," Langdon said, words sharp.

Her eye roll could be felt across the hall, maybe even across campus. She'd perfected the art of it. So full of drama and annoyance. "Do you really think that anything you do now is going to help you tomorrow?" It was an innocent question. Or at least, it would have been, if it were anyone else.

Abby had this way of undermining people. Of seeing their weaknesses and picking at them like a scab. The ones that people were most self-conscious about. The ones people kept close to their chest, thought no one could see. Abby always had a way of finding them. That was not to say that she was a bad person—she wasn't a good person—but there were good things about her, too. He couldn't think of them at that moment, but he could at least remember they existed somewhere in the depths of her personality.

"It's not painting, I can't just throw shit on a canvas and call it good. I actually have to use my brain, which I can't do if you keep staring at me," he spat, callously, barely even looking at her.

She hopped off the bed, arms crossed over her chest, eyes narrowing at him. "Jackass," she said, storming out and slamming the door behind him. Sure, it had been a rude thing to say, and it hadn't been his intention to make her leave, but things had worked out in his favor, and that was kind of a win.

In the silence, he kept working, rereading the same chapter of his book, quizzing himself with the flashcards he'd written out in sloppy, slanted text. For the first time, maybe since high school, he felt prepared for an exam. And honestly? He didn't really feel all that bad about the words he'd tossed in Abby's direction.

If she'd just supported him, he wouldn't have turned to callous words. Frank Langdon, he thought, asshole. Yeah, he was never escaping that label. Not when hateful things just seemed to bubble up without intention. Press him first, and anger would always come back. Maybe that's why he liked hockey so much. The aggression of it. How many times had he used a game to get his anger out, swinging fists at the other team when they should have been aimed at someone else, at himself?

None of it mattered anyway. Not really. He and Abby weren't destined for anything great. Their relationship had been four years of lackluster love, finding common ground with each other and not much else. Abby liked the looks of it all, the head cheerleader with a captain. They both liked each other for their appearances, but did they really even know that much about one another? Langdon probably couldn't even guess more than surface-level facts about her. Her favorite color, her favorite TV show. But when it came to the more important details, like her life before Pittsburgh College and the person behind the perfect cheerleader mask, he came up blank. He wondered how much she knew about him. How much anyone did. Maybe they were too similar in that way. Never letting anyone get too close. You would think, for an artist, Abby would be in touch with her feelings, would show Frank meaningful pieces of work that let him really know her, but for the most part she kept that stuff secret, never inviting him to gallery events or showing him work she was proud of, even when he asked.

His brain drifted from psychology, from the notes he'd worked so hard on, and instead, started ruminating over his relationship and everything wrong with it. His phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a picture of Abby and a short message. Predictable. Sorry for what I said. I know you're stressed. Don't worry about us. Talk to you tomorrow.

This was pretty akin to how things always went between them. One of them, or both, would say something harsh, and one or the other would apologize. They'd move on like it never happened, all those harsh words piling up in the background without real conversation, without a blowout fight. Why did he want that so badly? He wanted to yell and scream all the cruel things he'd thought but never said. The really cruel things. About how she never supported him when he really needed it, about how she cared about everything else in her life more than she cared about him. But even thinking those things now, they seemed unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Like something he shouldn't really care about. Like he would be less of a man in her eyes if he asked for the bare minimum. So, they would continue with this song and dance, stepping carefully around one another to avoid that inevitable blowout fight. Creeping closer to the end of their degrees, they both had to know it would happen eventually, both had to know that they wouldn't leave Pittsburgh together. But maybe it would end with a fizzle instead of a bang. Maybe he'd never get the big fight he really wanted.

Ruminating over their relationship did nothing to help him now, probably nothing to help either of them in the grand scheme of things, either. It only sent all the psychology terms he'd spent so long cramming into his brain out one ear. Trying his best and praying for success the next morning, he stayed up even longer reading and studying, and memorizing, going over the study guide time after time, asking himself questions and trying to recall the answers. Again and again and again until he fell asleep with his head on the table, drooling on one of the note cards.

When the alarm went off in the morning, he woke with a start, wiping the drool from his mouth and peeling a page off his cheek in disgust. Sleep had not been restful. It'd been riddled with nightmares, dreams where he got kicked off the hockey team, Abby dumped him, or even worse, his parents showed up to explain how much of a waste of their time he'd been for twenty-two years. Not very ideal situations, but in Frank's mind, they were all more than possible. That only made them even scarier.

Already almost late for class—because he loved to cut it close with those alarms—he got ready as fast as possible, brushing his teeth and getting dressed in such a hurry that he had to stop in the living room to turn his shirt around. He threw his laptop into his bag, palmed the flashcards, and started across campus to the Psychology building, flipping through vocabulary terms as he went.

The September air was crisp, and plenty of students around him were in just as much of a rush. Apparently, sleeping in was common for Pitt students. Who would have thought? He wondered how many of them had stayed up all night studying for an exam they'd probably fail anyway. Had anyone else said mean shit to their girlfriend, too, or was he all alone in that?

Checking his phone, he read over her text one more time. Still, there were no words that came to mind. Maybe because he wasn't really all that sorry for what he'd said. Abby never had to study for anything. That didn't mean her program wasn't hard, but all her exams were practical, either painting or creating something in studio or in a span of weeks outside of the classroom. She definitely didn't have to memorize vocabulary terms or write analytical essays. She'd probably never fallen asleep in a puddle of her own drool with a study guide stuck to her face. Or maybe she had. It's not like they really knew each other. He didn't even really know whether or not her program was hard, because she never complained about anything except him.

Despite being short on time, he managed to snag a Red Bull from the snack counter downstairs before zipping up a few flights of stairs and finding a place in the large, auditorium-sized classroom. A few people shot him nods and waves, but he ignored them. Cracking the Red Bull, he downed half before the exam hit his desk.

The exam was thick, at least ten pages long, with multiple-choice questions, short answers, and an essay. He breezed through the first part. When it doubt, go with C, right? His confidence was already starting to waver by the time he hit the short answers. Palms sweating, hand cramping, and a headache starting behind his eyebrows. Not good. His eyelids fluttered closed, and he took a breath, letting it out slowly, steady.

Motivation and affirmation weren't exactly his strong suits. He didn't know how to whip the team into shape; he didn't know how to whip himself into shape. Maybe his parents were right. Maybe he was a failure. He tapped the pencil against the desk for a long time, until the professor shot him a glare that clearly said cut it out.

Delving back in, Langdon did the only thing he could, the only thing he was capable of. He tried his best. Unfortunately, in recent weeks, months, and honestly probably since the day he was born, his best wasn't good enough. A few days later, after the great struggle with the short answers and an, honestly, shoddy job on the essay, the packet was dropped back onto his desk with a grimace from the professor.

The stack of paper bent and crumpled in his grip. "An F?" he said to the professor after class, when the hall had cleared. "This has to be a mistake," he said confidently. Like, some grading error. He was a bad student, yes. But an F? There were only a few of those on his record. And never on an exam as important as this one. "I studied," he said, looking at his professor with the test still bent in his hand. "I studied a lot."

The professor, an older woman with kind eyes and a crooked nose, held out a hand to look over his exam. She had about fifty students, and probably didn't even remember his name. "It looks like you did well on the multiple choice, but a lot of your short answers were wrong. You confused a few different principles, and some of the names and dates. And there were quite a few grammatical errors in your essay," she explained, before handing the exam back to him.

Each finger on his free hand stretched outward at his side before tensing into a fist as he tried not to swear at this little old lady who was just doing her job. She probably didn't want to teach a fuck-up, either. "Is there anything I can do about it? Like a make-up exam or… anything?" he asked, voice strained through gritted teeth.

"I'm afraid not. I don't offer make-up exams," she said. "Your time would be best spent focusing on the rest of the semester. There's a lot of time left to improve your grade. One failure won't ruin the entire course."

"Thanks," he said, still just as tense, before turning and exiting the room. He would have to show this to his fucking coach. He would have to sit there and listen to him go on and on about putting in effort and really trying. Well, Robby? What if I'm just like this, huh? What if Frank Langdon is just destined to fail? Have you considered that?

In the process of storming out of the building, he hardly noticed when his body collided with a small form turning the corner at a similarly fast pace.

He took a step back, prepared to cuss someone out for not paying enough attention. But that changed when his eyes settled on the girl before him, looking flustered. It was her. The figure skater who'd attached herself to Trinity's hip. "Sorry," he said gruffly, righting himself before leaning down to pick up a few of the papers she'd dropped.

"Oh, don't worry about it," she said simply, waving off the issue entirely. As he stood and offered the papers back in an outstretched hand, she met his eyes and a wrinkle developed between her brows. "Are you okay?"

It was easy to choose anger as a first response to someone caring. In fact, it was the easiest thing in the world, especially for him. But she looked at him with those huge doe eyes and a soft, somewhat sad smile. There was something so genuine about her that made his anger melt away again like magic.

"Yeah. Yes," he said, rolling his shoulders back as the tension softened. "Sorry, again. About that." Were words harder to form around her, too? He felt like an idiot. Well, he always kind of felt like an idiot. But in a different way, with her, now.

Her eyes flicked away from his as a small smile crept across her lips. "Good. Yeah. That's good." Then, the furrow came back once more, and the smile turned into a straight, pressed line as she slipped a packet from her hands, extending it to him. "I think this is yours," she said.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fucking shit. Fuck. He took the exam, folded it in half, and put it into his back pocket. Out of sight, out of mind, right? "I should go. Game tonight," he said simply, wanting to get away from her kind eyes and sympathetic stare as fast as possible.

"Right. Um, good luck," she said, watching him carefully. More words on the tip of her tongue, unspoken, holding back as he slipped away shamefully.

Chapter Text

Mel stood in shock for several seconds, watching the empty space where Langdon had stood not two seconds ago. "If you want, I could help you study," she muttered under her breath as she made her way back to the cafe where the other skaters sat huddled together in a half-circle booth. It was difficult, even as she slid back in next to Victoria, to forget the permanent marker F circled at the top of the page and the shame that took over his expression once she'd seen it.

If only she'd been able to communicate her own feelings, that she thought no less of him for it. Judging others wasn't really her bag, especially when she'd been on the other side of it for a good portion of her own life. While she made friends easily, that didn't stop people from making fun of her either. Nerd. Teacher's pet. Slow. Bad at social cues. Stupid—that one didn't really make any sense and was probably just good, old-fashioned projecting. Mel had learned early on not to take any of it to heart.

Trinity and Perleh were finalizing plans of some kind with the rest of the team when Victoria leaned over and said to her directly, "Hockey game tonight. Please come?"

A few weeks into the semester and Mel really hadn't had the chance to engage in typical Friday night college behavior. For the most part she hung out with Becca, finished up any remaining homework assignments, and—if the hockey team was at an away game—worked on her doubles. Becca already planned on staying at the center overnight, most of her homework was finished, and the ice was taken. So, no good excuse to say no.

Besides, Victoria had already started whispering, "Please, please please," under her breath, and how could Mel turn her down?

That night, in the stands, incredibly close to the home team's bench, Victoria gave her a quick and dirty rundown of the rules, all of which fell out of her head immediately as the team took to the ice. Thankfully, Victoria seemed equally distracted. A lame smile came over her lips, and she stumbled over her words, eyes following one of the team members with obvious admiration. Was that how she looked following Langdon across the ice? Hopefully, it wasn't quite so obvious.

"That's Mateo Diaz," Javadi said, nodding toward the ice. "Number 19. He's the goalie. And Langdon, the captain, he's number 54." Had Javadi noticed her lingering gaze, or was she just providing a helpful insight into the team's structure?

"You know a lot about hockey?" Mel asked.

"I go to most of the home games, if I can," Victoria responded. "Mateo has a save percentage of like 90%."

"Is that good?"

"Pretty good. Higher goalies in the league have closer to 92%, but anything in that range is pretty good—I think," she said, grimacing a bit in jest at her own mild understanding of the games and corresponding stats.

"How do you know Mateo?" Mel asked.

Victoria's cheeks turned pink. "Oh. Well. I mean. I don't know him that well. We've actually never spoken before, but I think it would be pretty cool if we did. I mean, look at him—" Mel couldn't see anything under Mateo's helmet. "He's just so hot."

Oh god. Is that what her inner thoughts about Langdon sounded like? At least they'd engaged in conversation before, but she'd definitely caught herself thinking about how hot he was, even when he was flustered about a bad grade. The only difference? She hadn't said her thoughts out loud. At least, not yet.

"You should talk to him," Mel encouraged. "After the game, maybe."

Victoria's blush only deepened. "I don't know about that," she said, waving her hands around in front of her chest like not a chance in hell.

Trinity plopped down next to Victoria with a smile, effectively ending their conversation. "Hey, Junior," she said, clapping Victoria on the back.

"I told you not to call me that," Victoria said nicely.

"It's a compliment, really. You know how many people out there would love to be junior skaters? Don't tell me you're ashamed?" Trinity teased, managing to sound genuine enough that Mel believed it.

"I was a junior skater as a freshman, too," Mel commented, trying to make Javadi feel better. "A lot of skaters are."

It only provoked Trinity to say, "Not me."

"Not all of us have natural born talent," Victoria said, crossing her arms over her chest. "You were probably a senior skater at like, ten."

"Actually, you can't qualify for senior status until seventeen," Mel corrected. After the words left her mouth, she realized that probably hadn't been the point of Victoria's comment. But she liked both girls and didn't want to get in the middle. Besides, she wasn't the kind of person to make fun of anyone, let alone the people on her team. Trinity had a rough exterior, yes—but Mel liked that about her too, liked how willing she was to stand up for the other skaters when they needed it, and how easily she could stand up for herself. It was envious, really.

Victoria, too, had things to admire. Her kindness, her innocence. Plus, she worked just as hard as the rest of the seniors and had nailed some moves Mel still struggled with, so she'd likely be a senior when the next qualifier came around.

"Besides," Trinity said, "We'll whip you into senior shape before your nineteenth birthday. Don't worry."

"I just turned seventeen after the last qualifier," she said, voice a little sharper than before, annoyed that they were having this conversation again. "I couldn't qualify then, but I will next time."

"Right, of course," Trinity said, placating.

Their attention turned from the argument toward the ice when the teams took to their individual benches after a few minutes of warming up. Trinity stood up and yelled down to the Pittsburgh Pirates, only a few rows away. "Hey Langdon, don't fuck this one up."

Langdon looked up into the stands, his helmet under one arm and his hair a mess, already wet with sweat, several strands hanging over his forehead. Mel couldn't help but stare. He raised a hand to flip Trinity off just before catching Mel's eyes. Was that blush rising on his cheeks? Maybe her eyes were deceived. After all, there were at least ten feet between them, and he must have been hot from the warm-up. No, he couldn't have been blushing because of her.

This absolutely, one hundred percent, could not be a crush developing. Did she miss having someone to kiss late at night when she was lonely? Of course. But crushing on someone with a girlfriend was really not her style. Not that it really mattered anyway, right? He had a girlfriend, and Trinity said they'd been together forever. That meant she had absolutely no chance with him. But with no chance, was a harmless crush really even all that bad? Conflicting thoughts drowned out everything around her. Except for him.

Mel waved, a smile developing on her own face without permission. She could already feel her teammates' eyes boring into both sides of her face. Langdon didn't wave back, but his cold look toward Trinity was quickly replaced with a small, almost imperceptible smile before he put his helmet back on and turned back toward the rest of the team for a pep talk before a whistle called them back to the ice.

The crowd around them cheered as the puck hit center ice, but that didn't stop Trinity and Victoria from continuing to stare with mouths agape. Trinity spoke first, over the roar of the fans. "What was that?" she asked.

It would be really convenient if she developed the ability to lie right then and there, but again, it was all too easy to say exactly what came to mind, exactly the truth. "I have no idea," Mel said.

Of course, despite this being the entire truth on the matter—aside from her feelings, which she hoped to keep close to her chest—it only interested Trinity more.

Mel continued, trying to work out the problem aloud like it was complex math. "We ran into each other earlier today. This morning. Literally, we ran into each other. He stopped to apologize and help with my books. Maybe he still feels bad about that?"

Victoria shook her head in disbelief. "I wish Mateo would look at me like that."

"That's a whole other problem, Javadi, and I'm kind of focused on this one at the moment," Trinity said. "Frank Langdon is smiling at you."

"Yes," Mel said. Because yes. That was the truth. Smiles had been exchanged. But there was nothing more to read into. Really. They weren't even friends. She didn't know anything about him aside from what Trinity had told her—and what she'd learned by picking up the wrong papers. And he definitely did not know anything about her.

"I just don't get it," Trinity said, throwing her hands into the air as if she were giving up on it entirely. "Langdon is an ass. Like, famously an ass. Especially to us. If he's smiling at you, that means something."

"What are you saying?" Mel asked because she didn't want to jump to conclusions, didn't want to get her hopes up about something that was more than likely factually inaccurate. He had a girlfriend, after all.

"Maybe Langdon secretly has a heart of gold," Victoria commented, receiving a withering glare from Trinity.

"Be real, Javadi," Trinity said. "The hockey team and the figure skaters are rivals. We fight over the ice rink. Langdon especially. He calls us twirl girls for fucks sake! He doesn't like us. Honestly, I was pretty certain he didn't like anyone. But for some reason," Okay, that hurt a little bit. "He likes you."

The game continued in the background, but Mel had a difficult time focusing. Usually, compartmentalizing was easy. Putting all her thoughts into different boxes. It helped her concentrate. But there just wasn't an easy box to slot Langdon into, and instead, all the thoughts about him bounced around in her head, making it impossible to concentrate on the hockey game. It was aggravating, both having those thoughts free and roaming in her mind, but also her own inability to contextualize them. Not knowing drove her insane. If she could only figure it out and find the right box to place him in, everything would be fine.

Still, she stood up and cheered when someone scored a goal, or yelled alongside the other girls when a fight broke out—despite her general aversion to violence. Victoria especially got into it, screaming for Mateo whenever he blocked a shot and nearly fainting when he looked in her direction. "No, he really did!" she argued when Trinity disagreed about the trajectory of his gaze. Victoria refused to give up the small win.

"Do you like Frank Langdon?" Trinity asked. An hour later and her teammate still hadn't dropped the thought that seemingly confused them both in equal measure.

"I hardly know him," Mel answered, which was the truth. Could she like him if she got to know him? Maybe. Or maybe all she'd seen so far was a facade and eventually the asshole personality he showed to everyone else would appear for her too. Though she had a good feeling it was the other way around, that she was seeing a part of him that no one else did.

"You can hardly know someone and still like them, Mel. Look at Junior over there. You think she knows Diaz at all?" Trinity said. "Hell, you can despise someone and still like them." That last part almost sounded like it came from the heart. "The heart wants what the heart wants and all that bullshit."

Fair point. "I guess I think he's attractive," Mel said finally, her eyes still following the action on the ice, watching the puck move between players.

"Half the school thinks he's attractive," Trinity said, laughing under her breath.

So this roundabout conversation had gotten them nowhere, then? And, as it seemed, Mel was just like everyone else. At least there was some comfort in that. Crushes passed. Hers would too.

Victoria's arm shot out, hand grabbing Mel's bicep as Langdon raced down the rink, puck in front of him, rearing his stick back and aiming for the goal. Everyone watching saw it before he did, the hulking defensive player barreling toward him perpendicularly. Langdon slapped the puck forward at the same time the defenseman crashed into him, pinning him to the boards after tackling him several feet. All eyes watched as a brutal fight broke out, the much larger defenseman holding Langdon to the ice and pummeling him, locking one leg behind his two. Another player—what was the other team called, the Arizona somethings—dove into the mess, and just as the referee skated over to break them up, Langdon's gruff scream silenced the arena.

The two players backed off as Langdon raised one arm to grip the top of the board, trying to pull himself up. His coach took multiple fast steps forward, watching with a hand over his mouth, looking like he might jump over and into the rink at any second.

"Get the medic on the ice, now," the coach said, just loud enough for the figure skaters to hear.

At some point, Mel had jumped to her feet with the rest of the arena, a hand over her mouth in mirror image to the coach. A medic rushed across the ice, but the conversation between him and Langdon could not be heard from so far away. He helped Langdon stand, the evidence of pain clear on the hockey player's face in the process. With one arm looped over the medic's shoulder, he was escorted off the ice and onto the bench, where the medic could take a better look at whatever had happened to his leg. They carefully removed Langdon's padding—which, again, seemed to cause him pain.

Jumbotron cameras centered the coach for the whole arena to see, his reactions playing out high above them. The medic said a few words to him. They must not have been good. The coach shook his head, and the sportscasters took over immediately. "It's not looking good for team captain Frank Langdon," they said.

A heated argument broke out between Langdon and his coach. Langdon said something along the lines of, "Put me back in," while the medic shook his head vehemently.

The coach made eye contact with another player, one Mel didn't know the name of, but Victoria almost certainly did, and he jumped over the boards and into the rink. The game proceeded as if nothing had happened while two teammates carried Langdon out of the pavilion. Mel felt a strong tug in her chest, trying to pull her out of the rink alongside him. She could only sit back down and attempt to focus on the remaining moments of the game. At least this time, the rest of the fans were just as distracted as she was.

Chapter Text

Maybe Robby didn't need to know about the exam. Maybe Langdon could get away with this one failure, slip it under the rug, and never look at it again. Except for the fact that there was no world in which Robby didn't ask. He cared in that way, always checking in on his players, especially when they were unremarkable fuck ups.

What would it have felt like to give Robby good news? Even a C minus would have been impressive enough to get excited about. But the F weighed him down, his self-esteem wavering in the face of yet another failure. And on top of that, he'd only given the twirl girls more to use against him, if Mel—that was her name, right—decided to report back to Trinity about what she'd seen. Maybe she wasn't that kind of person. He had a hunch she wasn't, but he couldn't even trust his own intuition anymore.

Okay, so maybe he hadn't studied that hard. Maybe most of the aforementioned studying had taken place approximately twelve hours before the exam, and maybe his professor had been right about the inefficiency of cramming for a test. Maybe he'd been wrong about pretty much everything in his entire life.

"What's up, Langdon?" Coach Robby said as he propped open the door to his office and nodded inward, a silent gesture for him to come on in.

Frank didn't sit. Instead, he stood in front of Robby's desk with his arms crossed over his chest, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, trying to figure out how to tell the person who most believed in him that he'd let them down again. Another instance in a never-ending string of failures and letdowns. It wasn't his parents and their empty threats to stop paying his tuition that he was afraid of. It wasn't even the prospect of being kicked off the team if his grades dropped too low.

No, it was admitting to the one person who still believed in him that he'd let them down yet again. The one person who hadn't completely lost hope. The one person still in his corner, rooting for him. And he'd have to see that look on his coach's face. One of disappointment that he tried to hide because he knew how hard Frank cared, and he didn't want to be another negative presence in his life. But he was, inevitably, disappointed in Frank, just like everyone else. So yeah. That look was impossible to stomach.

It was even worse that Robby didn't speak, that he gave Langdon the time he needed to say the words that needed to be said. So much respect for someone who didn't deserve it, someone who could only fail and fail and fail.

Langdon sighed, taking the folded-up exam out of his back pocket and straightening it out before dropping it onto his coach's desk with a grimace.

Neither spoke for a few moments. Robby reached forward and picked up the graded exam, careful to keep his face expressionless.

"You're right. I need to get my shit together," Langdon said, his own disappointment evident in every word. "I tried the student center, and I tried studying. Somehow I fucked up even more than usual," he said, this time with a dry laugh on the end that really didn't help to lighten the situation any. He could have broken down then, could have let everything out. What if this is the best I've got? But he held back, kept that dam on his emotions high and sturdy.

Robby carefully placed the exam onto his desk and stood, circling around it to put a hand on Langdon's shoulder. "Just because you failed once doesn't mean you're a failure. You know that, right?" he asked. Langdon's lips pressed into a tight line, and Robby continued. "You tried something and it didn't work. We'll try something else. Don't beat yourself up too much, kid."

"But—" Langdon started, eyebrows drawing together to form a wrinkle in the center. "You said I could get kicked from the team if my GPA gets too low, you said—"

"I know what I said, Frank," Robby said, squeezing the captain's shoulder. "But you should also know that I'm not going to let that happen. We're a team. You and me and all of us. We'll figure something out. Now get out of here. Tough opponents tonight, and I need you in top form."

Langdon left Robby's office with his mouth agape in shock. Of course, Robby knew about all his failures, consistent throughout the last four years. He'd always pressed for Langdon to be better, always working to figure out just how to help. And sure, he'd been tough, even yelled at Langdon for his sometimes (okay, oftentimes) idiotic behavior. But just when he'd expected Robby to verbally kick his ass, he'd been… nice? Supportive, even? It almost made Langdon feel worse to have underestimated Robby's ability to care.

The sound of cracking bone reverberated up his body and rang through his ears as a ragged scream erupted from his lips, choking him halfway and gurgling as stars formed in his vision. Injuries were common in hockey, especially when you were the kind of asshole who liked to pick fights. Sometimes during a fight, he could feel the impending injury, see the hard punch before the broken nose, and all that. This one, the snapping of bone, he never saw coming. But as soon as the second defenseman barreled into the brawl, the other player's weight shifted dramatically and crack, pressure from two sides on a solid object. Well, anatomy wasn't his best class either, but even he could tell something was broken. The pain, racking through his body in waves, should have been the first clue.

The medic the league required them to have on standby raced in his direction as he attempted to stand up. Nope. Putting weight on the leg wasn't happening. He let the medic lead him off the ice and toward the bench, where he dropped onto the metal seat with a huff, gritting his teeth against the pain to prevent a long, long string of profanity from escaping instead.

"Probably broken," Langdon muttered angrily to both the medic and Robby, who watched intensely as the medic removed the padding from around his shin. He pressed a few fingers against the already swollen skin and Frank hissed, "Fuck, don't do that."

The medic nodded, silently confirming what he'd already said aloud. Frank tested stability and pressure again, subtly leaning forward on the leg. He choked back any sounds of complaint and grumbled, "Stabilize it and I'll get back out there. Plenty of people play on broken legs."

"Not you," Robby said simply.

"Come on, man, don't do this," Langdon begged, like he could just pretend 400 pounds of opponents hadn't just split his leg in half, hop back on the ice, and win the game. He didn't want to face the consequences, didn't want to think about what it meant for his leg to be busted up. No more games. Maybe for the rest of the season. If he just ignored it, maybe it would go away. Wishful thinking, obviously, but he had to try. He couldn't just give up.

Robby ordered Langdon's replacement onto the ice and two permanently benched players to escort him to the local emergency room for evaluation. "We're not arguing about this," Robby said pointedly, his look still tinged with sympathy.

"Did I make the shot?" he asked in a weak, quiet voice.

"Yeah, kid, you made the shot." At least there were silver linings in life.

If he looked around the stands, all eyes would be on him. He knew it. He could tell. Other teammates had gotten injured before, and fans always fell into a watchful silence. Respect, almost. Combined with a type of fear, like they were experiencing the injury right alongside the team. Not wanting to deal with any of that, any of the emotional glances or well wishes, he kept his head down and let his teammates half-carry him out.

In the emergency room, a doctor took his vitals, jotted down some notes about what happened, and wheeled him back into the waiting room. His teammates had quickly abandoned him, so there was nothing else to do but scroll through social media and play time-wasting phone games while he waited for further evaluation. It took a few hours before they wheeled him back, gave him some painkillers, and performed an X-ray.

The X-ray only confirmed what he already suspected. The pressure had caused the bone to snap completely in half. "A transverse fracture, meaning you've got a clean break across the tibia and you probably won't need surgery," his doctor explained. "A cast and immobilization for three to six months should get you feeling right as rain."

"Three to six months," Langdon said, eerily calm in the face of missing the last hockey season of his career.

The doctor nodded. "Could be more, could be less."

Langdon had managed to shed the rest of his padding in the car on the way over, but he still donned the Pittsburgh Pirates jersey. The doctor had to know what was on the line here.

"How can I make sure it's less?" Langdon asked.

The doctor shook his head. "No way to know how long it's going to be, really. Physical therapy can help if you can afford it. Check in with your orthopedic doctor regularly, and they'll keep you up to date on how it's healing." The doctor ducked out of the room, and Langdon let his head fall back against the stiff hospital bed pillow.

When he woke up, it was to the sound of his doctor explaining the fracture one more time, just a few feet away from the door.

"Kinda shit news, right?" Langdon said groggily when Robby finished up with the doctors and took a seat next to his bed.

"Not ideal," Robby said, almost casual.

"Not ideal," Langdon laughed, dry and stiff, under his breath. "You're gonna have to find yourself a new captain, coach. Didn't he tell you, I'm basically out for the season."

Robby dropped a hand onto Langdon's forearm in that reassuring way he always did, even as a sigh escaped his lips, showcasing his own stress at the situation. The pre-season had just started, and they were already on a losing streak. Without Langdon, it would be a long shot to break out of it by the time the real season started. But hell, it had been a long shot with him, too, so maybe it was for the best.

"Even if you are out for the season, you're still a member of this team," Robby said.

"I really don't need your inspirational bullshit right now, coach. If it's okay with you, I'd like to get some more rest before they cast me up and send me home," Langdon said, hissing hateful words under his breath like it was his full-time job. Nothing like another fuck up to sour his mood. This one, he thought, wasn't so easy to fix. A student tutor or studying harder wouldn't magically heal a broken leg. Nope. He was just fucked.

"Your girlfriend's in the lobby. Want me to tell her to fuck off, too?" Robby asked, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the waiting room.

Langdon laughed, albeit a cold and distant laugh, but a laugh all the time. "Go for it. It's your funeral."

Robby left, shaking his head in what Langdon could only assume was disappointment. Again, disappointment. Always disappointment.

Abby was not as easy to get rid of. Why were the people in his life so bad at telling when he wanted to be alone, when he wanted space? Was it because he was equally as bad at understanding his own feelings that communicating wordlessly to others was basically impossible? How was even supposed to improve at that kind of bullshit when life kept literally kicking him when he was down?

Under the harsh fluorescent hospital lighting, Abby sat by his side, peppering him with questions about how he was feeling and whether or not everything was going to be alright.

He felt like shit and everything sucked, but he didn't say either of those things out loud. That would only make her worry more, and to be honest, he didn't really feel like dealing with her feelings on the matter. She was worried about him because she wanted to be worried, wanted to be able to take care of him, not because she was actually concerned about his well-being. She liked the attention of being the caretaker. The thank yous and the resulting affection. But Langdon didn't feel like doling it out this time, so they just sat in uncomfortable silence until the staff applied his full-leg cast, filled out a few prescriptions, handed over a pair of metal crutches, and sent them on their way.

For the rest of the night, Abby doted on him, asking him every half an hour or so whether or not he was in pain and if he needed anything—no to both, thanks to the potent pain killers they'd administered through an IV in his arm. It was nearly midnight by the time they got home, and he wanted more than anything to pass out with his leg propped up on a few pillows while some television show he'd seen a hundred times played in the background. Unfortunately, Abby didn't quite take the hint and kept flitting around the dorm, organizing and cleaning loud enough to disturb the people across the hall. He didn't even have the energy to tell her to fucking quit it.

She didn't leave over the weekend. Despite her own social obligations and homework, she stayed, claiming that he really needed her in these hard times. He couldn't bring himself to ask her to leave. Not when she looked so happy to help. For the most part, he just slept, getting up and walking around as minimally as possible and taking the drugs that had been prescribed.

The doctor had written two scripts and filled both immediately in the hospital's pharmacy. One bottle contained just a few pills. An opioid of some kind for the pain within the first few days. The other contained thirty or so Xanax to be taken along with over-the-counter pain medicine to help with muscle relaxation and sleep. Abby made a few comments regarding the safety of both drugs, pressing repeatedly that he was to be careful. Something about seeing kids overdose at parties on that kinda shit.

But they'd been prescribed, right? So what was wrong with taking them the way the doctor had ordered? He took the opioids within the first few days for pain, and began taking the benzodiazepines nightly to help him sleep after that. Just as instructed.

Days passed without classes or practice, and time started running together in that meaningless kind of way it does when you have no plans. A string of days with no structure, only bad TV and meals your girlfriend drops off from the dining hall. Except your girlfriend of almost four years doesn't really know you that well, so she brings you stuff you kind of hate. But again, you don't have the heart to say anything. Maybe because she's all you have, and you're too afraid to lose her. Or maybe because you're kind of a fucking coward.

Either way, he let her continue to take care of him despite how much it grated on the few nerves he had left.

After a few more days, he showed up to the winter sports pavilion for his mandated physical therapy session. Abby wanted more days of rest before he made the less than thirty foot walk to the building next door, but Langdon wasn't built to stay idle and every moment that passed without action only made him more and more antsy. As soon as she left for her morning classes, he started getting ready. This was, of course, a difficult endeavor without her, but he managed. Even got his shirt on the right way on the first try and everything. Pants were a different story. With the cast up to his thigh, shorts were the only option, and at least those were easy to put on.

The pavilion was empty. No figure skaters. No teammates. Robby and Collins probably holed up in their individual offices or maybe not even in for the day yet. But he didn't need to speak with any of them, anyway. No, he had an appointment with some kid named Dennis… something. Whitaker, maybe? A scrawny kid he'd only met once or twice for required physicals and concussion tests and other shit like that they make all the sports kids do. Dennis was in charge of all that for the winter sports teams. He also drove the Zambonis sometimes. A strange combination of roles.

Whitaker must have heard Langdon coming from down the hall. Crutches weren't exactly quiet. The lanky sophomore stood outside the medical office, waiting for him. "Frank, right?" he asked as Langdon hobbled closer, still getting used to using the crutches. The idea that this kid didn't know who he was almost made him laugh. Almost.

"Friends call me Langdon," he said, a knee-jerk response. Frank made him feel old, dignified. He was obviously neither.

"Dennis is fine. Whitaker is better," he said. "But anyway. Robby told me what happened. I wasn't at the game last week, but he gave me the rundown. Seems like you got off easy, right?" he said, a bit too eagerly for Langdon's tastes.

They walked into the medical office together while talking over his injuries. "Wouldn't call sitting out the season getting off easy, but sure. Whatever," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, trying not to snap at this poor kid. He'd probably cry.

Whitaker's office was small. He worked under a licensed sports medicine therapist who would, apparently, be around sometimes to check on Frank's progress as well. So technically, it wasn't really Whitaker's office, but he seemed to act like it was. There was a hospital bed, a counter along the opposite wall, and a rolling cart with a computer on it. It looked like any other doctor's office he'd ever been in. Except, you know, with one room instead of a few, and no waiting room other than the ice itself, where hockey players waited for their more-than-likely injury for months or years. Not many graduate injury-free.

"Well, hopefully we can get you back out on the ice sooner rather than later," Whitaker said.

This made Langdon's ears perk up. "Before the end of the season?"

"Maybe in time for the championship. If we're lucky," Whitaker said, squinting as if he were studying more than just his patient's physical wellness, but looking for something beyond, too. "I don't want to get your hopes up. It is a long shot. Depends on how quickly your body heals. You'll need to get lots of rest and stay off it as much as you can. Plus, you'll need to come in two to three times a week for physical therapy. Dr. Shen will be here once a week to evaluate your progress, but I'll be helping you with all the exercises and other fun stuff. Sound good?"

"Sure," Langdon said, already wanting to leave the cramped space. It sucked more than anything to be in the pavilion but not on the ice. Watching practice later, and for the next several months, would be even worse.

"Cool," the sophomore laughed, and it occurred to Frank then that he would be taking orders from someone two years younger than him. Just another annoying thing to add to the ever-growing pile. "The season hasn't really started yet anyway, right?" he asked.

It was probably rhetorical, but Frank answered anyway with a half-shrug. "Pre-season's still important." Not that the team was doing that well with their first few games. But that wasn't the point. "Season starts in October. Ends in April."

"Plenty of time to get you back on the ice. Let's shoot for early February," Whitaker said.

For the first time since his tibia cracked in half, he had hope. Regionals for the Frozen Four would be in late March, early April, with the final championship games taking place right after. If he could hit the ice by early February, maybe (just maybe) that would give him enough time to get back into shape after his time off.

"That's five months," Langdon said, thinking out loud. The hospital predicted between four and six.

"Perfectly doable. Right?"

"Let's hope your therapy plan or whatever isn't a total wash," Langdon said, words a bit harsh but not entirely serious. He had a strange urge to say something like I'm counting on you or Don't let me down, but it sounded too much like something Robby would say before Frank inevitably let him down, and he didn't want to jinx anything with his own misfortune.

From physical therapy, a session without much movement, where they instead went over his recovery plan, he went straight to Robby's office. Whatever Robby had in store for him couldn't be any worse than what he was already facing, so the anxiety didn't get to him too badly. As soon as he turned the corner and spotted Collins and Robby speaking with Mel King, however, his stomach dropped into his ass.

Maybe not anxiety, exactly, but a strange nervousness came over him at the sight of them all together. Like they were conspiring against him in some grand plot. Collins never liked him; that much was obvious. She didn't like most of the hockey players, just like Trinity. Not that Robby had an issue with the figure skaters. Langdon had learned his dislike simply from being around Trinity for more than a few minutes.

How long was it okay to stare at another woman? Frank was pretty sure the answer was not at all, but that didn't make it any easier to stop himself from locking eyes with Mel as he hobbled to a stop in front of the office.

"Hey," he said, voice shakier than he'd like, a bit of that same shame from the week prior bubbling up to the surface. It should have been the least of his worries, but he couldn't help but assume she'd never failed at anything in her life. She radiated a level of perfection Langdon could never hope to achieve. And for some reason, he hated the idea of her seeing him just like everyone else did.

Mel smiled, her lips pressed together, and one corner turned up just slightly. He hated that adorable was the first word that came to mind when he looked at her. He'd never found anything adorable before. His girlfriend was sexy and hot, beautiful even, but never adorable. Not that Mel wasn't sexy, hot, or beautiful. Okay. He could not afford to follow that train of thought.

"Hi," Mel said back, a bit of a squeak to her voice as she spoke up.

Collins and Robby exchanged a brief, uncertain glance before Robby gestured toward his office with a nod of his head. "Shall we?" he said, and the three of them followed him inside. Collins pulled a seat up next to Robby, on his side of the desk. He didn't scoot over to allow her any extra room. Mel pulled up an extra seat, turned it, and murmured, "To prop up your leg," and then sat down next to him.

"Thanks," he grumbled, annoyed at her kindness. Or maybe not annoyed. Not annoyed in the same way he'd been with Abby. Mel's kindness was helpful. Exactly what he needed. Like she'd read his mind. Abby's was only ever self-serving.

"Langdon, how was your meeting with Whitaker? Hope you took it easy on him," Robby said with a dry chuckle, attempting to dissipate a bit of the tension already building in the room. Langdon carried tension with him wherever he went, but it always compounded inside those four walls.

"Haven't made him cry yet, but there's still time," Langdon said, completely deadpan. Mel turned to him, not hiding the astonished look on her face. It made him laugh, seeing her so shocked at his behavior. "A joke," he said, clarifying.

"Oh," Mel said, before laughing a bit under her breath, as if it would be easier to wrap her mind around the joke if she let herself laugh, too. It made him smile. Another thought that there wasn't time to dissect. Why does Mel King make me smile?

"He thinks I'll be ready to play again by early February," Langdon continued.

Robby's face lit up in obvious delight. "That's great news," he said, then paused, exchanging another glance with Collins. "Until then, you'll have plenty of time to work on your grades. Which is why we asked you and Mel to join us today."

A crease formed between Langdon's brows.

"Mel King is one of Coach Collins' skaters. She also works in the student center," Robby explained.

"We've met," Langdon said.

"Good, good. Mel will be tutoring you for the next few months to ensure your grades don't slip any further while you're recovering," Robby explained.

Langdon sat forward as much as he could with his leg still propped up. "What?" he asked. Then, in a lower voice, "I don't think that's a good idea." He didn't look at Mel. Didn't want to see if his words offended her.

"Mel is not only an excellent student, but she understands how to balance a busy schedule, which you obviously do not," Coach Collins cut in. "Instead of taking appointments in the student center, she'll just be tutoring you. I suggest you do not waste her very valuable time."

He would waste her time. He wasted Robby's time, his parents' time. His own. Wasting hers was only the next natural step. "Coach, with all due respect—" Langdon started, and Robby seemed taken aback by the idea of Langdon having any respect for him in the first place. "I just don't know how I'll have time for classes, practice, physical therapy, and a full-time tutor."

Robby looked away from the captain for a brief moment. Long enough to make Langdon worry. "Mel will tutor you while the rest of the team practices."

Hitting something wasn't exactly the most productive use of his energy or emotions, but god did he want to slam his fist into a wall. "You're saying not only do I have to sit the season out, but I don't even get to be a part of the team anymore?"

"That's not what we're saying," Robby said, like he and Collins were this united front against him, all of a sudden. "You're still a part of the team." Those fucking words again. When would they start to mean something? "Of course you are. But your time is much better served getting your grades up than it is sitting on the bleachers."

"Are we done here?" Langdon asked, standing up as best he could. It was difficult to right his leg without being able to bend it, and he nearly fell while reaching for a crutch. Mel's hand shot out to steady him, her palm on his forearm. The skin-to-skin contact burned red hot. He ripped his arm away without looking at her, grabbed the other crutch, and stormed out of the room—as well as anyone on crutches could storm out of anything.

Chapter Text

For the next several days, all she could think about was how to casually ask one of her teammates if they'd heard any news about Langdon's injuries. It shouldn't have been on her mind. They barely knew each other, and yet an attachment had formed. A single thread tied around their wrists, growing and shrinking with the distance, tugging on her hand whenever he was nearby, saying look up. It was a thin thread, sure. Easily breakable, but a thread nonetheless.

Connections were like that to Mel King. As soon as someone splintered their way under her thin skin, it was impossible to remove them from her psyche without intervention. Even if those connections formed after a simple exchanged glance, a slight smile, or a few words of kindness.

It would have been easier to get things over with, like Trinity suggested. Get to know him better and realize that her feelings equated to nothing more than a simple crush. Unfortunately, it wasn't that simple. First of all, he ignited a nervousness within her she didn't know was possible, and second, his injuries kept him off the rink.

Between taking care of Becca, hanging out with Samira, attending classes, finishing homework, preparing for tests, working in the student center, and practicing for the upcoming competition, there shouldn't have been any time to think about Langdon. But her mind still found time to drift.

Maybe Frank Langdon was to blame for her inability to land a triple anything in practice. Letting frustration take over would only make things more difficult, but it was equally as challenging not to let it consume her. She'd started learning triples as a teenager, had mastered most of them, and had even landed a triple axel once or twice in practice. But now, even the simplest of combinations had her falling flat on the ice.

The self doubt crept in alongside her repeated failures. What had Coach Collins seen in her? And why did Trinity take such an interest in her training as well? They both must have seen something to invest so much time in her—but at the moment, she couldn't see just what that was. And instead, it was beginning to feel like she was letting them down entirely.

On the ice, her eyes kept flicking up to them far back in the stands, discussing something she couldn't hear. Team practice ended hours ago, but prying Mel off the ice was no easy task, especially when determination locked her in a vice.

After a failed double toe-loop, embarrassing, Collins stepped toward the boards and waved Mel over. Nothing on her face gave way to disappointment, but Mel couldn't help seeing what she believed had to be there. If she was disappointed in herself, that meant other people had to be, too.

"Why don't you take a break?" Collins said, words kind and gentle. Coach Collins was a Black woman with short hair and consistently pursed lips, but unlike some skating coaches, she wasn't mean or even all that strict. She had compassion for her skaters and wanted to see them succeed. Sure, her training schedules were rigorous, and she often asked a lot of her team, but she never yelled. Her words could be straightforward, and her critiques might sound harsh to an outsider, but they came from the heart, from a place of passion and dedication to the craft.

Mel nodded, skating toward her coach and taking the water bottle offered. Downing a few sips made it easier to breathe.

"What's on your mind?" Collins asked.

How exactly could you explain to your figure skating coach that you were struggling to land jumps because of a stupid, obnoxious, completely meaningless crush? That wasn't exactly the most professional explanation. It was, however, the truth.

"A few of the other girls and I went to the hockey game last Friday night, and the team captain took a really nasty fall," Mel explained.

Collins nodded with understanding even before Mel could finish. "I get it," she said. "Fear can be really challenging."

Well, it wasn't really that, exactly. But she'd be lying if she said fear hadn't played a part. Even though they'd been too far away from the incident to hear anything, the sound of crunching bones replayed in her mind before every jump, followed by the echo of his disgruntled scream. She couldn't imagine what he was going through—and couldn't help but wonder whether or not he'd be able to return to the ice.

The thought of figure skating being taken away from her was the scariest thing in the known universe. On the ice, she felt at home, comforted in a way that no other space could replicate. So maybe Coach Collins wasn't really all that far off. Maybe all that fear had been buried under the surface, hidden behind clear blue eyes and dark strands of hair.

"Do you know if he's okay?" Mel asked because she couldn't help it. The not knowing ate at her, and she could almost feel the pain as her own.

Collins pressed her lips into a tight line, the way she always did before delivering any kind of bad news. "His leg's broken. From what I've heard, he's out for the season." Collins didn't give her a lot of time to ruminate. "But you can't let fear hold you back. Confidence will keep you safe, fear is what puts you at risk. Second guessing yourself, doubting your abilities, those things will hurt you. But I've seen you land these jumps, and more difficult ones, too."

Mel nodded.

"Why don't you call it for the day?" Collins suggested. Mel was about to argue, but she shook her head. "The last thing I want is for you to overwork yourself. I know you care, Mel, and I know you want to be great. But that means giving yourself time to rest, too."

Trinity met her outside with a wide smile and her thumbs looped under her backpack straps. "Got the ol' take a break speech, huh?" she asked, playfully.

She still didn't exactly know how to place Trinity. They were friends, maybe, or just teammates. Sometimes it was nearly impossible to tell. At least it was finally (mostly) obvious when Trinity was actually making fun of her and when she was just joking around. Thankfully, it seemed like she was almost always joking around. Okay, well, maybe Mel wasn't a hundred percent certain her teammate wasn't sometimes making fun of her, but she hoped for the best. That was Mel. Always seeing the best in people. Even when others didn't. Even when people didn't deserve it.

People were judgmental. Harsh. They often allowed poor first impressions or minor inconveniences to cloud those judgments. Mel could see past the awkward and uncomfortable to see the real person below the social mistakes. If people could see past her insecurities, she would give them that same benefit of the doubt.

"Yeah," Mel said with a subtle shrug of her shoulders. "Has Coach Collins had to talk you off the ice, too?" They seemed akin in that way, both pushing themselves too hard in the pursuit of greatness.

"Oh god, no," Trinity said. "But I don't miss my jumps like you do, so I don't need to push myself as hard."

She looked at the ground as they walked, twisting her hands together in front of her stomach to keep herself from fidgeting, from examining her split ends or biting her nails, or some other tic that Trinity would likely pick apart. They were alike in some ways, yes, but completely different in others. It felt like whiplash sometimes, connecting with her and then being pushed away violently and dramatically. One of these days, she would figure her teammate out. But apparently today was not that day.

"That's not a bad thing. I mean, obviously, it's a bad thing—missing your jumps. But it happens to a lot of skaters. Especially if they're stuck in their own head."

"How do you manage it?" Mel asked, inclining her head to look at Trinity as they walked toward the dining hall. "Not letting yourself get distracted while you're out there?"

"I don't know," Trinity said. "Everything's always just fallen away for me. When it's just the ice and music and the crowd, I'm incapable of thinking about anything else."

Did Trinity have any flaws? Sometimes it felt like talking to a figure skater who'd been made in a lab instead of a real person. Maybe Victoria or one of the other senior skaters would understand what she was going through better than no-flaws Trinity Santos. Not that having no flaws was a bad thing. Mel was jealous, really. She wished more than anything that skating could come as naturally to her as it did to Trinity. But that didn't mean one was better than the other, just because one of them struggled less to get to the end result. Mel just needed to prove that the end result was worth the trouble. She needed to get her head back in the game. After resting, of course.

"What's got you all worked up, anyway?" Trinity asked.

Mel King did not like to lie. As much was obvious. But she also did not like to be misunderstood or misconstrued, and there was a good chance that her admission would only result in more torment from her teammate. She could imagine Trinity's response, shock and maybe even a bit of disgust at Mel's inability to stop thinking about—what had she called him—captain asshole? No. There would be no understanding from Trinity, which sucked. Of course it sucked. In an ideal world, Mel would have been able to discuss absolutely anything with her teammates. But this fear crept over her, starting in her stomach and spreading outward, making a home curled around her heart. An unfamiliar fear in recent years, but one that appeared during childhood. A fear of ridicule, of finding her genuine nature laughable instead of sincere.

Sometimes, when the world is full of assholes, the sincerest of people are doubted or judged for being kind. Mel refused to let the cruel world harden her no matter how hard it tried, but that did not stop the fear of ridicule from blossoming under her ribs. Ridicule, especially from those she considered friends, could bring her to her knees with ease. And she didn't know Trinity that well. Not really. Not well enough to risk her sincerity being mocked.

"I'm not sure," Mel said finally, as they walked through the propped open wide double doors to the dining hall. "I guess I just have a lot on my mind."

Trinity saw right through her words, but didn't say anything. She only raised a questioning brow before turning to the salad station and loading up her plate with an array of colorful vegetables. Mel followed suit, even though a greasy slice of pizza would really hit the spot. They sat down together, joining a few of the other skaters, and the conversation about Mel's mind, busy with Frank Langdon, vanished into the background.

It wasn't until she let herself into Samira's apartment a few hours later that all of the information finally exploded out of her. To her credit, not that Mel ever doubted her, Samira listened with rapt attention and never once poked fun or made Mel feel bad about her male-shaped distractions.

"I just—I don't get it. And I think that's what's driving me the most insane about all of this. I don't know why I can't stop thinking about him," Mel said, her head thrown back, long blonde hair cascading over the back of the couch.

Samira lived in the same complex as she did, which was absolutely perfect for the many occasions in which either of them needed to vent or just wished for some company. Despite being in the same complex, Samira's one-bedroom looked completely different in both layout and style.

Samira's apartment featured warm tones, tapestries, and textiles, while Mel's was dotted with fun, bright pops of color and cozy blankets always within arm's reach.

Anyone else probably would have rolled their eyes at Mel's words or said something along the lines of it's just a crush, but Samira wasn't like that. They'd only just become friends weeks ago, but no one would ever guess based on how they communicated, how they stuck to each other like glue, how they just got one another.

"Okay," Samira started, setting up the situation clinically. "I think we have a few options here. Right? First of all—what do you want to do? Would you rather stop thinking about him entirely or figure out why you can't stop?"

Samira could always be counted on for the difficult questions. Though they were often equally thought-provoking. She knew how to help a friend get to the bottom of something more than anyone else.

Even though that was exactly what Mel needed, she still struggled to find the answer. It could not be stressed enough that this was a person she hardly knew, had hardly spoken to. It should have been an easy question to answer. Like, yes, of course she should have wished to cease the thoughts entirely so she could go about her everyday life without distraction. But her gut said otherwise, and those were the words that came out.

"It's the why," Mel said, raking a hand through her hair and emitting a soft sigh. "It shouldn't be like this, right? With someone I hardly know? I've had crushes before, but they've never been this intense. And besides, he has a girlfriend, so I should really just get over it. But at the same time, I don't want to."

"I heard a rumor," Samira said simply, twisting a piece of hair around one finger and avoiding Mel's immediately curious gaze, as if she knew this information would not actually help her friend move on from anything.

"About Frank?" Mel asked, sitting forward with interest and finding even more annoyance at herself for it. It had been the same for the past two weeks, always inching closer to conversations when someone spoke his name, desperate for information but too uncertain to speak with him directly.

Samira nodded, a coy smile on her lips, enjoying seeing Mel flustered in this way. "About Abby, his girlfriend."

Was it over the line to gossip about the girl he was seeing just because of her crush? She didn't like to speak badly about other people, let alone other women… but her curiosity was much too strong to be ignored. "Okay," Mel said, tentatively, neither asking for nor denying the information presented.

"Apparently, someone saw her kissing the quarterback of the football team. So, I don't know. Maybe their relationship isn't as perfect as everyone makes it out to be."

Abby kissing someone else? That should have excited her, the idea of there possibly being an opening to slide in next to Langdon. Instead, it only saddened her. The thought of Langdon getting hurt didn't sit right on her shoulders, and all she could really think about was whether or not that rumor had made it back to him, yet. It was crazy, this whole thing. Feeling the way she did about him, about someone she hardly knew, but she couldn't help the empathy that choked up in her throat, sat uncomfortably atop her shoulders.

"Poor Frank," Mel said, finally.

Samira's face softened. "Isn't he supposed to be some huge asshole?" she asked. "I mean, I've never met him, but he doesn't seem like exactly your type."

"He's not," Mel said, then, "My type, I mean. But I don't really think he's an asshole, either." Was it wrong to judge someone based on the few seconds of interaction you'd had with them? It was all Mel had to go on, and yet the feeling couldn't be shaken free. There was more to Langdon than met the eye. If only it were more obvious what exactly was lying beneath the surface.

Besides, did most people even really have a type? Based on her dating history, her type included people of all genders, nerds, theater kids, know-it-alls, and people who were inevitably too similar to herself. But those relationships had all failed, so maybe none of them had really been her type after all. Maybe her type was a snarky hockey player with swoon worthy eyes who looked at her like she meant something. Again, another line of thought she probably shouldn't have gone down.

"I hate to regurgitate the same advice I gave you last week, but have you tried talking to him?" Samira asked.

"I talked to him again, just once. I mean, I wouldn't even really call it a conversation. He crashed into me the morning he was injured. Literally crashed into me." And he smiled at me again, later. But she didn't say those thoughts out loud. They sounded too desperate, knocking around in her head. She was more than her crush on Frank Langdon, despite the fact that he occupied her every other thought. "He basically ran away from me after—" she cut herself off. Was it really her place to share the unfortunate status of Langdon's grades?

Samira wasn't the kind of person to judge, so she continued. "When we crashed into each other, I dropped my stuff. He helped me pick everything back up, but his exam ended up shuffled between a few of my papers." Samira watched on, letting her talk without interrupting. "He failed an exam, and I think—for some reason—it embarrassed him that I saw it."

That didn't have to mean something. Anyone would be embarrassed to show someone else their failures. But to Mel, failing was a natural part of life. She was failing hard on the ice pretty much every day, so it almost felt nice to know that Langdon wasn't another perfect specimen made in a lab. He was flawed, just like her.

Admiring her nails, Samira said offhandedly, "You should tutor him." When Mel's mouth fell agape—not because it was a wild idea, but because she'd thought about it more than once over the last few days—she continued, "What? That's your job, right?"

"Yes, it is. I just—I don't know. It feels like overstepping to offer." This was clearly a one-sided situation, right? She pined, catching smiles and feelings at the same time. But that didn't mean he thought about her when she wasn't around. Maybe her offering to tutor him would seem completely out of nowhere or even patronizing. The last thing she wanted was to make him feel worse about something that clearly already messed with his head.

"Maybe you're right," Samira said, not seeming entirely convinced. "I still think you should find some way to talk to him. At least so you can get him out of your head."

She thought about talking to him, but the right time never arose. Over the next several days, he was nowhere to be seen. Probably out of commission after the injury. And she certainly couldn't show up at his dorm room. First and foremost, because she didn't know where he lived, and secondly, because it was insane.

But something else came over her, an idea that couldn't be ignored. An idea that probably should have been ignored. It had her standing in front of the hockey coach's office after a few minutes of looking through student records in the tutor center. Whether or not that was a thing she was allowed to do, who knows? She did know, however, that she hadn't been told not to do it.

From outside, two voices mingled, raised just loud enough to be heard through the wood. Robby's calendar had been clear, which should have meant it was okay to knock on the door. But Mel hated nothing more than interrupting, especially in professional settings. Instead, she took a seat on a bench across the hall and waited. Fifteen minutes passed. An hour. Finally, the door creaked open, and Mel shot upward.

"Oh," Coach Collins said, looking slightly flustered, red in the cheeks, and a tad disheveled. "I didn't know you were coming in today, Mel. Is there something I can help you with?" she asked, ignoring the obvious and somewhat awkward tension that hung around, especially as Robby appeared behind her, placing a hand on her waist. One that she immediately swatted away.

Mel shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, twisting her hands together to stabilize herself, give herself something to think about other than the words that felt stuck in her throat. "I actually was hoping to speak with Coach Robby." Maybe this was a bad idea. A horrible idea. Even if that were true, she'd already stepped off the ledge.

"About?" Collins asked, always straight and right to the point.

Robby took a step back into his office. "Why don't you both come in, and we can all talk about it." Collins turned around and walked back inside with Mel following closely behind. Sitting down opposite the two coaches, Mel continued to fidget with her fingers intertwined, making direct eye contact and trying not to smile too much or too little.

"I work at the student center as a tutor, and I noticed that one of your players came in recently for some help. I know that satisfactory academic progress is important for athletes, but it doesn't seem like he's come back in for any more tutoring since then. Maybe he didn't like his tutor or maybe something else, I don't know—" Okay, now she was rambling. She hadn't even begun to get her point across, hadn't offered anything.

"And this is something the student center does, outreach?" Robby asked, folding his hands together and leaning over them like he was inspecting her next words carefully for truth.

"Well, no. Not really. Not at all, actually. I just thought maybe since we share the same ice, it was nice to check in and see how he was doing. I know he was injured recently, too—I guess what I'm trying to say is that if he wants to try tutoring again, my schedule has been fairly open."

While some students appreciated her quirks and general bluntness, it often times resulted in them scheduling with someone else. And when her schedule was empty, her work study checks were small and unhelpful. Not that her offering to help was really for the money, but she'd be lying if she said she hadn't thought about that benefit, as well.

Collins and Robby exchanged a glance, like they were having some kind of secret conversation through eye contact alone. Collins shook her head vehemently. Then Robby said, "Come on, could be good for him."

"Could you give us a moment, Mel?" Collins asked, injecting some kindness into her voice that she clearly didn't feel.

Sitting outside once more, it was impossible to pretend she couldn't hear moments of conversation, especially as they raised their voices beyond what someone would call an acceptable volume.

"She's a nice girl, Robby. She doesn't have time to waste on someone like Langdon," Collins said.

Robby said, louder, "Langdon is a good kid, too, Heather. Just because your team doesn't like him doesn't mean he's not worth the trouble."

I don't think that's a good idea. Langdon's words did cut, but not as deeply as they should have. She'd known from the start that it was probably a bad idea. That she ran the risk of ruining whatever they had. It was stupid to say that they had something, really, but they did. Those moments couldn't be nothing. She wouldn't let them be. But now he was hobbling out of the office away from her and their coaches, muttering swears under his breath, and she couldn't decide fast enough whether or not to go after him. Neither of the coaches made to move, though, so after a few long seconds, she shot up out of her chair and walked after him quickly.

It was almost laughable how little distance he'd covered after his grand exit. He stood at the top of the stands, looking out over the ice as the Zamboni smoothed it out to a glossy shine.

Mel stopped at his side, but didn't say anything, only watched Whitaker (they'd met only once during routine sports check-ups) navigate the machine in circles.

"Nothing against you," Langdon said casually, although there was still a bite in the undercurrent of every word.

She nodded, looking down at her hands and resisting the urge to twist them together. "I'm sorry," she said finally, turning only slightly to look up at him, eyes searching the side of his face. His own crystal blue ones softened a little. "If I couldn't skate…" she trailed off, lost in just the idea of her own sadness. "I would be mad too."

"Oh yeah?" he asked, eyes flicking over and catching hers, even though he remained fully facing forward. Something about her words intrigued him.

"Yeah," she said, with a firm nod. "Skating is everything to me. It's not just a hobby, you know?" It reminded her of the corny shirt she'd had as a kid, eat, sleep, breathe figure skating. Totally lame in execution, but accurate at its core.

"I know," he said.

They stood in silence for a long while, Langdon looking out over the ice and Mel trying not to stare at him for too long. Finally, she said, "If you don't want me to tutor you, I can always back out."

This made him turn toward her, his shoulders square with hers, even though they were quite a bit higher. "You would do that?" he asked. The insincerity was as obvious to her as a neon sign reading I need your help.

She turned her nose upward. "Of course. I'm a great liar," she said with as much confidence as she could muster, but the words still came out wavering and uncertain like her body just couldn't help but betray her.

When Langdon laughed, it was with his whole chest. "Perfect." He clapped a hand down onto her shoulder, and she jumped, making him chuckle once more. "I'll follow your lead," he said, and motioned back toward their coaches' offices.

With eyes widening, a fear took over for a split second before she realized he had to be joking. The laughter should have given it away, but people had laughed at her expense many times before, and certainly it would happen again. But that time was not now, and it was not with Frank Langdon.

Taking in her shocked expression, he smiled, wide and beaming. All of that anger from before melting away. "When do you want to start?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked down at her. And she could only think that whatever she'd gotten herself into was bound to be trouble.

Chapter Text

Life fell back into routine. Class, physical therapy, tutoring. They decided to start as soon as possible, which meant the following morning while the team practiced. It sucked—more than anything—to miss practice, but that was just going to be something he had to live with. Surely there were other things in the world that could bring him joy besides being on the ice, right?

He racked his brain, certainly, there had to be something. Classes? No. Pre-law had been his father's idea. He'd barely slipped by on grades for the first three years, and four hundred level classes were kicking his ass. Hence the tutor. But no, no passion there for psychology, English, and social science classes. In fact, most of them actively drained his will to live.

The next obvious answer was Abby. Girlfriend of three years, just about as long as they'd been in school, just as long as they'd known each other. Those years should have turned their relationship into something truly special. Other people in similar situations to Langdon were considering proposing after graduation or at least moving in together. He had no interest in either and refused to take that as a sign of anything.

At least he'd still get to hang with the team after practices. Going to grab a beer after wins or losses was something to look forward to, even if he couldn't be a part of the game. Maybe this Mel girl would even end up being alright. She was cute and nice, but not the kind of girl he'd usually spend any time around. First and foremost, she was a part of Trinity's army, which meant he was not to interact. Basically, a girl-embargo in her eyes. Not that he had any interest in any of them like that, anyway. He had a girlfriend, and just because he didn't love her didn't mean he was a cheater.

Abby slept over again. Despite his few—seemingly obvious—remarks about wanting space. But no. She was too interested in taking care of him and his injury. By the time he swung his fully casted leg over the side of the bed, reached for his crutches, and hobbled into the living room, it was nearly ten in the morning.

By the morning light beaming in through the shitty, torn-up blinds in the living room, Abby painted. If he loved her, maybe this would have been a welcome sight. Seeing your girlfriend painting on an easel with warm golden sunlight capturing her features in a lovely way, and all that mopey stuff romantics tend to say. Instead, he just said, "I told you not to paint in here, roommate hates it when you get shit all over the floor."

"Tell Brad he can kiss my ass," Abby said, without looking away from her work, holding a paintbrush but not actively using it, instead just staring longingly at her work, criticizing every stroke and determining where to go next.

"I'd like to see him try," he said. And really, he would. Brad was a big dude, but Abby didn't let people fuck with her, either. She'd probably have him on his ass faster than he could even try to kiss hers.

"Don't make a mess," Langdon said when she didn't respond. He picked up his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door without a goodbye.

She didn't like that. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Thought you were benched or whatever."

They might as well have been engineered in a lab, the way they both knew how to best piss the other one off. Her comment made his teeth gnash together, clenching his jaw in order not to say something he would regret later. "I wasn't benched. I broke my leg."

"Same difference," she said. They still didn't look at each other. Just two kids, fighting from different corners of the room. They liked that, the distance.

"It's not," he said. Langdon opened the door and had one foot into the hall before she spoke again.

Abby finally turned around, crossing her arms over her chest. He turned too, looking at her with that can we get on with it already expression she inevitably hated. She already got paint on her apron, and he probably could have found at least a few specks on the floor if he stuck around. She said, "So where are you going then?"

He groaned. It was so exhausting, their relationship. But neither chose to end it, either. One of those complex things, like when people don't get divorced for the sake of their kids. Except, they weren't married and they didn't have kids. So, it kind of wasn't like that at all. But neither knew why they chose to stay together. That was the point.

"Coach-mandated tutoring," Langdon said, through his teeth.

It was like she had a nose for sniffing out things he tried to keep from her. Not that tutoring with one of the ice skaters was really huge news.

"Oh, cool," Abby said, turning back to the painting. "When will you be back?" God, like she was waiting for him at home or something, and not his university-assigned dorm room that she never left.

"I don't know," he said, then finally took the second step out of the room, letting the door bang shut behind him. Fuck. He really needed to break up with her.

Late September, and the air has finally gotten a bit colder. It only made his leg hurt even more as he made his way across campus back to the student center. It was a good thing he worked out as much as he did pre-injury because otherwise operating the crutches would have kicked his ass. Hopefully, he wouldn't lose much muscle mass in his time on the bench. Whitaker was supposed to help with that, or something. He still wasn't really sure what the scrawny kid's role in all of this shit actually was.

The walk between his dorm and the student center was much longer than the one to the sports pavilion, which again—only serves to make his leg hurt even more. So by the time he wobbled into the student center, there was a line of sweat at his hairline, despite the cold.

Mel King found him almost immediately, in that way she usually could. It seemed like whenever they were in the same room, their eyes just found each other. It wasn't even a conscious decision, his eyes were always drawn in her direction.

Like magnets. Maybe that was the issue with Abby. They both produced the same magnetic frequency and couldn't help but repel one another. Or something like that. It wasn't like he had really paid attention in physics. All he knew was that his eyes were drawn to Mel in a way they were never drawn to Abby. Which was strange, really, especially when Abby was the definition of hot and Mel was, well, cute. Not sexy, not jaw-dropping or stunning, but pretty. If that was true—why did he always look her way? Why did he study her face with such rapt attention, looking into those brown eyes whenever he got the chance? Call it mere curiosity.

"Hey!" Mel said, smiling that cheerful smile she could catch him off guard with. It was so genuinely pleasant, no malice behind it, just complete and total joy. Was it possible that she was really that happy all the time, or did she put on a mask for the world to see? He wanted to undress her—proverbially—and find out what was underneath the mask, wanted to see her without the smile. It was maybe sick to think about, but Langdon just couldn't wrap his mind around the idea of someone so nice. There had to be a flaw somewhere, and he wanted to find it. "How are you feeling?" Mel asked, snapping him out of his deep investigation of her psyche.

He hated the question, always had, no matter who it came from. From Abby, it was always self-serving. How are you, and I hope you're good, because I need you to come to this party and stand next to me for several hours. With his parents, it was always critical. You better be okay, or we'll pull your tuition money and make you take out student loans like everyone else on the planet. With Mel, he hadn't yet identified the ulterior motive. Not to say it wasn't there.

"Fine," Langdon said, grumpy. Grumpy about everything. Not getting to go to practice, not getting to play, having to deal with Abby's bullshit and his own, and even most of all, having to sit in the student center and figure out how to make sense of himself in order to be a better student. He didn't care about being a better student. But coach's rules, or whatever.

She nodded, performing some kind of investigation of him with her own eyes, looking over him in a way that made him feel surprisingly vulnerable. A small crease formed between her brows, and he wished to take his thumb and smooth it out.

"Okay," Mel said, finally, as if she'd either figured him out or given up, and wasn't that always the question? "I reserved a study room for us, if you want to follow me?" Everything she said ended in a question mark. But at least she didn't ask if he needed any help.

They walk to the back of the student center, a large building—which thankfully, they stay on the first floor of—filled with study rooms and resources. On the fourth floor, a sky bridge connected the center with the library.

Their assigned study room is the first in a row that lines the back wall, a vinyl cutout of the number one adhered to the glass door. The entire room was glass front and back, the front with windows looking out over the rest of the student center and the back looking out over the courtyard. The interior windows were, at least, drywall, offering some semblance of privacy and soundproofing between each of the rooms.

Mel set up her things, unpacking a laptop, a stack of notebooks, and a few textbooks that corresponded with ones he'd left at home. He pulled up a chair to prop up his leg and settled into it, resting his crutches against a wall within easy reach.

"So," Mel started, folding her hands together on the table in front of her. "I was thinking about how we should go about all this."

She said this like it was some huge problem, which it kind of was, especially if you asked Robby. But it was strange to be referred to as such by someone who looked younger than him. Is that how she thought of him? As some problem to be solved? Likely.

He didn't want to be cruel with her. Something about her unique kindness and ability to keep that stupid smile on her face. But in the same vein, everything pissed him off. About everything. And he found, only slightly, that he could not help but be cruel.

"And what did you decide, sweetheart?" he asked, saying the word partially to see how she would react. Okay, maybe completely because of that.

Her cheeks turned a deep red, and he couldn't help but smirk in response.

She cleared her throat and continued, clicking through a few things on her laptop that he couldn't see. "Well, I was thinking that—well," she said, trying to get through the words she probably practiced in front of the mirror that morning. "We obviously need a plan, right?" she asked rhetorically, but still looking at him, maybe to ensure he was paying attention. "Coach Robby gave me a copy of your schedule," she said, taking out a piece of paper with his five classes listed on it. "I circled the ones you're either currently failing or getting worse than a C minus."

Four out of five were circled in red pen. Social Psychology, Comparative Politics, State & Economy, Supreme Court & Constitutional Law. All classes he had absolutely no interest in. Except maybe Social Psychology, but then again, he was failing that one too, so he couldn't care that much.

"I wanted to start with getting to know you a little bit, if that's okay?" Mel asked, nervousness tinged each word.

Did he make her nervous? Interesting.

In a way, she made him nervous, too. Not the blushing kind of nervous, but the fuck, I'm under a lot of scrutiny kind of nervous. Maybe scrutiny wasn't the right word. Observation. He steepled his hands together in his lap, mirroring her. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

"Do you like school?" she asked, raising one brow and looking at him like she actually cared to hear the answer.

It was the kind of question that grandparents asked when you visited on the weekend in like, third grade. But it was genuine, too, in that same way everything she did seemed.

"Does anyone like school?" he asked, because for the most part, his friends all seemed to muscle through it. They'd all come to Pitt to play hockey, not to study. For them, it was a pipeline to the major league. The degree didn't really matter all that much. Except for the fact that they couldn't play without the grades.

She sat up a little in her seat, rolling her shoulders backward in a proud kind of way. "I do. I love it."

He took notes in his imaginary Mel King notebook, remembering key details about her personality for no reason in particular. "I'm not exactly the biggest fan," he said.

"There has to be something you like about it. I noticed you're passing your literature class. Do you like that one more than the others?"

It felt like an interview. He sighed. "No. Took it because I heard the teacher's a pushover. Easy grader and all that. Know what I mean?"

She looked at him like she, in fact, had no idea what he meant. "But you like hockey?" she asked, another rhetorical question.

"That's right. Gotta pass the classes to keep playing the game. That's why you're here," he said.

"There's nothing you enjoy about class?" she asked, still digging, still trying to find something. What? Maybe a part of him to respect? She wouldn't find anything. Not down that path.

He leaned forward as best he could while still keeping his leg propped up parallel to the table. Under his breath, telling her some great secret, he said, "I particularly enjoy not failing."

There was more she wanted to ask, more questions she wanted to target him with, but she held back. Maybe because it was as clear as day that there weren't answers to be found that fit her agenda, whatever it may have been. She couldn't uncover some perfect student lying beneath the dust. He didn't exist. It was just Langdon, eternal fuckup.

Chapter Text

"Not failing," Mel said, a small smile on her lips, trying to keep pace with his humor, his way of speaking. "Definitely ideal and very much the goal."

Frank Langdon was an interesting pupil. Most of the people she'd tutored actually cared about their grades. There weren't many students enrolled at Pitt who didn't want to be there, especially third and fourth-year students. Why waste so much money on a degree if you had no interest in the field of study you were pursuing? There was certainly something there, something he wasn't telling her. But neither did she want to pry too much and lose whatever trust they'd built up so far, if any.

"Glad we're on the same page," Langdon said, looking at her in that way she couldn't quite understand. Like when he'd called her sweetheart. What had that meant? It was already hard enough to focus around him. She definitely didn't need him adding pet names to the already emotionally complicated mix.

"Me too," she said, maybe a little bit too cheerfully for the nature of the conversation, but she couldn't help but be excited about the prospect of helping someone—really helping someone. "Okay, so. Since we'll be meeting up about this time every morning, we'll treat it kind of like a co-working space. Have you ever heard of parallel play?"

"Sounds like something Coach might name one of his famous strategies," Langdon commented, not taking her words that seriously. Not that they were serious, but it was difficult to get him to engage in anything school-related already. Thankfully, Mel King didn't quit easily.

She laughed, a little forced. Not entirely certain whether or not he was attempting to make a joke. "So, um, parallel play is something used for neurodivergent people who struggle with things like motivation and other executive functions."

Langdon looked at her with a brow raised, and it occurred to her then that he might not have been super familiar with the same concepts she knew, a lot of which she'd learned from caring for Becca as well as figuring out her own diagnoses.

"Neurodivergent refers to people with, for example, ADHD or Autism. But also Dyslexia, those kinds of things. People with different brain functions that can affect learning and everyday interactions," she clarified.

He listened, one hand under his chin, watching her with an expression she couldn't place. Had she gone into too much detail? Did he worry that she was sitting there diagnosing him with some issue he didn't even have? The questions piled up in her mind, and she could have rambled on about things for even longer, explained that she didn't necessarily mean that he was neurodivergent or anything, but that these methods were helpful for everyone. Instead, she just moved on to the actual definition while she still held his attention.

"Anyway, um," she stammered. "Parallel play is often used for people with ADHD who struggle with focusing or staying on task. But I think it's useful for all students. Basically, all that to say, we can meet up in the morning and work on homework together. I'll work on my assignments, and you can work on yours. And if you need any help or have any specific questions, I'll be here to help with those, too."

"Damn, here I thought you were just going to do my homework for me," he said, straight-faced.

"Well—no," she started.

He cut her off. "That was a joke, King."

King. Another nickname. "Oh," she said, cheeks turning a bit pink.

"I think that's a good idea," he said, casually in a way that made her eyebrows draw together in the center. She hadn't exactly expected praise for her decision-making abilities or strategies. But it felt nice, too, to be validated by him. Maybe their sessions together would actually turn out okay.

There was something so strange about him, something she couldn't understand. She'd almost expected him to be an asshole, expected their small smiling moments in the past few weeks to be anomalies. It was both a win and a loss that he ended up continuing his track record of being nice to her. A win because, of course, she wanted it to continue, but a loss because it would have been easier for her ever-developing crush if he'd been the asshole everyone thought he was. Apparently, there wasn't any moving on occurring in her future.

But as long as she kept things completely professional, it would all be okay. And maybe she'd actually be able to help him, too. That was why she was there, after all.

From tutoring, Mel left for her own classes—which she's never struggled to pass. School work had always come easily to her. In fact, she often cherished those moments at the end of a long day where she could crack open a textbook, work on an essay, or study for a test. But it was, for the most part, her passion for Psychology and her desire to move forward, closer to her dream career, that kept her head above water.

After class, she had practice. A bit of guilt washed over her as she changed out of her everyday clothes and into tight yoga pants and a compression shirt. Not being able to play hockey clearly messed with Langdon's psyche, and there she was, able to step into the pavilion and get on the ice without any issue at all.

Though, of course, she had her own problems that Langdon knew nothing about. Namely, in landing jumps she'd been practicing for over a decade. As per usual, she was early to the rink, sitting on the sidelines with her skates on, waiting for the rest of the team to show up. Collins had warned her away from over-practicing, yes, but a few minutes wouldn't kill her, right?

Taking the guards off the blades of her skates, she skated out onto clean, smooth ice. With earbuds in and Megan Thee Stallion playing, she could easily melt away into the routine. Mouthing the words, classy, bougie, ratchet, she started the routine. Her braid whipped gently behind her as she built up speed. It was so peaceful, she almost closed her eyes, letting muscle memory take over.

Her short program routine came easier than ever. The triple axel she'd landed in her audition tape turned into a double out of the fear of failure alone, but other than that, it was perfect. Other triples, alone and in combination, landed with ease. That had to mean she'd shaken off that dastardly fear of injury or confusion about Langdon completely and totally, right?

Except, she hadn't stopped thinking about Langdon. Not at all, really. She'd spent the entire tutoring session trying not to let her cheeks turn red every time he spoke while attempting to maintain subtle eye contact without letting her eyes linger on his lips or stare into his eyes for much too long. Recommended methods of moving on from both Samira and Trinity—just talk to him, then you'll realize he's a dick you don't want anything to do with—hadn't gone exactly to plan. In fact, she was more interested in him than ever.

There was something about him—of course, she couldn't quite put a finger on it—that drove her borderline insane. But she still didn't know him. Not really. She could count the facts she knew about him on one hand, and probably still have fingers left over. Loves hockey, hates school, has a girlfriend. Yeah, that was pretty much it.

She'd experienced crushes before. Even dated a few times. But none of them ever hit her this hard, never left her thoughts spiraling after every interaction, left her questioning every single word and sentence that left her mouth. But all she could think about now was why she'd spent so long rambling—was she incapable of holding a proper conversation with him? Did he find her as awkward and strange as she felt?

At least these thoughts were no longer enough to put her on her ass in front of the rest of the team or her coach. Now they just existed in the background of nearly every moment.

Which was good, because as soon as she finished a second nearly perfect attempt on her short program, sassy, moody, nasty, she took out a headphone to the sound of clapping from the stands. Whether or not Trinity's claps were sarcastic in nature, the skater could not be certain. But there was a smile on her teammate's face as she approached the boards.

"Whatever you did, it's clearly working," Trinity said, taking a seat on the bench and changing into her skates with Victoria on her tail.

Mel skated over to meet them at the bench, taking a seat and slipping her guards back on while catching her breath. "Thanks," she said before gulping down big sips of water.

"How's tutoring captain asshole?" Trinity asked, cocking her head to the side and raising a brow in what was clearly a teasing manner. Not at her, specifically, but at the idea of it all. Maybe telling Trinity about the arrangement had been a mistake, but she'd needed to get the words out to someone, and her teammates had been willing to listen over after-practice dinner the night before. Trinity, of course, thought it was borderline insane and also mostly a waste of time.

Maybe that was what had Mel so invested, the fact that everyone else saw Langdon as this great waste of time and space. Maybe she just wanted him to know that someone still believed in him. Obviously, Coach Robby cared a great deal, but who else stood by his side? After what she'd learned about Abby, she figured it was unlikely that she supported him in any way—and who did that leave? Teammates who played on the ice without him? Did he have any other friends? Maybe she invested too much of herself into this hockey player she hardly knew, but in the same vein, she saw something in him that was worth all of the time committed, and neither could she step away. No matter what Trinity Santos had to say about it.

"Oh, it went well. At least, I think it went well. Hard to tell," Mel explained.

Trinity quickly countered with, "Did he reveal his true asshole colors yet?"

Mel shook her head, "I don't think he's as much of an asshole as you think he is."

Trinity laughed, and this time it was obviously at Mel's expense. "Give it time," was all she said before slipping the guards off her skates and stepping forward onto the ice.

The rest of practice went on without a hitch. Collins ran them through drills, had them practicing triple axels over and over again—only allowing each person to stop when they finally landed one. It was Trinity first and Mel second, followed nearly twenty minutes after by Victoria. Trinity made a comment under her breath about how she'd likely landed the jump by mere luck alone, to which Mel didn't reply. After drills, Collins gave them time to work on their short and free programs. One person went at a time, and the rest of the team watched, giving critiques once prompted. Trinity had a lot to say about everyone's routines, except Mel's. To Mel, she only gave a few technical tips and encouraged her to add the triple axel to the end of her free program in order to up the difficulty, even though she couldn't land it consistently. It felt like both a kind, encouraging comment and a set-up for failure at the same time.

After practice, and still in her sweaty work-out gear, she went straight to the psychiatric center to pick up Becca from her intensive outpatient program.

Becca didn't talk much on the car ride home, which wasn't unusual. Either she had mouthful after mouthful of things to say regarding her day, or she sat quiet and introspective in the passenger seat. Neither meant one thing or another. Like, for example, her quiet introspection now didn't necessarily mean that she'd had a bad day, but perhaps an overstimulating one.

Mel knew well enough, after years and years of caretaking, studying, and failing (especially failing), how to communicate with Becca in a way that suited them both. In these quiet moments, she let Becca exist without pestering her. She didn't ask about her day or ask her what she wanted to eat for dinner. They simply drove home in silence, and Mel made important decisions, mostly regarding food, as needed.

They'd established patterns like these over the years since their mother—Becca's primary caretaker at the time—passed away. It had been difficult at first, trying to find rhythm and an understanding with one another, but now it was like breathing. A special type of communication that existed only between them.

Those moments of peace on the car ride home allowed Becca time to relax. So, by the time they stepped into their cozy two-bedroom apartment—with food gathered along the way—she was ready to talk up a storm.

For the most part, that meant sprawling out on the couch with a box of takeout and asking Mel about school, digging into her personal life, and getting all the details she most wanted to know. Which, of course, almost always had to do with boys.

Her first question was, of course, "Have you found anyone to kiss yet?"

A fairly common question, and one Mel always had to answer with a disappointing no. A disappointment to them both, honestly. It had been a few years since Mel's last relationship, and since she wasn't keen on one-night stands or kisses with people unfamiliar, it had, too, been a long time since her last kiss.

"Not yet," Mel said, even though the real answer had no 'yet' to do with it at all. From where she stood, there were zero kisses in her future. Especially since the person she pined after had a popular and beautiful girlfriend. One who, albeit, cheated on him—allegedly—but a girlfriend nonetheless.

"Is there anyone you want to kiss?" Becca asked, nosey as ever when it came to Mel's love life, and probably just as desperate as she was for a juicy story.

"Maybe," Mel said, a sort of teasing nature to her voice never present in conversation with anyone else. Becca was different. Her sister, yes, but her best friend, too. And it was easy to talk to her, easy to understand each other. And she knew, more than anything, that Becca wanted to know every little detail of her life. So inevitably, she would give them, without sparing specifics. In knowing this, it was easy to tease, to pretend that she was holding something back—if only for a second. If only to get the following, predictable response from her sister, one that made her eyes light up and a smile break out across her face.

"Oh, please, Mel!" Becca begged, reaching to grab her sister's hands and holding them tight within her own. "Tell me everything, you have to tell me everything."

And so, she proceeded to tell Becca everything about the conundrum that was Frank Langdon, the person she most wanted to kiss.

Chapter Text

Another day meant another tutoring session with Mel King, who was surprisingly tolerable for a figure skater and a nerd. Someone he probably should have been bullying if stereotypes controlled his life, but there was something about her he couldn't help but like. He was sure that it would wear off eventually, that he would start to get sick of her nuances, her particularities, and her genuine nature. For now, it was a breath of fresh air, honestly, to everyone else who went to Pittsburgh College. And sometimes, yeah, he got sick of the fake-ass people that surrounded him. Not the hockey team, for the most part, they were good, real friends, but everyone else who tried to get his attention? Usually in it for game tickets or invites to good parties.

He sat with his broken leg propped up on another chair, laptop in his lap, and a few textbooks open on the table next to him. They'd been working in silence for almost an hour—only about half their session—and he couldn't stop stealing looks at her from across the small room. He'd glance from the screen to his books, then quickly let his eyes flick upward to her. She wore her hair down, cascading over her shoulders, golden despite the bright white lighting. While she worked, that crease between her brows often formed, and he knew she was attempting to puzzle something out in her mind.

Meanwhile, the screen on his computer sat mostly blank, and every time he tried to write something, he ended up deleting it right after. Rinse and repeat.

So when Mel asked, "How's the essay going?" His instincts told him to lie.

"Good," he said, clearing his throat as he sat up straighter in the chair. He closed the laptop before she could ask to see his progress and turned as best he could to face her. Procrastinating by talking to her would be easier than staring numbly at his bright computer screen. "What are you working on?"

She eyed him curiously, eyes shifting toward the closed laptop on his legs with a glance he could only call suspicious. But she looked back at her own screen and proceeded to tell him anyway. "Starting research for my thesis. I have to decide on a topic by the end of the week."

It occurred to him then that he didn't know what she studied or what her interests were outside of tutoring and skating. "Any frontrunners?"

Mel shifted, almost uncomfortably, in her chair as if she didn't want to answer the question. But she spoke anyway, ignoring that obvious discomfort. "I think I've settled on researching the efficacy of inpatient and outpatient programs for people with Autism. How helpful they are for stability, how they help to provide patients with a sense of normalcy and routine."

She'd presented the information readily, but for some reason, it still felt like crossing a line to ask for further details. He did anyway. "That's a topic you seem to know a lot about," he said.

"Autism?" she asked, and he nodded. "I'm the primary caretaker for my younger sister. Her name's Becca. She goes to an intensive outpatient program during the day while I'm here. That's why I'm so interested, if that's what you were curious about."

He didn't know how to respond, how to take in that information, and provide a thoughtful response. "And you want to know if programs like the one she's in are really helpful?"

"Not exactly," Mel said. "I know Becca's program is helpful. She loves being there, and they help her with everything she has trouble doing on her own. Cooking, cleaning, and taking care of herself. That kind of stuff. But I think programs like that get a lot of bad press. Sometimes people think it's choosing to drop your family member off so you don't have to deal with them—and it's not like that at all."

Langdon listened closely to her words, to everything she said.

She continued. "I just wanted to see if I could find any research to present showcasing how great these types of programs can be. For the people enrolled and for their caretakers, too."

This was what he meant, about her being genuine. Everything she said always seemed to come straight from the heart. It struck him through the center of his, to hear her words, sometimes. Especially now. To have a family she cared about so much, enough to sacrifice her own time. He couldn't imagine having a family he cared about enough to make sacrifices for.

"I always wanted a sibling, myself," Langdon said. Growing up an only child had been rough, especially with his strict, suffocating parents.

Mel smiled, pressing her lips together into a straight line, not showing any teeth. A half smile, half grimace, like the conversation made her sad in some way. He wanted to know more about it, more about her. Another feeling that was new to him. Caring. Langdon cared about Mel King. After only a few meetings. How strange.

The conversation died out as they returned to their work. In the last hour, Langdon even managed to get a few paragraphs written. They were almost definitely hot garbage, but at least they were there. That was more than he could say for a lot of his work over the past few weeks.

"How's the leg feeling?" Whitaker asked, leaning against the counter in the small medical office just down the hall from the ice rink. Whitaker was a scraggly kid, couldn't have been more than a sophomore, who managed a lot of the sports medicine programs. He wasn't exactly licensed—okay, he wasn't licensed at all—but he did his best, and probably didn't receive a salary. A strange arrangement for sure, but he knew well enough how to set and tend to small injuries.

"Broken," Langdon said simply, a bit of a bite to his tone. These meetings hadn't proved to be much help with anything so far, but he'd give the kid a chance. At least for another week or so before he protested the arrangement with Robby.

Whitaker laughed.

"Wasn't a joke, man," Langdon commented, crossing his arms over his chest. He sat atop the crinkly white paper on a, probably decades-old, hospital bed across from him, leg propped up.

"Right," Whitaker said. He looked down at his clipboard, probably a list of notes from the actual doctor about what they were supposed to be doing on any given day. A doctor whom Langdon had yet to meet. Maybe he didn't even exist. "Do you know when you're switching to a half-leg cast?"

He knew an appointment had been booked with the orthopedic specialist he'd been referred to in the emergency room. His Mom had set it up after a very long phone call where he'd explained numerous times that the broken leg would not interfere with his studies. His father even boasted about how it was a good thing that they'd kept him off the ice. Better for his grades, since that was all they cared about. He had to look at the calendar on his phone to remember the actual date. "About two weeks," he said.

Whitaker clapped his hands together in front of his chest. "Great. Well, there's not a ton that we're able to do without being able to bend your leg, so it's best that you focus on upper body strength and hip movements until then."

"Sure," Langdon said. At least he could work out. That was a consolation prize. Maybe lifting weights could keep him satisfied while his leg kept him off the ice and out of the game.

"Cool," Whitaker said. "Well, why don't you follow this workout plan?" he said, handing over a packet of pages. "And I'll see you back here after you get a smaller cast. Then we can really start working on some stretches and exercises to prepare you for getting back on the ice."

Not having to see Whitaker for a few weeks could be considered a win, but in the same vein, now there was one more thing on his plate that he'd have to motivate himself to do. And going to the gym with a broken leg and a pair of crutches didn't exactly sound like the easiest task in the world.

He went directly from the pavilion to the gym—if he stopped at home, he never would have gotten back up off the couch—and followed the plan Whitaker gave him. For the most part, it involved upper body strength, working his arms, shoulders, and back. There were a few diagrams depicting sketches, which he attempted once. However, they required him to sit on the floor with his legs out in front of him, and it had been almost impossible to get back up after the first round. So, yeah, no more of that without a partner present.

By the time he'd finished tutoring, classes, physical therapy, and a short workout, the sun had already gone down. The strict schedule he'd been following did not leave a lot of time for friends, food, or Abby. There were several unread messages in a group chat, organizing plans for that night, along with a few unread messages from Abby asking about his plans for the weekend. He didn't bother replying to any of them. Neither did he bother stopping at the dining hall for food.

Instead, he returned to his dorm, microwaved a pizza, and ate it in bed. He should have crashed after the long day, but by one in the morning, he was still wide-awake, staring up at the chipped white ceiling. His leg throbbed inside the cast, and his arms were sore as fuck from working out and hobbling around on crutches all day. There was a dull ache in the center of his chest, too, that spread out toward his shoulders. His heart beat a little faster, and no matter how he positioned himself, he couldn't get comfortable.

The pain meds were long gone, so he downed a few Advil and stared at the bottle of Xanax for a long while.

The doctor had advised him to be careful with both types of pills prescribed because of their addictive nature. But Frank didn't have an addictive personality, right? That meant he would probably be fine. He'd never smoked cigarettes, and he didn't have a problem with alcohol like some of the guys on the team. The bottle had about twenty-five pills left in it.

In the end, he decided it wasn't worth thinking about for longer than necessary and popped a pill into his mouth, letting the calm wash over him. Something about taking the pill chilled him out immediately. It didn't work like that. Xanax took at least fifteen minutes to work, and usually closer to an hour. But the placebo effect started immediately, and his eyes grew sleepy before the ten-minute mark.

The next day went almost exactly the same way. Tutoring with Mel, quieter this time, with more work accomplished on Langdon's part, then a different set of classes, as boring as ever, a workout in the gym that had him huffing, and then the sleeplessness to end the day.

No word from Abby. No follow-up from his friends. Apparently, if you stop showing up at practice, people start to forget you exist. Or, at least, that's what it felt like. But maybe if he'd responded to the messages on his phone in the first place, they wouldn't have given up on him so fast. It would be one of those things he'd never know for sure. And still, even if this newfound depression that washed over him suddenly and without notice could be magically cured with friendship, he didn't even want to respond to those messages. He just wanted them to care enough to keep checking. Not that he'd ever say that out loud to literally anyone.

He even started to miss Abby's overbearing presence. She'd disappeared two days ago after their small fight, and neither had sent a message to apologize. If she showed up, he'd let her in. But neither was he itching to text her. Neither would he beg her to come over. Neither would he apologize. Not for any particular reason. He just didn't feel like it.

The cracks in the ceiling became a good friend of his. He could see them even with his eyes closed. When he opened them and looked at an adjacent wall, he could see the cracks like ghosts in his vision. He made it to two in the morning that night before slipping a Xanax into his mouth and falling asleep.

Chapter Text

"Okay, tell me the truth," Mel started, eying Langdon across the table with that same suspicious gaze she'd levied on him for the past two weeks. "How much work have you really gotten done since we started?"

She'd seen him stealing glances. Sometimes their eyes met over the table, and they both looked away quickly enough to pretend it never happened. What had them both so entranced by the other? Could it have been as simple as the other-ness? The fact that they were nearly opposites, and yet still able to be kind, still able to exist in a way that they didn't—or couldn't with others? Mel still didn't know, and yes, she'd spent plenty of time racking her brain trying to figure it out.

If she hadn't had Trinity chatting in her ear about everything wrong with Langdon for a few hours each week, maybe it wouldn't have felt like such an enigma to like him. The divide confused her most, the difference between how Frank Langdon behaved with others and how he behaved with her. What had she done to receive this different version of a man begrudgingly beloved by the community? And why didn't he show that side—a nicer, more understanding version of himself—to everyone?

Langdon chuckled under his breath, caught. He set his laptop on the table and spun it around. To her surprise, he'd written nearly two thousand words on the subject of social psychology for the course's required introduction essay.

"Oh, come on, you don't have to look that surprised," he said. Despite the teasing tone his voice often took on, she still felt subconscious about the shock displayed on her face without permission. He'd shocked her, yes, but not because she didn't believe he could do it—but because he always answered her progress check-ins with words that made her unbelievably suspicious and apprehensive. Closing his laptop so she couldn't see for herself, rambling on about unrelated topics, asking her about her work. It seemed like an expert seminar in procrastination.

"No—I'm not," Mel said, unable to finish before Langdon interrupted, pulling his laptop back onto his lap.

He said, "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm full of surprises," which effectively shut her up.

Did a world exist in which Frank Langdon didn't know how much that one little word affected her? A world in which he didn't see the fiery red blush spread across her cheeks? He must have known. Did that mean he liked getting under her skin?

She countered with further questioning. "What about your other assignments?" she asked. He took five classes total, one essay wasn't even close to his entire load of homework.

"Finished the assigned chapters and discussion posts as well as replies for the other three. I have an essay due next week in Comparative Politics, and I've already started the outline," he said, like ha, checkmate. "Anyway, the hockey team is throwing a party tonight. You should come."

"What?" Mel asked, blinking a few times to ensure she hadn't slipped away into some kind of faraway dream. Not that she dreamed of being invited to parties, exactly. But this couldn't be reality, right? She didn't exactly give off the energy of someone who enjoyed a party. He must have known that.

Usually, they were too loud, with too many people. And in the few instances in which she'd actually tried to enjoy a party, she'd ended up standing against the wall for a good portion of the night, which was decidedly not fun. But maybe it could be.

Langdon laughed again, a short chuckle under his breath. "Pre-season's over. We always have a party before the real season starts. I'm asking if you're free tonight, King. You can bring whoever you want."

"Even Trinity?" she asked, raising a brow with a smile. She did want to bring Trinity, but equally loved how the question would get under his skin in return. Maybe she had learned some of his conversation intricacies well enough to use them against him.

Through obviously gritted teeth, he said, "Yes, even Trinity. But I reserve the right to be an asshole if needed."

"I'll make sure to pass that information along," Mel said, straight-faced. Still, she couldn't exactly figure out why he wanted her there, even at the expense of his sanity in Trinity's presence.

Her eyebrows must have been drawn together in confusion with that telltale crinkle in the center showcasing the fact that she didn't exactly understand—but wanted to, because he immediately offered an explanation. "Thought since you're tutoring me, it might be a good time to put this old rivalry between our teams to rest, don't you think?"

"Oh," she said. So, he hadn't wanted her specifically. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"So you're free, then?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'm free."

"Cool," he said, smiling, leaning back in his chair as if he had something to be proud of. "I'll text you the details."

"You don't have my number," Mel said.

"Then I guess I'll need that, too."

The panic set in almost immediately after their session ended when they went their separate ways. She dialed Samira's number and sandwiched the phone between her shoulder and ear while walking across campus.

Thankfully, she answered after only a ring or two. "Hey," Samira said, sounding somewhat breathless. "What's up?"

"Please tell me you're free tonight," Mel said, a hint of desperation in the words that she prayed Samira would pick up on so she didn't need to clarify just how much of an emergency this actually was.

"One second," Samira said to someone else in a lowered voice. The sound of a door closing, and then Samira huffed out a long breath. "I can be free, why? What's up?"

"Frank Langdon invited me to a party tonight," she said, and then, "Well, he invited the figure skating team through me. I don't know if that means anything or if he really just wanted the whole team there. I don't know," she said, starting to laugh under her breath in a nervous manner. "But please come, I need you."

"Of course, yeah. I'll be there. Just let me know when and where," Samira said. Then, someone in the background mumbled something she couldn't hear. A man's voice. Somewhat familiar.

Mel smiled to herself. "Well, I don't want to keep you…" she trailed off, unable to keep the pride from her voice, because it almost certainly had to be Professor Abbot keeping Samira company. And as for the breathlessness in her friend's voice, well, she wouldn't ask about that.

Samira laughed under her breath, "Details later," she said, then, "Love you, see you later."

At least one of them would have a juicy story to tell Becca after the weekend. Walking across campus, she made a beeline for the cafe adjacent to the pavilion where the team often met for off-ice meetings and general hangouts. Most of the team spent a lot of time together, especially with Trinity leading the charge. Mel still hadn't quite gotten used to that, but she tried to drop in when she had the time. And this time, it was with vitally important information.

She slid into a semi-circle booth on the end next to Trinity, who offered a half smile while continuing whatever conversation Mel had arrived in the middle of. Something about difficulty scores, probably something Mel should have paid attention to, but she vibrated with news about the party and couldn't listen to anything else until the conversation lulled, allowing her to slip in.

"Langdon invited the team to a hockey party tonight," Mel said casually, like it didn't really matter.

The team went semi-silent, Trinity looking at Mel with a confused expression while a few of their teammates whispered. "The pre-season party?" Trinity asked, raising a brow.

"Um, yeah, I think so," Mel said.

Trinity laughed, clapping a hand onto Mel's shoulder. "Perfect, we won't have to crash it this year."

The rest of the group resumed talking at full volume, sorting out plans for car-pooling and playing the nose goes game to determine who would have to be the designated driver. Trinity stayed focused on Mel, though. "What are you going to wear?" she asked.

Mel gestured to the simple outfit she already had on, a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a striped polo shirt. Comfortable clothes both physically and mentally.

"No," Trinity said, shaking her head. "Listen, I put up with you dressing like an oversized toddler most of the time, but this is a party, Mel."

She looked down at her clothes. Oversized toddler? She'd never thought about it that way. Did toddlers really wear jeans and polos? Not any toddler she'd seen.

"It's okay, don't worry—" Santos started, even though Mel really wasn't all that worried in the first place. "You can borrow something from me. We're about the same size."

"Okay," Mel nodded, even though the idea of wearing something from Trinity's closet scared her to an extent that could not be described in words. She'd seen Trinity's competition outfits. If her party clothes were anything like that, then, well, Mel was in trouble.

"We're getting ready back at my dorm around seven. You'll be there, right?" Trinity asked.

Mel nodded again. She did that a lot around Trinity. Always affirming whatever questions or instructions the team captain laid out before her. "I invited a friend, Samira—"

"The ballerina?" Trinity asked, only making a slightly displeased face.

"Yes?" Mel said. "Is it okay if she comes over, too?"

"Sure, that's fine," Trinity said, even though it didn't really seem fine. "And you're free to crash at my place, too. The other dorm in my suite is empty, so you won't have to sleep on the floor or anything."

"Why would I need to crash at your place?" Mel asked.

"Oh, my sweet summer child," Trinity said. "In case you get absolutely shit faced."

With a quick call to Becca's treatment center, she arranged for her sister to spend the night just in case. Not because she planned to get shit-faced, like Trinity said, but because she would be out much too late to pick her up at the scheduled time. Becca liked spending the night at the center, too, so it wasn't much of a problem. They always played her favorite movies and sometimes let her order takeout. They really took care of her there.

She spent the last few hours, before meeting Samira to carpool back to campus, looking through her closet for anything Trinity might deem wearable. There were a few options she considered solid, but as most of them featured plaid patterns or bright florals, she didn't bother bringing them for the sake of her own embarrassment later on—as Trinity would almost definitely veto them.

Outside Samira's apartment, Mel sat on one of the benches near the dog park, watching owners play with dogs of all sizes. At the sound of a door opening, she turned around, only to spot Professor Abbot at the top of the stairs, hands on Samira's waist. She turned back around as fast as possible, but not without witnessing the sight of their mouths crashing into each other. With wide eyes and flushed red cheeks, she sat completely faced forward until Samira came up behind her.

"Hey," Mel said, turning around finally, looking to see if Abbot had made it out of the parking lot so she wouldn't have to interact with someone who was strictly her professor—even if he was involved with her best friend.

Samira noticed this immediately and laughed. "He's gone," she said.

Mel's mouth dropped open with the shock she'd been holding back. "You had Professor Abbot in your apartment," she said, astonished.

To Samira's credit, she didn't blush even a fraction. Instead, she just walked with Mel toward her car, loaded her rather large makeup bag and a backpack into the backseat, and got.

"So," Samira said, smiling. "Yeah. That's happening."

"Clearly," Mel said, a smile growing on her own face, the discomfort at seeing her professor off campus fading away. "I'm happy for you—if you're happy."

"I'm happy," Samira said.

"Good. That's good," Mel said. Then, "I'm sorry in advance about Trinity Santos, by the way. She can be kind of abrasive. But I think she has a heart of gold. Deep down."

"Thanks for the warning," Samira said. "You know, before you showed up, the figure skaters were kind of a nightmare to be around. I think you make them better."

"I think you're giving me too much credit," Mel said, "They're nice, they just like to keep to themselves, I think."

Samira glanced at her friend in the passenger seat briefly before looking back at the road ahead. "I think you underestimate your impact on the people around you."

That brought a smile to her face, even if she didn't totally understand it, didn't see herself as Samira saw her.

They arrived at Trinity's dorm room just before seven. Trinity answered the door with her hair wrapped up in a towel and a robe pulled tight around her body. "Come in," she said, leaving the door open for them as she walked deeper into the spacious dorm room. In the center sat a large living area with expensive couches and a grand rug spread out beneath them. Somehow, Trinity had managed to make the place look classy. Art hung on the walls, and both rooms, splitting off from the living room on either side, were decorated in similarly thoughtful styles.

If she squinted, it almost didn't look like a dorm at all, save for the kitchenette and stall-style showers in the attached bathroom.

"This is Samira," Mel said, gesturing toward her, but Trinity had already disappeared into one of the attached bedrooms.

"It's nice to meet you," Samira said, a bit louder but still without response.

Trinity responded a few seconds later with a few coat hangers in one hand, scraps of black fabric dangling off each. "Some options for you. Try them on. See what you like," Trinity said, handing the three—apparently they were dresses—to Mel and gesturing toward the bathroom.

She made desperate eye contact with Samira, like her best friend could find some way to save her from the torment of wearing something so scandalous. Not that Mel had anything against revealing clothing, but it made her feel vulnerable, on display. She liked her oversized clothes, they made it easier to blend into the background. Make-up felt the same, only serving to draw more attention.

But she tried the outfits on regardless, both because she had nothing to wear other than jeans and because she wanted to feel sexy. Maybe it would attract the attention of someone new for her to obsess over. And maybe, in the meantime, seeing Langdon with his girlfriend in tow would stop those feelings from taking over, too.

All three dresses were black, typical of clothes from Trinity's closet. She refused to come out of the bathroom in the first one, even with encouragement from both Samira and Trinity. Mostly because it barely even covered her nipples. One wrong move and it would be nip-slip city. The second two actually fit and looked flattering. The first had thin straps and a scoop neck. It flared out at the top of the thigh and had a slit that nearly exposed her underwear. But she had to admit, it looked good.

Samira, Trinity, and Victoria—who'd arrived while she was changing—all looked on in a combination of shock and awe.

"Holy shit," Trinity said, while Samira nodded approvingly. Mel did a spin, showcasing all angles of the dress for them to see. She felt somewhat uncomfortable and a little awkward, but it wasn't as bad as she'd expected.

The next dress actually wasn't a dress at all, but a romper. It had long sleeves, which made her feel much less vulnerable. Or, it would have, if not for the deep v-neck that went to the top of her stomach and the shorts that stopped just below her butt. The shorts flared outward and hung a bit loose on her legs. Overall, the romper fit her well, accentuating her toned legs from years of skating and the most tasteful amount of cleavage.

"That one," Trinity said the second she stepped out of the bathroom. "Definitely that one." At least they were in agreement.

Trinity had changed too, and wore a pair of high-waisted leather pants with wide legs that became even wider at the bottom. For a top, she wore a shirt with very little material. It was basically a bra with connected sheer sleeves. Mel could never picture herself in something like that, but Trinity looked hot. Especially with the high-top all-stars to match.

The other two got changed as well, while other girls from the team showed up ready to walk over together. Victoria wore a lilac babydoll dress and Mary Janes with frilly socks and had started styling her curls to sit exactly the way she wanted. Samira looked jaw-droppingly beautiful in a deep blue mini dress covered in sequins and golden stars. With knee-high brown boots, Mel could understand why their professor had such an interest.

Samira shuffled Mel back toward the bathroom and made her sit on the toilet while she worked, applying what she called a subtle amount of makeup while Trinity protested in the back, claiming that the dress required winged eyeliner. But Samira would not (and did not) allow it, instead opting for a glowy look that complemented Mel's personality much more. Rosey cheeks and a pink lip gloss finished it out, and by the time she saw herself, she barely recognized the person looking back in the mirror. To finish off the look, Trinity handed her a pair of heels, and she complied, slipping them over sheer nude tights.

All together, they were a sight to behold. The hockey team wouldn't know how to handle them. The walk off campus was made all the more uncomfortable by the heels—even though they weren't that tall—but it didn't take too long. The house, apparently one of the team members' houses, but she didn't catch whose, sat just a block or so away from campus, making it the perfect place for a party.

They rolled up around ten. "But doesn't the party start at nine?" Mel had asked. To which she had been very clearly told by Trinity that it would be the most embarrassing thing in the universe to show up on time. "People don't actually start showing up until 9:30 at the latest, and I would rather die than be the first person to a party," Trinity had explained.

It was a good thing, too, because by the time they got there, the party was in full swing. It may have been a party for the hockey team, but the house contained way more people than just a team's worth. The whole college might as well have been there.

She hated the fact that she started searching for Langdon as soon as they stepped inside. Trinity reached out for her, pulling on her wrists, forcing her to uncross her arms. "You look good," Trinity said. "Don't cover yourself up. That's an order from your team captain."

Mel smiled, letting her arms fall to her sides, even though she didn't really know what to do with them. The instinct to recross them was aggressive, but she managed to ignore it, especially as Samira grabbed her hand and held it tight.

"So…" Mel said, rocking back and forth on her heels. "Now what?"

Trinity turned her head to look at Mel, but her eyes still wandered over the crowd of already drunk college students. "Have you really never been to a house party before?" she asked.

"No, I mean, of course I have," Mel said. "Maybe not on this scale, exactly."

They weaved through the party as a group. It became increasingly clear that they were overdressed compared to the rest. The hockey players stood out, wearing their jerseys, while everyone else had on jeans or casual outfits to say the most. Still, she couldn't find anyone with crutches.

"A party at a house, you know, versus a house party," Samira said, and Mel nodded, mouthing the word exactly.

The group stopped in front of a long folding table surrounded by a crowd of people mixing drinks in red plastic cups—just like all the movies she'd seen with Becca. Trinity lined up six cups and lifted a huge, clear glass bottle, pouring a little bit into each one. Then, she handed out the shots, first to Mel and then to Victoria, Samira, and the rest.

Mel looked down into the cup, then made the mistake of lifting it to her nose to smell it. It might as well have been hand sanitizer. Trinity put a finger on top of the cup and lowered it. "Don't smell it," she said.

"To Mel's first house party, and probably her first shot, too," Trinity said, lifting the red solo cup to the sky. Everyone followed suit.

Samira whispered, "Throw it back quick, don't let it touch your tongue."

At least she'd always been good at following instructions. They all threw back the shot. Mel tried not to gag; she really did. But the liquor—whatever cheap stuff it was—burned all the way down, and she couldn't help the disgusted look that spread across her face as a result.

To Trinity's credit, she did try not to laugh. She barely gave them a minute to breathe before pouring another round of shots. At least this time, she topped them up with diet soda. She waved them forward, and they followed the captain through the crowd and onto the makeshift dance floor. Samira and Mel managed to grab a spot at the edge of the crowd.

Samira caught Mel's eyes wandering over the mess of students. "You're looking for him, aren't you?"

Another warm flush ran across her cheeks, maybe from the shot but also from being so dreadfully obvious in her interest in the unavailable hockey player. "Maybe," she said, lowering her eyes, looking down into the cup of diet soda and hand sanitizer.

"Can I give you some advice?" Samira asked.

Mel sighed. If the advice was give up on him, she really needed to hear it. Unfortunately, Samira was much too nice to say that, so Mel nodded.

"Have you thought about telling him how you feel?" Samira asked.

Immediately, Mel shook her head. "Oh, no. I can't do that," she said. "He has a girlfriend, and I don't think I'm exactly his type. Plus, we barely know each other. It would be weird." Another sip of her drink, and it finally started to taste more like diet soda instead of straight alcohol.

"He has a girlfriend who cheats on him. He can do so much better than that. Maybe better means you," Samira said with a shrug of her shoulders.

Mel raised her glass, clinking the plastic edge against Samira's. "And I think that you're drunk."

An hour passed filled with alcohol and dancing—the dancing increasing as the alcohol intake did. Her body felt more fluid in general, easier to move along to the music, and words came forth with much more ease, too. And finally, finally, she'd spotted Frank Langdon across the room, leaning on one crutch even though he definitely should have been using two. Would it cross a line to scold him about that later?

Trinity put another shot in her hand. Maybe the second after two mixed drinks in between. But she never drank. Had only been really drunk once before at a family reunion. Meaning now, the alcohol was definitely hitting her.

"Thank you!" Mel said, placing her free hand on Trinity's shoulder. "You're such a good friend, you know that?"

Trinity shrugged with a smile. "Oh, I know," she said.

She threw back the shot with much more ease than the first. It barely felt like anything that time, not nearly as much burning in the back of her throat.

"Damn, girl," Trinity commented before tossing back her own and setting both of their cups on a free surface nearby. Most of the surfaces in the place were covered with plastic red cups. Whoever had to clean up in the morning would have one hell of a time.

Mel's eyes caught a couple kissing on the couch no more than a few feet away, and a deep sadness swelled in her stomach.

"Trinity, can I tell you a secret?" Mel asked, leaning forward, close enough to Trinity that their foreheads just might touch if one of them leaned in further.

"Sure, Mel," Trinity said, a smile on her face, trying not to laugh at her friends' drunk antics. The alcohol certainly hadn't hit Trinity as hard, yet. Not that Mel was really drunk, and definitely not shit-faced yet like Trinity predicted, but she was tipsy. And for Mel, being tipsy was like being in a whole new world.

"I haven't been kissed in like three years," Mel said, stepping away and throwing her head back in a somewhat dramatic motion. The gentle waves Samira had pressed into her golden hair cascaded down her back beautifully, swaying behind her as she complained.

Trinity put both her hands on Mel's shoulders, then, much like Mel had done only seconds before. She lifted one of those hands and tucked a piece of blonde hair back behind Mel's ear with a confident smile. "Mel King," she said, tilting her nose slightly upward. "Would you like me to kiss you?"

Now, this was something a sober Mel King certainly would have said no to. Kissing and friendship were two things she liked to keep firmly separate. But Trinity Santos looked drop-dead gorgeous, and she could feel Langdon's eyes on her from across the room, could just imagine recounting the story to her sister the next day. So yes, the liquor helped to make the decision, but it was still one she made with a sort of confidence, tipping her nose upward and batting her lashes at the girl before her. "Yes," she said, some of that confidence quickly wavering. "Okay."

Trinity's hands settled on either side of Mel's face, and she leaned in, pressing her lips gently against hers. Mel's hands shot out too, finding a place on Trinity's shoulders, close to her neck.

It was a good kiss. One of the better ones she'd experienced in her twenty-one years of life. When they broke apart, both giggling and reaching for a refill, Mel felt lighter—as if a three-year weight had been lifted off her shoulders.

Chapter Text

Parties didn't make Langdon nervous. In fact, nothing made him nervous until recently. The figure skaters always crashed their start of the season party, but with Mel in tow—for some reason—he couldn't think about anything else for the rest of the day leading up to it. It would have been easier with Abby by his side, a sentiment he didn't often feel, but at least she would have held his attention, kept it from lingering back to the blonde. Instead, he could only think about seeing her later, seeing her in a setting unlike any place they'd met so far.

She didn't seem like the typical party girls at Pitt, which meant he had absolutely no idea whether or not she would even have fun at the house party. The team always went all out, inviting pretty much everyone they knew and expecting those they didn't to show up anyway. Like the skaters. Despite their on-going rivalry, a lot of the guys on the hockey team liked looking at them, always showing up in sexy outfits—a counterbalance to his team's lazy fits, jerseys and jeans.

Would Mel show up like that? Probably not. She didn't exactly seem like the type, always bright and colorful, to Trinity's dark and moody. Maybe she wouldn't show up at all. That would save him from the complicated feelings that rattled around behind his eyes. Every time they ran into each other, whether for a session or just passing in the halls, she sent his mind reeling. It wasn't like he had a crush on her. That would be borderline insane. He didn't date girls like Mel King, and besides, he had a girlfriend. Why did that last part seem to matter the least?

Langdon didn't show up until almost eleven with one crutch tucked under his arm, balancing all the weight of his bum leg on it. Two crutches took up too much space. He needed a hand free for an expertly poured cocktail (AKA half liquor, half soda).

As soon as he showed up, Mateo had said drink in his hand, and half the team gathered around, looking out over the sea of a party. They mocked confusion at the roaring crowd—who invited all these people? As if they didn't bank on it being a rager.

Matteo slapped a hand against Langdon's chest, so hard he almost dropped the red solo cup. "Bro," he said, gesturing toward Mel. Mel, whose lips and hands were interlocked with Trinity's. "Holy shit," he said, clearly trying not to gawk but failing miserably.

Langdon had already spent the last twenty minutes or so failing to keep his eyes off her. She showed up dressed like the other skaters. He'd never seen so much of her skin, and for some strange reason, yet to be identified, but ever present—he couldn't look away. The deep cut down her chest, revealing the inner curve of her breasts, the flat space between them. He hadn't had much to drink, but he might as well have been completely wasted, the way he looked at her.

His mouth fell open, akin to Mateo's, as he tried not to stare at the two girls with hands roaming all over each other. The kiss probably only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like forever. Langdon had to blink it away, like their intertwined bodies were ingrained in his vision. Why did he feel jealous? That was the only word to describe it, the heat curling behind his chest, warming his cheeks only slightly. He wanted to be the one kissing her, wanted to know what it was like to have her hands on his shoulders like that. If he blinked, he could almost see her in front of him, looking up with those soft brown eyes.

"God, she is hot, isn't she?" Jesse said, leaning against the kitchen counter and looking out over the crowd, eyes trailing up and down over Mel's body in a way that Langdon did not like. That snapped him out of his own confusing daydream real fast. "You know if she's single?"

Langdon shook his head. "Have some class, would you?" Langdon said, elbowing his teammate in the ribs in a way that could be construed as playful but definitely wasn't. There were even more words he could have said, could have marched Jesse right out of the room and away from Mel entirely, but he at least attempted to keep his cool.

It shouldn't have bothered him. Mel wasn't his by any stretch of the imagination. But there weren't many truly good people like her—and he couldn't stand the idea of someone like Jesse taking advantage of that. Especially when Jesse's track record with women wasn't exactly the best. He almost always ended the night with at least one drink thrown in his face.

"What, you have dibs or something?" Jesse asked. "Holding on to her for when you finally have the balls to end things with Abby?"

He didn't care to defend Abby's honor, knew their relationship was bound to end eventually—but Mel, he felt obligated to defend. He'd never be good enough for her, not that he even wanted her like that, but even if he did, he wouldn't let himself pursue it. Not when she deserved so much more. That didn't keep him from letting Jesse's words piss him off, though. Enough that he almost wanted to send his fist into the guy's stomach. If anything, he and Mel were friends, and that was enough for him to care, to keep guys like Jesse off her radar.

Instead, he said, "Leave Abby out of it." His girlfriend had left earlier the previous day for some cheerleading convention out of state. He couldn't even pretend he'd listened to the details.

"You are gonna break up with her soon, though?" Jesse asked, needling him. Like he wanted that fist to make contact with his gut. Just because he broke his leg and propped himself up with one metal crutch didn't mean he wasn't capable of starting (and finishing) a fight. "I'd take either one, you just let me know who you want for yourself, big guy." Jesse patted Langon's shoulder, and it was almost the last straw.

Mateo must have noticed the change in Langdon's expression, the desire to start a fight growing more and more obvious with each of Jesse's uncouth words. Mateo placed a hand on Langdon's shoulder and said, "It's not worth it."

They stepped away, Langdon half turned, ready to let the idea of violence settle. But Jesse had to go and say, "I'll take 'em both if you won't choose. Clearly, Mel doesn't have an issue kissing girls. I bet she likes it really nasty. What do you think? Only one way to find out."

Langdon turned back, in one fast motion, and struck Jesse across the face. His nose cracked, and as it turned out, violence was worth it. Seeing the blood pouring out of his nose, one hand reaching up to hold it, the look of betrayal across his face.

Gasps arose from all around them, and people jumped back at the sight of blood—like Langdon was some loose cannon who would keep swinging, and they needed to be out of his vicious radius. He only laughed, raising his hands slightly to show them he meant no harm to anyone else.

"What the fuck, man?" Jesse said, blood dripping onto the carpet.

Langdon only shrugged, some of that pent-up anger leaving his body through his knuckles. "Should probably keep that elevated," he said, then dipped out of the kitchen, weaving through the party and disappearing from view before Jesse had the common sense to hit back. Once out of view of most of his teammates and, more importantly, Mel King—who must have seen the whole thing—he slipped up the stairs and into the bathroom.

Being good at putting on a brave face had always been one of Langdon's specialties. In the upstairs bathroom with the music roaring below him, he white-knuckled the sink. Okay, so maybe leaving that second crutch at home had been a mistake. Everything hurt. From the lack of circulation making its way to his toes to the bone that felt as if it'd barely healed at all in three weeks, to the chafing where the top of his cast met the top of his thigh. And even worse, a pounding in the center of his chest started up, hard and heavy.

He took a step back with his good leg and leaned against the wall adjacent to the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. His right knuckles were bruised from the punch and bloody from the impact. That fucking hurt, too. He shook out both hands, tensing his fingers and then letting them relax over and over again, trying to stabilize himself. All the pain made it impossible. His hammering heart tightened, and for a second, all the air disappeared from his lungs.

The pain in his chest spread throughout his back, down into his shoulders, meeting the pain of the punch right at the tips of his fingers. His head went fuzzy, and he thought for a second that he might be dying—that a heart attack or something had finally decided to take him out at the ripe old age of twenty-one. One shaking hand found the bottle of Xanax in the pocket of his jeans.

He shouldn't have brought them with him. Shouldn't have been so dependent on them that he'd worried in advance, planned to have this onset of pain that would inevitably need to be calmed. A pain that couldn't be calmed by anything else. And he tried a lot. Pretty much every over-the-counter medication available, and nothing worked. Nothing worked like they did. He dumped two pills into his palm. One stopped cutting it last week. Setting the bottle on the counter, he looked at the pills for a while, up until someone banged on the door and he jumped an inch out of his skin. That only made the pain in his leg worse. Maybe it was the fear of getting caught that had him slipping those pills back into the orange container. It didn't matter. He didn't take them.

Instead, he shoulder checked the impatient asshole standing by the door on the way back—no one could fight him back when he had a broken leg, so, silver linings—and made his way back downstairs, slowly. In front of one of many tables lined with liquor bottles, he poured and downed two shots in quick succession before mixing an actual drink and dipping back into the crowd.

Mateo intercepted him before he could make it to the ping pong table. "You good, man?" he asked, a hand on Langdon's shoulder. He wasn't some ticking time bomb, about to explode and ruin everyone's lives on the way out. Or maybe he was. He hadn't taken the drugs, after all, so that anger stuck around like a bad roommate, existing in every nook and cranny under his skin, ready to boil up and over if provoked. Hopefully, no one else stoked that anger, or maybe he really would explode. Thankfully, however, the shots kicked in, warming his face and making everything feel a bit looser. It didn't do much for the leg pain, but that was nothing another drink or two couldn't fix. With sore knuckles and eyes that wanted to find Mel King immediately all over again, it was all he could do for himself to keep drinking.

"All good," he said. Lying to his friends was an easy game, one he'd been playing almost as long as hockey.

Mateo wanted to say something else, looked at Langdon with words on the tip of his tongue and concern in his eyes. He must have decided against whatever it was, because instead, he said, "Need a drink?"

The cup he'd filled up not so long ago was already empty. Damn. He needed to slow down. "Drinks first, then beer pong. I have a win-streak to maintain."

"Aye aye, Captain," Mateo said and parked them at the drink table. Another assortment of cheap liquor and knock-off soda brands. None of it tasted good, but they all worked in a pinch. You could get just as drunk off ten dollar vodka versus whatever expensive shit rich people—like his parents, probably—drank.

Mateo passed him a cup. Langdon didn't bother asking what it was. He didn't really care. It would block out his thoughts and maybe some of the pain, too.

The goalie looked distracted, his eyes following the skater girls across the room, talking and laughing together in their own little pod, barely bothering to mix with anyone else around them. They'd always been like that, keeping to themselves. Like their hockey party was just an excuse to dress up and let people gawk at him. Not that he could complain, as one of the gawkers himself.

"She's cute, right?" Mateo said.

Without thinking, Langdon said, "Yeah. She is." His eyes followed Mel, watched her spin in a circle on the dance floor. Her smile made him smile, made everything feel lighter.

"You know her name? Never seen her before," Mateo asked, making Langdon realize what he'd said aloud. Did he have to deal with another one of his teammates lusting after his good friend, Mel King?

"Yeah, dude. That's Mel," he said, like, are you an idiot?

Mateo laughed, clapping Langdon on the back so hard he almost dropped his drink. "Not her. The one in purple."

Langdon readjusted his gaze, dragging his eyes away from Mel—it took a lot of strength—and looking at the girl in the purple dress instead. "Nah, man. Don't recognize her. I'd ask Trinity, but you know, I don't really feel like getting yelled at."

"I'm gonna go talk to her," Mateo said, starting toward the group of figure skaters without waiting for Langdon. He had no choice but to follow, walking slowly with his bum leg and one crutch, dreading his poor decision-making skills.

The previously raucous group of skaters quieted as they approached, all laughter ceasing. Trinity shoved the girl in blue forward, and she nearly crashed into Mateo.

"Oh my god," she said, slurring her words just a hint. Enough to know she'd been imbibing in the free drinks for a good portion of the night. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Mateo said, trailing off, waiting for a name.

"Victoria," the girl said. "It's Victoria." Red spread across her cheeks. God, this was hard to watch.

Langdon cut in, "Ping pong table's open," he said.

"You play?" Mateo asked Victoria, ignoring Langdon entirely.

Langdon tried not to look at Mel, despite the fact that she stood only a few feet away, talking to Trinity. Were they a thing now? He knew Santos played for the other team, but Mel, too? He thought she at least played for both, or maybe that was just misplaced hope.

It was her soft, somewhat squeaky voice that finally had his eyes locking with hers. "Hey," she said, a smile growing below red cheeks. She held a plastic cup half full, just like everyone else.

"Hey," he said, like an idiot. Why did he always feel like an idiot when she was around?

"Come on, man," Mateo said, punching him in the bicep. "We're gonna play." He and Victoria's hands were intertwined already, and he pulled her toward the momentarily free ping pong table on the back porch.

"I thought you were my partner?" Langdon said, feigning betrayal. Without thinking, he turned to Mel. "You ever play beer pong?" he asked. She shook her head, so he extended a hand. "First time for everything?" Sort of a half question. Enough room for her to back away if she really didn't want to play. But no, she put her hand in his and followed him toward the table.

Along the way, saying, "Where's your other crutch?"

"Would you believe me if I said a raccoon stole it?" he said, raising one brow at her, ever conscious of her hand in his. She swung the connected pair back and forth gently and the smile on her face never faltered, and he decided in that moment that he was good and truly fucked. At least now, he could blame it on the alcohol.

Her eyes went wide. "You're kidding," she said.

He laughed, deep and loud. "I'm kidding," he reiterated. "Left it at home. Turns out that wasn't such a great idea."

"You should call me before you make important decisions," she said, then her eyebrows furrowed together, like she was trying to understand the words she'd just spoken aloud.

But he just laughed and said, "I'll keep that in mind," as they pulled up to the ping pong table. Langdon immediately started rearranging the cups into a pyramid, each one half-full with water. "You know how this works?" he asked, almost certain she would say no. But then again, there she was standing next to him, ready to play, so maybe this exact scenario had occurred before. Maybe he wasn't the first frat bro to take interest in her. Clearly, he wasn't, if Jesse was any indication.

She shook her head vehemently. "Not once. But I have seen it played in movies."

"That's a good start. Don't worry, you're working with a pro," Langdon said, motioning toward himself.

"A pro asshole," Trinity called, saddling up to the table with Samira and a few of the other skaters in tow, probably to provide comments exactly like that one.

"Ignore her," Mel said, with a wave of her hand. "I do."

One corner of his lips turned up into a smirk. "Ignoring?" he teased. "Is that what you were doing earlier?" He shouldn't have said it, but the words slipped out greased with liquid courage.

Her cheeks turned bright red, and he reveled in that, too. "Oh," she said shyly. "You saw that."

"I think half the party saw it," he said, still smirking down at her. Pushing her buttons was fun. "Don't worry, they'll forget in like an hour when some other big shocking kiss happens. Everyone ends up making out at these things. Part of their charm." He moved on quick, not letting them linger on anything else kiss related, even though he might've liked to follow that path all the way down. "Okay, so the goal is to get a ball in each of the cups on their side. You can bounce it or throw it. We each get two throws per turn. If they land a ball in our cups, we drink."

"Why's it called beer pong?" Mel asked, tilting her head to the side like an inquisitive dog.

Langdon chuckled. "Sometimes people fill the cups with beer. When the ball lands in a cup, you drink it. But playing outside, the balls land on the ground, beer gets gross. All that. Even hockey players have standards, you know."

"I see," she said.

"You lovebirds ready or what?" Mateo called from across the table, earning a glare from his opponent.

"Trash talk," he said, under his breath, to Mel. "Also very common. Think you can handle it?" he asked, holding the two ping pong balls out to Mel.

She nodded eagerly. "Yes," she said, then less confidently, "We'll kick their… asses."

"Whoa, Mel King. Didn't know you had it in you," he said, circling to the side of the table, opposite Trinity and company, but still with his eyes firmly on Mel. "You're up first. Y'all ready?" he asked, sending a short glance in Mateo and Victoria's direction.

"We've been ready," Mateo said, with a small echoed yeah from his partner.

"You got this," Langdon said, nodding as she lined up the first shot. She chose to bounce it—the right choice—and made it into the first cup. The result had her jumping up and down with joy. She turned to Langdon immediately for a high-five, which, of course, he gave with enthusiasm.

The next one went wide, and she pouted, looking over to Langdon again, her eyes always finding their way back to his. He smiled, shrugged his shoulders. "No big deal," he said, then took the balls back and took his turn, immediately missing both. Okay, so he was nervous. He made a face, looking away from her with a grimace, to the sound of Mateo's teasing from the other side of the table.

Mateo, famously horrible at beer pong, missed both his shots, and so did Victoria. Mel cheered again, going in for another high-five. Mel missed both of hers, Langdon made one, and then the balls went back to the other side. Victoria missed both again, and Mateo managed, somehow, to make one. Langdon pulled away the cup from their pyramid and pulled out the ball, shaking off the water.

"What does that mean?" Mel asked, looking at Langdon.

"We drink," he said, raising his plastic cup and clinking it against hers.

She downed the rest of her drink and showed him the empty cup. He laughed, finishing his in one big gulp, too. Trinity took both cups and left to refill them. "Samira," Langdon said, and she looked at him, surprised—like it was odd he knew her name. "Will you go with her? Make sure she doesn't poison me."

Samira laughed but obliged.

The game continued, both teams going back and forth until there were only two cups left on both sides. Langdon was decidedly off his game. Mel made most of the shots for them, and Mateo and Victoria muddled through together at a similar pace. Mel was up, standing at the end of the table, bending her knees like she was about to make a free throw. He admired the dedication. She bounced one ball perfectly, and Frank cheered before it went in. He stood next to her, hyping her up. "You got this, you got this," he said. She lined up the shot, let the ball bounce off the table, and, "Yes!" Langdon cheered as the ball sank into their last cup. He picked her up by the waist, hoisting her into the air and spinning her around, both laughing all the while.

He could barely hear Victoria apologizing to Mateo for her poor skills from across the table, not over the sound of Mel's infectious laughter. He faltered, nearly dropping her as he grabbed the edge of the table, keeping himself upright after the crutch slipped out from under his armpit. He let Mel down. She picked up the crutch, helping him to get resituated—very calmly and carefully, like a wave of sobriety came over her for a second—before kicking back into gear and going for the high five.

"You killed that," Langdon said. "Real MVP over here."

He was tempted to pick her up again, just to feel her hands on his shoulders, her body against his. Really, he should have been working to banish those thoughts from his mind entirely, but that proved to be nearly impossible.

"You up for another one?" he said instead, chasing that same high even though he'd barely made a single cup the entire game. It didn't matter.

She nodded, and they set up again, facing off another team, and then another. They were unbeatable. But the winning didn't even really matter. Being with her, as corny as it sounded, was more fun than anything else. She had these quirks about her that made everything better. He liked having to explain pop culture references and jokes, liked knowing things that she didn't. As if he were her tutor out here, in the world of beer bongs and truth or dare. And it felt good, too, to keep an eye on her, to know that no one would be able to take advantage of her, not with him around.

Samira pulled her aside after a couple of games, and he didn't even try to look subtle while eavesdropping.

"Are you sure it's okay?" Samira asked.

Mel nodded. "Of course. Go. Go have fun with your hot professor," she said, teasingly, wiggling her brows. A tone he'd never heard from her before and one he desperately wanted more of.

"Are you sure?" Samira asked again. "I can't find Trinity, and I don't want to leave you alone."

Well, that was his cue. He stepped forward with a wide smile, trying to look non-threatening. "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on her. Make sure she gets home alright."

This made Samira obviously skeptical. She stepped forward, into Langdon's personal space, and said, "She trusts you, so that means I trust you. But if you hurt a single hair on her head, I will personally make sure you never see sunlight again." Then, that playful smile returned to her face as she looped one arm around Mel, pulling her into a half hug. "Your location's on?" she said, to which Mel nodded. "See you tomorrow?" Another nod, and then Samira was off, half-skipping across the street before jumping into the passenger seat of a black SVU. He had to blink a few times to make sure he was seeing things right—that was his psychology professor from last year, right?

Sure enough, Professor Abbot waved before pulling out of the neighborhood.

Langdon turned back to Mel, but in the few seconds he had his eyes averted, she'd managed a drunken escape. So much for that promise.

He wove through the thinning crowd. People had already started to head out for the night. Most party-goers were either too drunk to stand upright anymore, and therefore had started the walk home already, or they'd found someone to spend the night with and found a room somewhere. Langdon, unfortunately, would be neither of those people. He was surprisingly good at holding his liquor, and while there had been times throughout the night when he'd felt tipsy, all of that disappeared the moment Mel left his line of sight.

The cravings came back as he hobbled haphazardly through the house and into the backyard, looking for her. The pain blossomed in his chest, and he knew then that he was good and truly fucked. It had happened enough times to know what came next. It only took a few seconds before his breathing faltered and the pain crept down his left arm. Why did it always have to be his left arm? It would be so much easier to deal with if it were the right. At least then he wouldn't make the panic worse by fearing a heart attack, too.

He'd stopped walking and started breathing, trying to get those jagged breaths even again, when he heard hollering from the edge of the yard. He pushed through partiers, not caring, only wanting to find her. Getting to her was akin to ending the panic attack that threatened to drown him. And then he saw her, hands on the keg, legs straight up in the air, the people around cheering, "Chug, chug, chug!" and the person with the stopwatch looking on with disbelief. Her clothes did not suit the activity, and even he looked away out of respect.

She did a perfect dismount and landed on her feet just a few steps ahead of him. He saw the look in her eyes and jolted forward, stepping with full weight on his broken leg—the pain reverberated upward, throughout his entire body. It didn't matter. He caught her with one hand and pulled her tight against his chest to keep her upright.

"You're okay," he said. "I got you."

Mel took a second to right herself, and he let his arm stay wound around her waist as long. It didn't matter how long it took. He liked the contact. It must have been at least a minute before she stepped away, blinking, looking up at him with big brown eyes and a soft smile before wiping the back of her hand across her lips. "Sorry," she said meekly. "It looked fun."

"And?" he asked, looking down at her. "Was it?"

She nodded, her head bobbing up and down, her eyes flickering closed every few seconds—clearly struggling to keep them open.

"Let's find Trinity, huh?" he said, keeping an arm low around her waist as they walked together, each step causing pain to shoot up his leg.

They walked around for at least ten minutes, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Frank," Mel mumbled under her breath, looking down at the ground, barely able to hold her own head up. He'd been there.

"What is it, sweetheart?" he asked, lifting her head up with a few fingers under her chin, putting all his weight on his good leg.

"Don't feel good," she said.

It took him a second to actually hear her words. "Oh," he said, "Okay. Let's get you home, okay? Where do you live?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Far," she said.

And so, he made an executive decision. One Samira might kill him for. But it was the only option available to him. He didn't know where she lived, didn't know where Trinity lived. So, he brought her back to his place.

He managed to get the door open by leaning against the frame while Mel rested against his chest. Once inside, he led her to his bedroom and helped her up onto the King-sized bed. One of the best parts of not having a roommate in a double? Pushing the beds together. He'd called it a mega bed, but he wasn't going to say that aloud to Mel King. Not that she would even remember in the morning.

"Sick," she said, after a string of mumbles he didn't understand. With a sigh—only at having to walk on his stupid fucking broken leg again—he helped her down from the half-lofted mega bed and walked her toward the bathroom.

He put one headphone in to drown out the sound of her vomiting. It didn't help. After at least ten minutes of silence, he hobbled back over the door, knocking a few times. No answer. Another few knocks and no response.

"Mel," he said, keeping his voice down in case the string of vomiting sounds hadn't already woken his roommate up. "Mel, are you okay?" No response. He put a hand on the door knob and twisted, pushing the door open just a fraction. "Mel?" he asked again.

She groaned in response, and he cracked the door open further, just to see if she was okay. Her head rested on the toilet seat, and hair fell in every direction—but she was decent. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

He lowered himself to the ground with great effort, just as Mel came to. Just in time to throw up, again. He collected all of her hair behind her head and held it, rubbing her back with his other hand.

"Don't feel good," she grumbled again.

"I know," he said, rubbing long circles on her back. She went to drop her head again, leaning it on the toilet seat. He wouldn't let her. That toilet seat had to be disgusting after just a few weeks of his and Brad's use. Instead, he crossed probably another line drawn between them and pulled her into his lap, adjusting her so most of her weight was on his good leg, and she could still reach the toilet in case of an emergency. She settled against him quickly, her head tucked into the crook of his neck and one hand lying flat on his chest.

They didn't move for a long time. Langdon let her fall asleep, and even then, he stayed. If you asked, he wouldn't have an answer as to why, or maybe he'd avoid the question entirely. But he stayed. After a while, he finally got up, abandoning the last crutch so he could scoop her up with both arms. He hobbled slowly back to his room and set her down, pulling the covers over her.

He had the strangest inclination to kiss her on the forehead, but didn't. Only looked at her for a few moments to make sure she was okay. At the last second, he brought in the small trash can from the bathroom—just in case, as well as a cup of water and the ibuprofen, then hobbled back into the living room with an extra pillow and a blanket to finally get some rest of his own.

Chapter Text

Mel King didn't drink, which meant Mel King had never been hungover before, either. Waking up was a two-pronged shock. First, the pain that reverberated behind her eyes, and second, the unfamiliar dorm room surrounding her. It definitely wasn't Trinity's. It lacked, well, decorations of any kind. A hockey stick sat propped up against the wall in the corner of the room with a large duffel bag next to it, and if that weren't clue enough—the rough jersey material rubbing against her skin cemented it. This was Frank Langdon's bedroom. She was in Frank Langdon's bedroom. In Frank Langon's jersey. She looked under the covers. With no pants on.

She scrambled out of bed, thankful for the closed door. On the floor next to the lofted bed, she found her outfit from the previous night and her phone tucked away into one of the pockets. A few texts awaited her.

1:05am — Samira: text me when you make it home safe!
1:45am — Samira: did you make it home safe? /
1:58am — Samira: that doesn't look like trinity's dorm on the map
1:59am — Samira: I'll kill langdon if I need to

And a few from Trinity, too.

12:35am — Trinity: girl where r u
2:30am — Trinity: someone saw u leave with langdon?
2:31am — Trinity: GIRL I NEED ANSWERS

She fired off quick texts to both of them, letting them know she was alive. No further answers for Trinity, though. At least not yet. There was movement out in the living area. She was too smart for all of this, this puzzle she didn't know how to solve. Never once had she ended up in an unfamiliar place without pants on. And Langdon seemed like a nice guy, but a bit of panic did settle in under her breastbone regardless.

Standing in Langdon's jersey in the middle of his room, she dialed Samira's number. "Oh, thank god," Samira said immediately upon picking up. "Are you okay?" she asked.

In a hushed voice, Mel said, "I'm in Frank Langdon's bedroom."

"You're what?" Samira asked, raising her voice.

She hated not remembering. It felt like a betrayal by her brain, the one thing she relied on to keep her in check. How could there be these holes in her memory? Had she really had that much to drink? Last she could recall, they were playing beer pong. Then there were snippets of the night that came in flashes, everyone cheering her on during the keg stand, feeling woozy out in the backyard. Then, Langdon holding her hair back. Langdon carrying her to bed.

"What do I do?" Mel asked. "How do I leave?" Because the way it looked to her, she couldn't escape without confrontation, uncomfortable conversation.

Samira started to reply, just as the doorknob twisted. In a panic, Mel hung up the phone and flung it onto the bed. Langdon cracked the door, but didn't step inside. "Everything okay?" he said.

"Yes," Mel said, but it didn't sound anywhere close to the truth. "Um," she said, tentatively, trying to think of the best way to phrase the six hundred questions boiling her brain alive. "What happened last night?"

A pregnant pause hung between them, and she knew Langdon stood out in the living room, hand still on the doorknob, trying to figure out how to string words together—both struggling with the same sense of discomfort, struggling to articulate their feelings, struggling with whatever closeness had occurred the night previous. Where do we go from here?

"Trinity ditched, so I brought you back here," he said. "Don't worry, I slept on the couch."

A heavy breath left her. "And… the shirt?"

He chuckled under his breath. "You threw up all over yourself in the middle of the night. Honestly, really disgusting work, King." He laughed again. "I helped you change." A pause, then, "I didn't see anything, if that's what you're worried about."

She found that hard to believe, given that she stood in his room with no pants on.

"I tried not to see anything," he said, more convincing this time. "Can I open the door?" he asked.

Mel looked down at her bare legs. Langdon's jersey hung long on her, about the same length as the shorts of her romper from last night. But this felt much different. More vulnerable. "Do you have anything else I can wear?" she asked. "Like… bottoms, maybe."

He laughed again, clearly finding this much more amusing than she did. "Sweatpants folded up on the desk chair. I tried to give them to you last night, but you weren't interested."

That definitely didn't sound like her. But she slipped the pants on anyway, tying the drawstring tight around her waist and folding the band over a few times to keep them up. "You can come in," she said shyly.

Langdon waited a beat before opening the door. She still stood awkwardly in the center of the room, her hands interlocked in front of her stomach, twisting ever so slightly as she rocked forward and backward. He stopped, door half open, eyes on hers, then falling down her body, a catch in his throat that made a gasp rise in hers. The apples of her cheeks warmed, and she looked away, down, at her hands, anywhere but at him.

He looked equally comfortable in similar sweatpants and a loose fitting t-shirt. It was impossibly difficult not to let her eyes wander.

"You feeling better?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, eyes still glued to hers. There was a softness there that hadn't been present before last night, like the way he looked at her had shifted. But why?

Mel nodded. "Yeah—yes," she said. Oh my god. She needed to get out of that bedroom, out of the sphere of his influence, and into a place where she could think straight. "I'm sorry," she said finally, the words she'd been trying to force out since she woke up, the guilt she felt at someone else having to take care of her. She'd always prided herself on being self-sufficient, independent. The caretaker who never needed anything from anyone. This? This was uncharted territory, and the worst part was that she liked it. She could remember the way his arms felt as he carried her into bed, how his chest felt under her cheek. It all flooded back, and the memories threatened to pull her under all over again.

But he just laughed, smiling that half grin, half smirk at her while she lost her mind quietly opposite him—two people who both knew nothing about one another and everything, standing feet apart, trying not to look at each other too much or too little, hands twisting in front of her chest, his in his pockets, one crutch under his arm, his gaze, his eyes. It occurred to her then that she wanted to kiss him, wanted to close those few feet of distance, wrap her arms around his shoulders, stand on her toes, and really kiss him.

"For what?" he said, probably only a second or so later, but time felt strange and melty, falling apart in her head because she couldn't keep her thoughts together, couldn't put Frank Langdon into one neat little box that said friend.

He put a roadblock firmly in the center of her thoughts that said no further. Everything came to a screeching halt. She always had the answers, could use logic to figure out any problem, could find a solution to a complex problem even when others couldn't. But Langdon was one problem she couldn't solve, and something about that broke her into a million pieces. The one thing she relied on about herself, failing her, leaving her out of her depth and flailing around right in front of him. He must have thought her completely insane. Why else would he be looking at her like that?

"For last night," she said, like it was completely obvious—because wasn't it? "For everything. I mean, I don't usually drink."

His lips formed around the start of a sentence, changing shape a few times before he said, "No apology necessary. Really. It's kind of a rite of passage. You know? Getting shit faced at Donnie's house, throwing up in the bushes."

"I threw up in the bushes?" she asked, a look of shock on her face at yet another revelation of her own embarrassment.

Langdon shook his head. "No, no. But a lot of people do, you definitely wouldn't have been the first."

"And a lot of people throw up all over themselves, too, right?" she asked.

"More than you think."

"How many do you end up bringing back to your dorm?" she asked, then heard the words come out of her mouth and turned pink. "That's not—" she started, then shook her head. "I should go, actually. Um." She looked down at the shirt, the pants, the crumbled black romper, a mess on the floor. "Do you have anything I could wear that isn't so…" How could she say the words? Can I have a different shirt? One that doesn't make it look like we just slept together? One that isn't a neon sign across my back that says Property of Langdon. Not that she minded, really. It was the girlfriend of it all that was the real problem. Speaking of the girlfriend, where had she been? And how would she feel about another girl sleeping in her boyfriend's bed, cozying up to his chest, being touched by him? Maybe those touches weren't inherently romantic. But they still made her feel something, and that was far enough over the line.

Thankfully, Langdon got the memo and kicked into high gear, crossing the room—hobbling more than ever—and digging through the dresser for a shirt without his last name imprinted on the back. He handed her a Pittsburgh College branded tee and ducked out of the room without another word, a hint of pink on his cheeks, too.

She changed fast and stepped out of the room with the romper folded neatly in one hand. It seemed like he'd managed to clean some of the vomit off, but she'd probably have to wash it at least three times before returning it to Trinity. He was ready and waiting with a plastic bag for her to deposit it into. She took the bag and scurried toward the front door, halfway out before his voice stopped her.

"I had a good time last night, King," he said. "With you."

The words sent her heart thumping, beating hard enough that it could have exploded out of her chest right then and there, and then he'd really have to take care of her. She didn't turn around, didn't want him to see the dumb smile on her face and the redness in her cheeks. "Me too," she said, then slipped out, clicking the door shut behind her.

Mel didn't take a single full breath until she got into the passenger seat of Samira's SUV.

"Thank you," Mel said, dropping the plastic bag, containing one vomited-on romper, onto the floor before buckling her seat belt. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." She could have kissed Samira for getting her out of Langdon's suffocating dorm room.

"Jack dropped me off to pick up my car, so it's no big deal," Samira said, a coy smile on her lips.

"Jack?" Mel asked, happy to talk about anything other than her all-consuming crush on the unavailable hockey star.

"Sorry," Samira said. "I mean, Professor Abbot."

"Is that what you call him, you know—" Mel said, raising her eyebrows suggestively. It may have come off as a joke, but she was really just trying to get the facts. The whole student and teacher thing intrigued her in a strange way. She would have read a steamy romance novel about the whole thing. Instead, she just had to ask deeply personal questions. "Never mind," she said when she realized they were talking about Professor Abbot, her professor. "I changed my mind, I don't want to know."

"Are you sure?" Samira teased. "How was your night with Langdon?"

"Actually, please tell me everything about your sex life," Mel said.

"That bad, huh?" Samira asked, glancing over at her friend briefly.

Mel sighed. "No," she said, letting her head loll back against the headrest. "It was good. Really good."

"Did you—?"

"No!" Mel said, in a bit of a panic. "He has a girlfriend. At least I think they're still together. He didn't mention her once. But, I don't know. He was so kind. He held my hair back while I vomited, Samira. I didn't even know that was a real thing guys did. I thought it was just something that happened in the movies."

"And the outfit change?" Samira asked.

Mel's cheeks turned red. Blushing was her natural state these days. "I vomited on myself in the middle of the night, and he helped me change."

Samira's eyebrows shot straight up, just as they pulled into the parking lot. Mel didn't even bother going home yet; they had so much more to discuss, and Becca wouldn't be ready for several more hours.

"I took everyone's advice. I talked to him. Unfortunately, It only made things worse." Having a crush was clearly and obviously the worst case scenario. How could she go back to tutoring him on Monday as if nothing had happened? As if she couldn't remember the way his hands felt brushing across her back, gathering her hair together. As if she couldn't remember being carried to bed afterward, his strong arms underneath her. She remembered it all in striking clarity. And she could not look at him without thinking those thoughts. About what more would feel like. About what his lips would feel like on hers, on her skin. Even now, she could barely avoid thinking about it, and he wasn't even there! She was screwed.

"Mel," Samira said, somewhat serious, putting her hands on top of Mel's shoulders and looking her dead in the eye. Mel stopped spiraling for a second, only a second, to listen. "I'm no expert, but it sounds like he likes you."

"What? No," Mel said, shaking her head. He had a girlfriend. A hot girlfriend, from what she'd heard. A girlfriend who cheated on him, sure, but maybe he didn't know that. Maybe it wouldn't change things if he did. There were too many unknowns to piece together an equation, and she was back to being completely unable to figure Langdon out.

Unlocking the door, Samira stepped into the apartment and turned slightly to look at Mel, as if to say something. Before the words left their mouth, a strong, corded arm came around their waist, pulling her against his body. Kisses were pressed along her jawline as she squealed with delight, laughing and smiling. Mel could only stare in a mix of horror and jealousy.

Professor Abbot couldn't have been more than thirty-five. He had dark brown curly hair and wore button-up shirts with fun patterns. This one he'd left half unbuttoned, clearly not expecting company. He didn't stop his ministrations at the sight of Mel, only extended his other hand to Mel and said, "Mel, right?"

She took his hand, dumbstruck like a deer in headlights. "Right. I'm in your cognitive neuroscience class."

He just laughed under his breath, detaching from Samira and disappearing back into the kitchen as Samira grabbed Mel's arm and pulled her into the living room. "Breakfast will be ready soon," he said. "Hope you like pancakes, Mel."

Mel's shocked gaze turned to meet Samira's lovestruck one, and suddenly, sleeping in Langdon's bed was no longer the craziest thing to happen that weekend.

Chapter Text

Langdon stood in the center of his living room staring at the closed door in shock for, probably, too long. The words on the tip of his tongue slid down the back of his throat unsaid. All he could think about was whether or not he'd made the wrong decision when it came to Mel King. Everything mattered when it came to her. How he acted, the words he said. All of it. He'd never thought about his actions so much. And still, after thinking and stewing, he still couldn't decide where right and wrong were when it came to her.

If he were being honest with himself, all of it felt wrong. Every time their skin touched, he knew it was. The shocks that flew through his veins could not possibly be an indication of the right thing. They were meant to wake him up, alarm bells screaming stay away from her. He had his fingers in his ears. Because while it felt wrong, it felt good, too. He liked the way she looked at him, the way her cheeks flushed when he called her sweetheart, the way she smiled when she accomplished something big. Fuck. He liked Mel King.

Well, what the fuck was he supposed to do with that information? The only logical next step was to bury those feelings deep in order to keep their friendship safe. He cared about that. Their friendship. She was the first person he'd made a real connection with that wasn't on the hockey team, the first person that actually seemed to care when he talked. He knew, if he wanted to, if he could get the words out, she would listen to anything he had to say. Stuff about himself. Real stuff. The good and the bad.

His phone vibrated on the coffee table, and he knew before looking who it was. Picking it up, he pressed it to his ear and said, "Hey, babe."

"Hey!" Abby said, a bit of that usual cheer to her voice. "What's up?" A short pause, then, "How was the party? I'm so sorry I missed it."

"Oh," Langdon said, immediately knowing that he'd been caught and wishing that there was even a sliver of him that felt bad about it. "Yeah, it was good."

He didn't mention that his leg throbbed from only using one crutch, and from—more likely—ditching said crutch to support Mel, carry Mel, take care of Mel. He didn't mention another woman sleeping in his bed, wearing his clothes, curling up against him on the bathroom floor. He didn't mention falling out of love, hitting the pavement in front of Mel King.

"Yeah?" she asked. "You had a good time?"

Langdon's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I said it was good."

Silence hung between them for a moment, seconds passing without any words. He didn't care enough to say anything, to explain himself.

"Jesse said you left with some girl," Abby said, all high and mighty like she didn't kiss football players when he wasn't around.

"She's not some girl," he said, without thinking, only to realize immediately after the words left his mouth that it was the complete wrong thing to say. He didn't take it back, either. Because it was the truth. She wasn't just some girl. That didn't have to mean anything, didn't have to mean he'd cheated on her because he hadn't. It just meant he cared about Mel, cared enough to know that she meant something, even if he couldn't figure out exactly what.

"I'm sorry?" Abby said, a clarifying question that really meant do you want to try that again?

Langdon cleared his throat, used the opportunity she granted to get the heat off his back. "She's not just some girl, she's my tutor. You know that." Just my tutor.

"I didn't know your tutor was one of those, what do you call them? Twirl girls?" Abby said, and he could picture the way she was standing, arms crossed over her chest, one hip jutting out to the side and one leg bent. Her voice was calm and somewhat kind, the way it always was when she wanted to get a rise out of him, make him the first to raise his voice. Just another one of the games they played together.

"Yeah, she is," Langdon said.

"Thought you hated them," Abby commented.

Is this why she'd called? To grill him about Mel? "Listen, Abby. Nothing happened last night if that's what you're worried about."

Silence for a moment, then, "Is she pretty?"

He held the phone away from his face, throwing his head back in exasperation. There was no possible way to answer the question. He couldn't lie, wouldn't do Mel the disservice of saying no, even though the information would never find its way back to her. But neither could he say yes, because that would reveal how much he'd thought about it already. Abby loved nothing more than backing him into proverbial corners.

"Yeah, she's pretty. I guess," he said, after a beat of silence, not wanting to sound too eager in his answer.

"Why did you leave with her?" Abby asked. More questions. He should have just laid out the night for her in thorough detail to avoid this interrogation.

Instead, he just groaned. Out loud this time. "She doesn't usually drink. She got pretty fucked up and her friends abandoned her. I promised Samira I'd make sure she got home alright."

"And did she?"

"Did she what?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Did she get home alright?" Abby said.

"I didn't know her address," Langdon said.

"Where did she stay, Langdon?"

"What the fuck did you expect me to do, Abby, just leave her on the side of the road?" he said, even more exasperated.

"Oh, all of a sudden, you're a gentleman. Is that right?" she said.

"I'm not having this conversation with you. She's my friend. I helped her. I didn't cheat on you," Langdon said, pacing as much as he could with a bum leg and one crutch.

"Did she sleep in your bed?" Abby asked.

"No, I made her sleep on the fucking couch. Of course, she slept in my bed. I slept on the couch, and my leg fucking hurts by the way," Langdon said. "You have any other questions, or does that about sum it up?"

"You're a jackass, you know that?" Abby said.

"And here I thought I was a gentleman," he said, wanting so badly to just hang up the phone and pretend the conversation never happened.

More silence, louder than ever. "Are you leaving me for her?" she asked, a note of vulnerability in her voice that almost made him feel bad.

"Jesus Christ, Abby," he said.

"Fuck, Frank. You didn't say no."

"No, Abby," he said, sighing, rubbing three fingers into the developing lines on his forehead. "No. I'm not."

He had to get out of the house, out of the dorm that felt so much smaller after she left. Sitting alone on the couch only resulted in overthinking, trying to figure out his feelings—something he'd never been good at. So, he left, headed toward the library, and their study room. Even the,n he couldn't stop thinking about her, about how she'd be proud of him for studying on the weekend, too.

Maybe if he hit his head hard enough against the glass enclosure, he would knock loose all thoughts of Mel King. He decided to get a coffee instead.

That was his first mistake. Well. It was probably not his first. It was probably at least the tenth in a long line of mistakes he'd been making for the past several weeks. This one felt especially punishing, however.

Trinity found him immediately, like she'd been trained to sniff out jackass hockey players who messed with her friends. Not that he'd messed with anyone. "Hey," she said, jabbing a finger in his direction. "You wanna tell me what happened last night?" she asked.

God, why did so many mean women need a recap of the previous night's events? Next time, he'd have a shirt made with the schedule imprinted on it to avoid all these annoying conversations.

"What happened is you ditched Mel, and I had to pick up the pieces," Langdon said, leaning on one crutch as he waited in line for a coffee that Trinity currently prevented him from getting.

Her eyes narrowed, and for a second she had the same expression on her face he'd worn just before punching Jesse. Was Trinity Santos about to punch him in the face? Without letting both crutches fall, he raised his hands in defense. "Nothing happened last night. I just gave her somewhere to puke and pass out. That's it."

How many times did he have to defend himself? Even he didn't believe the defense given. Yeah, he'd kept his hands off her, been a gentleman when it came to that kind of stuff. But where emotional affairs were considered, he knew where he stood. His thoughts were plagued with her, like her ghost haunted his every move. How had this happened after only one night? How had he landed, immediately, in the deep end? So, yeah. He knew innocent didn't begin to cover what he'd done. But Trinity and Abby and fuck, even Mel? They didn't need to know the thoughts that tortured him. Only his actions mattered. And those were clean. For the most part.

She still watched him through narrowed eyes, skeptical. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to look intimidating and succeeding. "Whatever you're doing with her, I don't like it."

"Tutoring? You don't want me to get my grades up, huh, Santos?" he teased.

Trinity didn't laugh, didn't even smile. "I mean it, Langdon. Leave her alone."

"What?" he asked, more confused than anything. "No."

That look crossed her face again, and then she did reach out, pressing her hands against his chest to shove him. Not hard enough for him to lose his footing, but hard enough that he had to reposition his crutches in one fast movement to prevent himself from falling.

"Hey, what the fuck? You can't push me, I'm injured," he said, feigning a pout. "And besides, I'm telling the truth. I'm not doing anything with Mel King. Just studying. That's all."

She ignored the first half of his statement entirely and just continued scowling at him. "You're a fucking idiot, you know that right?"

"I think I've heard that before, yes."

"You have a girlfriend."

"Also true."

"So leave Mel King alone," Trinity said, looking at him pointedly. "You may think you're doing nothing, but I know you. And Mel is one of the nicest people I've ever met. So if you hurt her or lead her on, I'll simply have to kill you. And I know Samira will help."

Lead her on? What the fuck did that mean? He'd only been her friend, taken care of her when she needed it. If he thought of it that way enough times, maybe it would begin to sound true. But leading her on still didn't feel like the right way to describe it. It negated his own interest, made it seem like he would eventually dump her somewhere, and ignore everything that happened. No, he wanted to be her friend, wanted to keep her in his life. But Trinity still looked at him with that annoyed, pointed look that made him feel like he was being scolded by a teacher, just another instance of someone telling him he needed to get his grades up, just another thing he'd fucked up. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was better off leaving Mel alone.

"I'll back off," he said. "She's still my tutor. But I'll back off. I don't want to hurt her."

"I don't care what you want or don't want," she snapped. "Like I said, you're kind of a moron. You'll probably end up hurting her by accident because you can't get thoughts through that big, thick brain of yours."

"I get it, okay?" Langdon snapped back at her, anger lacing his words to hide the hurt. "I said I'll back off, now leave me the fuck alone."

She raised her hands in defense, like she hadn't started the whole thing, and made him question everything about himself, every interaction he'd ever had with Mel, and what she must have thought of him. Had she put Trinity up to this? Begged her to have a word with him about his overbearing nature, his desire to take care of her. Fuck. His mind scrambled, but Trinity finally left, and he grabbed the coffee he'd wanted so bad minutes ago. Now it seemed pointless.

He left his textbooks in the study room and took his iced coffee back to his dorm, grumbling under his breath as he went. He wasn't leading Mel on. The idea was completely absurd. They'd hung out one time outside of study sessions, and only actually interacted for an hour or so. The rest of the night he'd spent taking care of her while she vomited. How could that possibly amount to him leading her anywhere?

On top of all that, the annoyance at Trinity for her acquisitions and Abby for her mistrust, his leg still hurt like a goddamn son of a bitch. Putting so much weight on it the previous night had been a huge mistake. His shin throbbed, the whole thing pounding with its own heartbeat. He took double the dose of ibuprofen written on the label and sat with his hands on top of his head, staring off into space for at least half an hour, trying to think about anything other than Mel King and everything he'd inevitably ruined.

He'd failed everyone. Or, if he hadn't failed them already, he was certainly in the process of doing so. It seemed like sooner or later, that was the case with everyone in his life.

There were these short moments where it felt as if everything would be okay, where he rallied. His grades improved, he actually liked studying, and even though he missed hockey more than anything, he'd made a new friend in Mel. All of that came crashing down in an instant. He'd fail Robby eventually. His grades would slip after a little while. Mel would give up on him as a result. Trinity would hate him for making Mel believe in something that wasn't worth her while, and worst of all, he'd fail himself. Because for once in his stupid fucking good for nothing life, he actually thought he had a shot at being something better than a frat bro hockey player. Mel King gave him something to care about. And yeah, maybe that was wrong. But he didn't want to lose it quite yet, either. Didn't want to lose her.

Unfortunately, neither did he want to think about any of that bullshit. His hand found the prescription bottle before his mind processed it. He dumped two pills into his hand and stared at them, thought about how good he'd been the previous night for not taking anything, and threw them back without another moment wasted on something as useless as common sense.

Chapter Text

With the weekend over and the hangover far behind her, Mel thought maybe it would be easy to move past everything that happened. Unfortunately, sitting in that small study room on Monday morning—all she could only think about was Frank Langdon's hands as they moved quickly over the keys of his laptop, still balanced precariously on his lap. They'd been sitting across from each other for about twenty minutes without more than a few words. Mel tapped her foot, looked at the screen of her laptop, looked at the books open before her, and sighed. She couldn't focus.

One of them had to bite the bullet and speak first. But Mel struggled, wanting to find the exact right thing to say and coming up empty. After another five minutes of getting no work done, she tapped her pencil against the table a few times, then said, "How was the rest of your weekend?"

"Hm?" he said, looking up from his work. She didn't need to repeat herself because he continued, as if just clocking back into reality. "Oh, yeah. It was good," he said, then went right back to work, typing and looking away.

Mel tried to keep the smile on her face, but it fell with his disinterest.

A few moments passed before Langdon said, "Yours?"

She looked up again. "What?"

"The rest of your weekend. How was it?" he asked.

"Oh," she said, caught off guard by the minutes-later follow-up. "Once I recovered from the hangover, it was a lot better." She didn't mention picking up Becca Saturday night and recounting all the juicy details, such as kissing Trinity, sleeping in Frank's bed, and seeing Samira and Professor Abbot together. "Becca and I watched a few rom-coms and had breakfast for dinner on Sunday, so that was nice." Maybe he didn't care about all the details.

Again, he didn't answer, just went right back to working. A sigh escaped her lips, long and heavy, and even that didn't stir a response. Had she done something wrong? Her first party, and it had gone completely off the rails. In just half an hour, he'd managed to give off the vibe that whatever friendship they'd started to build had ended sometime between Saturday morning and that very moment.

Now she would have to go home and tell Becca that, never mind, I don't think we're going to end up kissing. Maybe she jumped to conclusions too fast, saw things that weren't actually there. But it was such a hard turn from how he'd acted with her on previous days. It gave her whiplash.

And all she wanted to do was ask, put their cards on the table. Figure things out. She always wanted to figure things out, and Frank Langdon seemed to make that more and more difficult every day with his thought-scrambling words and sudden disinterest.

Finally, just as their session came to an end and Langdon started to pack up his things, she said, "Hey—is everything alright with us?"

He looked down at his shoes, adjusting the crutches underneath his armpits. "What do you mean?" he said, still not meeting her eyes, even as he looked up.

"I mean, I don't know," she said, because really she didn't know. That was the problem. Everything seemed wrong and different, and she couldn't put a finger on why. "It's just—did I do something wrong?"

All at once, his face softened. His brows, once scrunched downward, making a crease in the center, and his lips cutting a line straight across his face, all eased back, tension melting away at her words. "No," Langdon said, then, quickly, "Not at all."

"Then, what?" Mel asked.

"It's me that was in the wrong, not you. I promise," he said, but didn't elaborate.

That didn't answer any of her questions, nor did it make sense of anything. "You haven't?" she said, confused. None of his actions had upset her in any way. Confused her feelings, yes. But hurt her? Not at all. He made her feel comforted—safe. In a way that no one had before. How could that be wrong?

He shook his head, rejecting her words but not offering forth any new information either. His brows scrunched again. "It's," he started, closing his eyes for a second. "It's complicated."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure I'll understand," she said. Her brows furrowed too, matching his. Just two college students, confused about their feelings and staring at one another, but too uncertain to figure out just how to make things normal again, if that's even what either of them wanted.

The separation between them, even just a few feet, felt like an ocean. She'd been selfish, accepting all of his touches and kind words without worrying about a time in which they'd disappear. But now, across the ocean, worlds away, she longed to touch him in any way he'd allow. His hands on her shoulders, his pink grazing against hers, his lips—okay, not a productive line of thought for the current moment.

"It's…" he started again. In the seconds between his words, Mel spiraled out of control, thinking of all the possibilities for what could follow. "It's Abby, and well, Trinity. Too."

The furrow of her brow deepened with further confusion. Abby, she could have guessed, but Trinity? What did she have to do with anything?

"Abby is my girlfriend," Langdon said, as if Mel didn't already know. This was the first time he'd mentioned her by name or otherwise. "She wasn't comfortable with you staying the night."

"Oh," Mel said. It made sense. That didn't mean she had to like it. If she were braver, more confident, she might have brought up Abby's shared interactions with the football players, but it didn't seem right, either. It would be too obvious, defending her own desire for Langdon's infidelity with his partner's. Besides, she didn't really want him to cheat on Abby. She'd much prefer if Abby didn't exist at all, if there were room to be at his side, how she wanted. But if she could only be there as a friend, she'd take that too. Her feelings didn't have to consume her. In the same vein, this didn't exactly feel like a rejection. Were her feelings for him not completely and totally obvious, like she believed?

"I don't regret it," he said, casually. "I would probably do it again, too. Though apparently that line of thinking is what gets me called an asshole."

She sucked her lips inward, twisted her hands together in front of her abdomen, trying to keep herself contained, trying to take up less space, like that would solve all her problems. She couldn't think about what his words might have meant. If there was any room to read into them, it would have to occur in the middle of the night when her mind refused to rest. "Did Trinity say something to you?"

Again, that fear fell over her. The fear of her feelings being completely known by him, something she wasn't ready for in the slightest. The fear of not knowing what Trinity may have said on her behalf.

"Just chewed me out for taking you home with me," he said.

"But nothing happened!" Mel stammered, and a laugh rose to greet her, Langdon's deep chuckle breaking the tension in half with ease.

"That's what I said." All of a sudden, the pressed and stressed expression on his face disappeared, and a smile found its home in the empty space. He finally met her eyes. "Then I'm glad we're on the same page."

Mel let a small smile appear on her lips, too. "I'm sorry if I caused any issues in your relationship—I really didn't mean to. I should probably stay home next time," she said, half-joking. The liquor turned her into a free spirit, willing to say and do whatever her heart desired. If she hadn't hit it so hard and fast last time, she might have done even more regrettable things, like admitting just how much she liked Frank. To his face.

Langdon waved a hand, dismissing the apology and the problem entirely. "Nah, don't worry about it. We're fine."

"And what about us? Are we good, too?" she asked.

"Yeah, Mel," he said, and it might've been the first time he called her by her first name. She hated the tingling that shot down her spine, hated that she wanted to hear him say it again. "We're good."

Her twisted hands relaxed a bit. "Okay. Good," she said, nodding and smiling. Despite all the feelings that still lived deep in her gut, confused and anxious and only able to think about Langdon, she did feel better, because at least they would not have to continue in that awkward silence from before, at least she knew that everyone in the known universe rooted against them. And most importantly, she knew, for certain, that Frank didn't have any feelings for her. If he had, that conversation would have gone much differently. Maybe he would have even broken up with his girlfriend. But that was hopeless, a pipe dream bigger than hoping for Olympic gold, and one she could not hold on to.

A few hours later, after classes that seemed to drag on for too long, she finally hit the ice. They didn't have a scheduled practice, but it didn't matter. She needed to get out there in order to get her best thinking done, needed to feel the air whipping through her hair as she picked up speed, needed to hear the song pounding between her ears.

She'd dragged Samira along, desperate to show her best friend what she'd been working on so far. With an invitational coming up, both of her programs needed to be absolutely perfect. That meant no falls, which meant taking the triple axle out of her free program until she could nail it nine times out of ten in practice. As of now, she could only land it maybe half the time. Those weren't good odds.

Coach Collins had organized the invitational, inviting two other local colleges—University of Pittsburgh and Penn State to compete ahead of the Eastern Sectional Finals that would take place in early November. She'd stressed to Mel how important it was to give the invitational her all, as many of the same skaters would be present at sectionals, and it would give her a good indication of whether or not she would place then, too.

Placing at Sectionals was absolutely necessary. Of course, there were other paths to Nationals she could explore if she failed to place, but getting gold or silver would be by far the easiest. She didn't need to beat Trinity. Just everyone else. Then, she'd be well on her way to the US Figure Skating Championship and a potential spot on the Olympic team. That was the goal. She needed to remember that, needed to place it at the forefront of her mind instead of thinking about Langdon too much. He wasn't important compared to the Olympics. The Olympics were her dream, and he was just a man.

So, she practiced hard, keeping that dream in mind. First, showing Samira her short program—and nailing it, by the way. Then, she worked on parts of her free, showing Samira a few different step sequences she'd incorporated and then practicing a few of her jump combinations. Of course, Samira supported her throughout, clapping and cheering whenever she landed anything.

Huffing, out of breath, she skated over to the boards where Samira waited with a bright smile and cold cheeks.

"You're insane," she said. And Mel forgot for a second that this was the first time Samira had seen her skate at all. Her friends back home had witnessed her growth over fifteen years. Samira only saw the result of all that hard work. Regardless, it felt good.

Mel had never been good at accepting compliments, so she just smiled, her cheeks red from the cold as much as the kind words. "I could teach you sometime. Get you out on the ice."

"If you wanted to see me fall flat on my face, that's definitely the way to do it," Samira joked.

"Oh, come on, you're not giving yourself enough credit. I bet you could land at least a beginner jump," Mel said. "Besides, you make me do ballet with you, it seems like a fair trade."

"Oh, please. I don't make you do anything. You're an eager little student and you know it," Samira said, giggling.

Taking off her skates at the bench next to Samira, Mel laughed too. And it felt good to be amongst friends again, felt good to not worry about complicated feelings or pissing off someone's girlfriend.

The two girls sat in the stands for a few hours, catching up on each other's lives. Samira told Mel all about Professor Abbot and their new relationship, and Mel went into great detail about Langdon and everything that happened after the party.

"I still feel like I hardly know him," Mel said, dropping her head into her hands with an overdramatic sigh. "I shouldn't care this much about him, about everything he says. I just—I want him to feel the same. I want him to think about me the way I think about him, and I know he doesn't."

"How do you know he doesn't?" Samira asked, tilting her head to the side.

"I think his girlfriend asked him to stop being friends with me," Mel explained. "I don't know. There was this really weird energy during our session this morning, and I confronted him about it, and he said it was because Abby was uncomfortable with what happened. I think he was just going to stop being my friend—you know? If I hadn't said anything."

Samira took Mel's hand, holding it firmly with one of her own. "If he's willing to stop being your friend just because his cheating girlfriend asked him to, then he doesn't deserve your friendship to begin with."

"I know," Mel said. "I know that. Really. I just—"

Samira cut her off, "Like him?"

"Unfortunately," Mel said. "Everything would be so much easier if I just didn't."

"How long do you have to tutor him for?" Samira asked.

"The semester. I planned to offer to help next semester too, but, I guess, maybe I shouldn't," Mel said, and even the idea of losing their daily sessions made her sad.

"Maybe he'll break up with her," Samira said.

"He sat on the bathroom floor and held me in his arms seconds after I threw up—I think if he wanted to, he would have done it already," Mel said. Which meant he didn't want to, which killed her.

Chapter Text

Langdon’s orthopedic doctor and her team of nurses worked quickly to carve him out of the full-leg cast and replace it with a much shorter, below-the-knee cast. They placed their hands on either side of the cast and bent his knee slowly. His teeth ground together at the pain. It’d only been about a month in the full cast, but turns out not being able to bend your knee for an entire month had painful consequences.

His parents stood supervising. He looked too much like his father for his own liking. They both had the same broad shoulders and dark hair, the same blue eyes. Langdon’s face shifted in kindness much more frequently, however. His father’s wrinkles were deep set around the eyebrows and mouth from spending so many years scowling.

His mother sat in the only chair in the room. With lighter brown hair and deceitfully kind eyes, his similarities were few and far between, only seen in the crook of her nose and the sharpness of her brow. Her phone had already rung twice, and she’d stepped out of the room intermittently without any regard for the staff. The doctors and nurses exchanged glances every time either of his parents opened their mouths. The secondhand embarrassment from their words was off the charts.

“Based on your X-rays, everything seems to be healing nicely so far. This cast should come off in two months, possibly three. But we’ll keep an eye on it,” the doctor explained. “You’re still staying off it, using your crutches, getting proper rest?”

No, no, and no. But he couldn’t exactly explain that he’d been using his crutches less and putting weight on it frequently because there was a girl he liked—especially with his parents in the room. They’d have unthinkable words for him, given how much they loved Abby, thought he should marry Abby. Oh, the talking to he’d get after their inevitable breakup. He could picture it, them shouting about how he’d fucked up his own future, ruined things for the rest of his life.

“As much as I can,” he said, instead. It was easier than the truth. Most things were.

“Alright, well, I think we’re all set. Just wait here and I’ll have the nurse come in to schedule your follow-up,” the doctor said before disappearing, leaving him alone in a tiny room with both of his parents.

They’d barely spoken in the car ride over, in the waiting room, or since stepping foot into the examination room—which Langdon expressly told them they didn’t need to follow him into. After a few minutes of waiting, his mother stood up, answered the phone, and left without a word.

“Keeping your grades up?” his father asked, still stone-faced and arms crossed.

“Yes,” Langdon said. It was a half-truth. His grades were improving with Mel’s help. He was no longer actively failing any of his classes. But because of his poor work during the first few weeks, the grades were still fairly low.

“Are you lying to me?” his father asked. Having a lawyer as a father meant getting interrogated about the truth on a daily basis. He thanked the universe that he didn’t have to live at home anymore. That he would, hopefully, never have to again.

Langdon shrugged, which was the wrong move, but neither could he bring himself to tell his father all the details of his arraignment with Mel.

“God, Frank,” his father said. “How many chances have we given you, huh?”

Another shrug. How many times had his father asked that question? And yet he still didn’t know how to answer it. Another one of his failings, probably.

“A lot. Too many if you ask me,” his father said, then silence fell over the room once more. “I want to see B’s on that report card by the end of the semester.”

“Okay,” Langdon said, even if the task felt entirely impossible.

“I see a single C on that report card, and you’re not finishing out the season,” he said, and Langdon opened his mouth to argue, but he only continued. “Do you understand me?” he asked, always needing the clarification, needing Langdon’s name signed along the dotted line of whatever threat he made.

“Dad—” Langdon started, wanting to argue a case for himself, never able to just let things rest between them. C’s got degrees. Even Robby was okay with C’s.

“No buts. We’ve given you enough chances. If you fail this time, I’m not fucking paying for it—now, do you understand me?”

Langdon stared at the floor for as long as he could get away with it before nodding. “I understand.”

As soon as they got back in the car, his mom said, “Did you give him the talk?” and his father nodded. Then, she turned around to look at him with her face all tense with disapproval and said, “We mean it this time, Frank. No more screw-ups. We won’t tolerate failure in this family. Not anymore.”

“Yeah, I got it,” he grumbled, annoyed, angry, and humiliated all at the same time. Weren’t parents supposed to lift you up, help you become a better person? He knew enough to know they weren’t supposed to fucking stomp all over your dreams and call you a failure over and over again without remorse.

Looking down at his phone, he fought to ignore the instinct to text Mel. Instead, he just looked at the history of their text messages. There was only one, the address for the party. He typed out a few different messages, deleting them all and ultimately clicking off the screen and leaving his phone face down on his lap. Anything he sent would only be a bother, a burden she didn’t need to deal with.

And besides, if he really needed someone to talk to, he should have reached out to Abby. Unfortunately, just as he sucked at talking about his feelings, she sucked at listening to them.

“Remember what we said,” his father said as he pulled up in front of Langdon’s dorm.

He opened the door, hobbled around to the trunk, using the car for support, got his crutches, and slammed both doors as forcefully and as loudly as he could, without saying goodbye. It didn’t really help to get any of the boiling anger out—but it still felt good.

Inside, he lay in bed for some time, staring up at the ceiling and occasionally bending his leg. His thigh was an awful combination of sore and itchy, but every time his knee bent it hurt a little less, a small victory amongst the shit storm that was his life.

It sucked. Obviously it sucked. But he hadn’t taken a moment to let all the shit hit the proverbial fan, hadn’t taken a moment to really break down about it. And now, staring at the ceiling and thinking about everything he’d ever failed—his chest started to hurt.

The pain started slow in the center of his chest. Almost imperceptible. It grew, spreading out to the left side as his heart rate increased, thrumming against his ribs. He sat up abruptly and placed a hand over his heart, as if that would do something to calm whatever was happening. It didn’t. His heart kept beating faster and faster as the pain spread further and further from the center of his chest, into the muscles of his shoulder, and down into his left elbow. An aching pain that made everything tense up. He couldn’t relax. With his upper body frozen, locked and tense, he started to hyperventilate—which, of course, only made things worse.

He tried to regulate his breathing, tried to take slow, deep breaths, but they always ended shaky, and the hyperventilation took over again. Like an arm wrestle. He just needed to get a little ground, control his breathing for long enough to feel okay, but every time he stopped thinking about breathing, he lost control of it again. The other arm pushing back against him, trying to slam the back of his palm into the table.

He’d taken one pill that morning, only a few hours ago. But those god damn quarter of a miligram fuckers barely did anything anymore. Even two didn’t feel like enough. And he knew, deep in the back of his brain—that this was a bad thing. Unfortunately, he could not bring himself to care, not when pain racked through his body, seizing his muscles and squeezing his heart to the point where it felt as if it might pop. With scrambling hands, shaking and unstable, he threw open the drawer next to his bed and found the bottle. Opening it, he dumped two more into his open palm and didn’t even bother giving them the cursory stare before throwing them back.

Two minutes, and still nothing improved. He didn’t feel better. The pain still had him in a chokehold.

Five minutes, and he was pretty certain it was a heart attack. That this was how he died. In a dorm room all alone.

Ten minutes, and his fists began to unclench.

Fifteen minutes, and his shoulders relaxed, dropping away from his ears.

Twenty minutes, and he fell asleep. The pain a ghost, his muscles sore, his chest empty and aching, a vessel left behind by thirty minutes of pain that left as easily as it came.

A few hours later, the pain came back, a friend, a visitor, an out of town guest that knocked down the door without asking, and he took one pill with dinner just to keep that friend away, not bothering to think about the consequences, about how he’d inevitably turned his once daily at most, in case of emergencies medication into a three times daily dose that he needed to take or his body would rebel against him loud and aggressive. He didn’t think about how few pills were left in the bottle.

“Don’t sweat it, you’re going to be back on the ice before you know it,” Mateo said, nudging Langdon’s shoulder with his own. Going out on a Tuesday night was maybe not on the list of best decisions he could have made—especially with how much Xanax coursed through his system—but like with most things, he could not bring himself to care.

The next morning would hold another meeting with Mel King and all the awkwardness that would continue to ensue as they tried to figure out exactly how to exist near one another. Clearly, neither knew exactly the right way. Attempting to take a step back, for Abby’s sake, had been a swing and a miss right off the bat.

She saw through him so immediately. He’d thought maybe it would be possible to skate under her radar, but clearly that had been naivety.

“Yeah, man. You’re right,” Langdon said, but before you know it still felt like a lifetime away. It was mid-October, only a little over a month since his initial injury. The earliest he’d be back on the ice was what, February? At least four more months unless he ended up on the faster side of the healing spectrum, and then maybe, and that was a very uncertain maybe, January. Even three months felt like too long. He wanted to be back out on the ice now.

Instead of dwelling on the things he could not change, he knocked back the rest of his whiskey sour. Even though his last dose had been about two hours ago, the discomfort already crept back into his chest. Alcohol soothed it, though. So at least he had that.

“Team’s in good shape though,” Mateo said, which only made Frank more annoyed, even though he tried not to show it. Mateo was a good stand-in team captain and an even better goalie. Neither fact stopped the flare of jealousy in the pit of his stomach. “Think we might go all the way this year—especially with you back on the team after winter break.”

“Yeah, well. Here’s hoping I haven’t forgotten how to play by then,” Frank said, bitter and unable to help it.

He’d been benched before. Only once, during his Sophomore year. But that had been for repeated aggression on the ice, resulting in bad morale with the rest of the team. Pretty much every hockey player got benched for something like that at some point in their career. And besides, that had only been for a week. He’d missed a few practices and one game. Not half the season.

“You won’t. It’s like riding a bike,” Mateo said, throwing back the rest of his drink, too. He set it down, then turned on the bar stool, angling his body toward Frank. “Hey, so, Victoria invited me to this thing at the end of the week, on Saturday. Some figure skating thing. I think she called it an invitational. You wanna come with?”

Figure skating meant Mel. There was no way she wouldn’t be there. But he’d just be in the crowd, and there was nothing wrong with that. If Abby threw a fit, she could come along. Not like she’d want to, but the option was there.

“Sure, man,” Langdon said, finally. “What’s going on with you and Victoria anyway?”

Mateo laughed, taking out a few bills for their drinks and tossing them onto the counter. “We’re just friends.” He stood up, getting Langdon’s crutches, and handing them over. “What about you and Mel? Saw you getting pretty comfortable at the party last weekend.”

“Yeah, we’re just friends,” he replied, an unspoken agreement between friends—not to question each other on their lies.

Chapter Text

Mel sat on the bench with her head in her hands, humming "Savage" by Megan Thee Stallion under her breath and visualizing her step sequences, her jump combinations. She imagined keeping her focus amidst the roaring crowd—something she'd always struggled with. Being on the ice felt freeing, yes, but not so much when a crowd of people looked on. Under their scrutiny, occasionally, she had the tendency to crumble.

If her eyes caught any one individual person, the room opened up and she became conscious of them all, all at once. Their gazes heavy and pressuring. But if she could just get into the rhythm and block out the crowd, everything would be okay.

The other schools had already arrived and were getting ready in the guest locker rooms. The rest of the Pitt team sat either scattered through the arena, engaging in their own pre-competition routines, or they were out getting coffee or a snack at the cafe next door. For now, the arena sat empty, and she could continue to imagine it as such for the foreseeable future.

With her headphones in and her eyes closed, she moved her hands to match the movements, concentrating, failing, starting over, concentrating, envisioning every second of the routine.

Trinity sat down next to her and started talking without waiting for Mel to take out her headphones.

It took her a second to notice Trinity's mouth moving. She took out one headphone and raised a brow. "I'm sorry, what?"

Trinity just laughed, rolling her eyes playfully and clapping Mel on the top of the shoulder. Both wore their Pittsburgh College-branded sweats and zip-ups, sparkling costumes to be revealed at the beginning of the show.

"I said, are you ready to sweep the floor with those University freaks?" Trinity asked, a confident—always confident—smile on her face. Mel's eyes couldn't help but flick to her friend's lips, thinking about the last time they'd been in such close proximity. Of course, they'd practiced together since, but they hadn't been so close since the night of the party. The night of their kiss.

She needed to say something, wanted to say something. The words caught in her throat, and she was stuck waving her arms around, gesturing alongside the words that didn't come out.

Trinity's eyebrows drew together, and she tilted her head slightly like an inquisitive animal. "Take a breath, Mel," she said, and it might have been the nicest, calmest way Trinity had ever spoken to her.

It made it easier to say what she'd been thinking. "I wanted to tell you that, well, the kiss was really nice. It was a good kiss. But I'm not interested in you like that, and I didn't want you to get the wrong idea—" Mel rambled. She could have gone on even longer if Trinity hadn't cut her off with a laugh.

"Girl, chill," Trinity said, trying to keep a somewhat straight face and not doing the best job of it. "It was just a kiss, I'm not asking for your hand in marriage. Besides, I know you're infatuated with Langdon, and I have my own thing going on," she said with a wink.

"Well, I don't know about infatuated. We're just friends," Mel countered, still trying to defend a point that everyone else seemed to know was untrue. Why did everyone seem to know her feelings better than she did? Trinity said infatuated, Samira said crushing, but what did she really feel for him?

"Please," Trinity said, shaking her head.

"What?" Mel asked, her brows furrowing with genuine confusion.

"No, nothing. It's nothing," Trinity said.

Mel hated that. People having something to say and keeping it to themselves. The world would be so much easier to navigate if people chose to speak their minds. Not that she wasn't guilty of the same issue. But knowing someone held back was so much worse.

"Really," Mel said, pressing a finger into the wound. "What is it?"

"If you say you're not infatuated, I believe you." But it didn't seem genuine.

"It's just a crush, and I'm already getting over it," Mel said, injecting as much confidence into her voice as possible.

"No, I believe you," Trinity said, again a tinge of something to her voice, a fakeness.

Mel shook her head, twisting her hands together in her lap to try and keep herself calm, keep herself from falling off the edge and unraveling completely. "Please just tell me. Whatever it is. I can take it. I can't go into a competition not knowing what you're thinking."

"Okay, Mel," Trinity said, more serious. "I just hate to say something nice about Frank Fucking Langdon, but I don't know. I think you might be good for him," she said, then stuck a finger into her mouth while feigning a barfing motion. "Sorry, that just really hurts to say out loud."

"What do you mean, you think I'm good for him?" Mel asked.

Trinity sighed, hesitant to say more nice things about her supposed nemesis. "For some reason, he's nice around you. I don't get it. But that doesn't make it untrue."

"That doesn't have to mean anything," Mel said, something she'd been trying to convince herself of for the past several weeks. Saying it out loud made it sound idiotic.

"I think it does, though," Trinity said, a shrug of her shoulders. "Whether or not you do anything about it. That's up to you. But just know that I will make fun of you for the rest of your life if you fall in love with Frank Langdon."

"Love, I mean—I don't think you have to worry about that. We just met, and I hate to be the one reminding people, but he has a girlfriend," Mel explained. It felt wrong to yearn after a man whose girlfriend she'd never even met. Maybe meeting Abby would dissolve all the feelings if she could place a face to the name. Now, Abby only felt like a disembodied roadblock, getting in the way of what she most wanted.

"No, and that's totally a fair point," Trinity said. A long pause, like Trinity debated whether or not to say the next words aloud. "What if they break up?"

For how much she thought about him, his relationship, and her confusing feelings, she'd never actually stopped to imagine what might happen if he chose to end his relationship with Abby. It left her mouth agape, and she had to look away from Trinity just to stare at the ground beneath her feet, reminding herself that she would not, in fact, float away.

Trinity allowed her a few moments of silence before saying, "You think on that." Then, she stood up and disappeared back into the home-team locker room.

Mel drummed her fingers on the tops of her thighs. Not exactly the best pep-talk, Trinity. In fact, she was more in her head than ever before. Because what would she do? How long was the proper amount of time to wait before admitting feelings to someone who's going through a breakup? She had no idea, no experience in the realm of crushes this strong, this unyielding, and certainly not ones on people with partners.

It didn't matter. That's what she tried to tell herself, over and over again. It didn't matter. It didn't matter. It fucking mattered. It mattered, and she couldn't wrap her head around it. If Langdon were available, if Abby didn't exist—would it even change things? Would she even go after him if the doors were wide open? Yes. The answer had to be yes.

She had to be the kind of person who went for the things she wanted. And in answering that, in knowing that yes, she wanted him and yes she'd go after it, she knew that yes was also the answer to Trinity's question. If Frank and Abby broke up, Mel would make her feelings known. Only then. Only when the door opened. Not before. She wouldn't get in the way of their relationship for her own selfish reasons.

Why did everything, every day, have to be about Frank Langdon? Was her interest in him the only interesting thing about her? It seemed like all she could talk about, and all anyone could ask about. She always had new things to explain to Samira, and Trinity always had more comments to make. No one asked her how classes were going or if Becca was adapting well to the new psychiatric center. Well, it wasn't fair to say no one. Samira did care. But despite that, it still felt as if she existed in a world that solely revolved around the hockey player.

It was always Mel and her feelings for Frank Langdon. Never just Mel. It drove her mad, and she decided, as the team gathered in their locker room, that she would push him from her mind for the night and focus solely on herself, on doing the best thing for her alone and winning as a result.

Decorations covered the blue and silver locker room, each "locker," really just a an open wood cabinet with a shelf near the top and a bar beneath to hang costumes on, contained whatever medals each skater wished to display, as well as a few sparkly outfits and of course, their skate bags. Some lockers contained more decor than the others, more medals, ribbons, trophies. Trinity's, of course, sat overflowing with prizes. She'd won Silver at the US Figure Skating Championships the previous year, second to California's own Yolanda Garcia. On top of that, she'd won Gold several years in a row at Eastern Sectionals. The Winter Olympics were next year, and Trinity would definitely be a skater to watch. Mel only prayed she could be beside her.

But as of now, her locker sat much emptier. She had the raw skill, the ability to push herself further, but her confidence wavered too much for consistency. Besides, this was only her first month on a real team, at a real club. Her locker contained a few prizes, still. Ribbons from smaller competitions, invitationals back home. She'd placed before, even won gold at smaller events. Bronze in her last sectionals, just a few points shy of qualifying for the Championships. This year, she told herself, things would be different.

Trinity gave a more formal pep talk, but Mel could barely focus. Her eyes concentrated so hard on the medals behind the team captain that they began to blur, the shine of gold and silver turning into twinkling lights in her vision.

She heard the words kick some ass and we got this over the roar of brain static and tried to be enthusiastic, she really did. But instead of seeming genuine, only a worried smile appeared, and anyone within a ten-foot radius could tell that something clouded her confidence.

Trinity cornered her while the rest of the team filed out of the room toward the bench. They'd miss introductions—introductions without the captain would be strange, and the captain would probably get a talking to from Collins later, but apparently, Trinity didn't mind taking that risk.

"I know you're overthinking it," Trinity said, taking both of Mel's hands into hers. "But it's going to be okay. You're a kick-ass skater. I've seen it. Whatever you're thinking about can't stop you from having raw talent."

Okay, that kind of helped. Despite the fact that all she could think about was failing, failing, failing. And falling, too. But that kind of went hand in hand. She couldn't say the words out loud, couldn't express what she was feeling properly, the words got jumbled on the track from her mind to her mouth. I'm not good enough.

"You could win, Mel," Trinity said. "I think if you let yourself be confident, if you don't listen to whatever it is you're thinking, you could even beat me, and that's saying something."

"Well, I don't know about that," Mel said awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other.

Trinity just shook her head and laughed, slinging Mel's skate bag over her shoulder next to her own. "Come on," she said, looping one arm through Mel's. "You're going to kill it. I know it."

At least one person had confidence.

At the bench, both girls changed into their skates, keeping the guards on. Collins shot Trinity a look, and Trinity tilted her head toward Mel while raising both brows. Some wordless conversation must have taken place because Trinity got up, making room for Collins, who took the freshly available seat next to her.

The stadium sat about half-full with students and families, the noise a low drone from background conversations. Collins still spoke in a semi-hushed tone, so the other skaters couldn't hear.

"I don't want you to think about winning, today," Collins said, her warm brown eyes finding Mel's as she nodded.

Mel's brows drew together, but she didn't question her coach just yet.

"I want you to work on your confidence instead. I want you to see the crowd, instead of blocking it out. Remember where you are, what you're doing, and perform regardless of that pressure. You might fall," Collins said, nodding reassuringly. "But that's okay. Do you think you can do that?"

She sucked her lips into her mouth and pressed them together. Her brain rattled around in her skull from anxiety, increasing at the idea of facing her fears, her biggest flaws on the ice, head-on. But she nodded, regardless. "Yes," she said, rolling her shoulders back, lifting her head, imitating a person with confidence. "I do."

"Good," Collins said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I do, too."

"Now taking the ice, from Pittsburgh College, please welcome Mel King," the announcer's voice boomed over the speaker system. The details of her short program were listed on the Jumbotron. Mel King. Senior Skater. Short Program to "Savage" by Megan Thee Stallion (Cover).

Standing in the center of the ice, the bright lights—always brighter than the last time, or maybe she'd forgotten—danced off the sequins of her baby blue outfit. She wore an old favorite for comfort, the same one she'd auditioned for Collins' team in. It had a deep V down the front and back, and sheer long sleeves with carefully placed white sequins laid out in floral patterns on the shoulders and down the cutout V-neck. Sequins bloomed at the waist, too, sparkling in the light. The skirt was pinned up to one side, revealing a bit more of her left leg.

She always loved the way she looked in sparkles, in pretty fabrics that shimmered and shone. Soft blue eyeshadow had been dusted across her eyelids, and blush on the high points of her cheeks, paired with a soft neutral lip and a few added sparkles along her cheekbones. Her blonde hair was French braided back into a bun and dotted with rhinestones. Another person stood on that ice, so completely changed from the day to day, from the messy ponytails and slouchy jeans. This person could do anything. Would.

The music started, and she lifted her eyes to look at the crowd, meeting eyes and internalizing their view. They looked at her. Everyone looked, and that was okay. She could handle it. As she began, letting her arms move to the music before building speed for her first jump sequence, her eyes immediately found him in the crowd. Like magnets, always drawn to one another. Forever finding the other, no matter the space between, no matter the circumstances of their entanglement. They simply could not keep their eyes off each other. Even if they tried. And god, they tried.

Chapter Text

There was no world in which their eyes didn't catch. No world in which a smile didn't come to his lips, one of pride and a fair share of admiration. She looked radiant, emitting her own light out there on the ice. No one else could capture as much of his attention if they tried. No one could pull his eyes away from her.

He'd seen the other twirl girls in their fancy outfits covered in sparkles and glitter and all that crap and paid no mind to it. But her. God. It could have only been a second, maybe two, that their eyes lingered on one another. During which, he knew as much as he knew his own name, that she saw him too. It felt like an eternity. In all those shitty romantic comedies Abby made him watch, there was always this moment. A moment where the world dissolved around the couple and everything felt explosive and raw and real. A revelation.

Frank Langdon passed those moments off as movie magic, as complete and total bullshit. Until now, looking at her over rows of audience members that didn't matter, weren't there. He only saw her, and he thought, lamely, that maybe he kind of understood rom-coms, and immediately afterward thought, yeah. I'm so fucked.

And then she started skating. The song played in the background, and she followed some choreography he didn't really understand. The announcers gave the play-by-play, but he was too zoned in on her to focus on anything else.

Each time she flew through the air, he felt as if he couldn't breathe, waiting for her to come back down, only to erupt in claps and cheers when she landed. It took a second for him to realize the song that played over her routine, and he couldn't help but chuckle under his breath at the more classical cover of a song he'd heard countless times at parties throughout the past few years.

It only led him down a path he shouldn't have followed, the path of Mel's secret, free, fun-loving self. The side she didn't show others often. He got the feeling there was a lot more to be learned about her, a lot more to like, too.

Again, it was a dangerous path to walk, especially when he had no intentions of either a). leaving his girlfriend, or b). cheating on her. But a man could appreciate the beauty of a woman from a distance, right? It wasn't like they'd have a repeat of the season kickoff party. They wouldn't find themselves in each other's arms again. They could be friends, and he could want but not act, and that was totally normal. Or at least that's what he told himself to sleep at night. To sleep, and to dream of things that he wouldn't let himself have in the light of day.

The problem of his wanting didn't matter anyway. They were friends. Mel saw him as a friend. And even if she didn't, well, there was still the whole girlfriend thing. Which was beginning to feel like a roadblock instead of a real person he was supposed to be in love with. And why couldn't he just dump her again? Responsibility? Fear of his parents' disappointment? Fear of being alone? Of leaving Abby and crawling to Mel on hands and knees, only to face rejection? It was a shitty thing to think, yes, to keep Abby on the back-burner so he'd have someone. But they did it to each other, and that—apparently—made it okay.

She picked up speed on the ice, gaining momentum for her next jump sequence—as the announcers called it. "Her most difficult one in the program. We've heard Mel King is working on adding a triple axel to this routine ahead of the US Figure Skating Championship. But I believe it's just a double we'll see today."

In response, the second announcer said, "Yes, here she goes, into the triple toe loop."

Langdon lost the ability to breathe once more, as her toe pick catches the ice and she rockets upward, rotating three times. But the breath doesn't come back when she lands, as the announcers speak, "And into the double axel. Hopefully a triple in the near future if she can manage it."

He knew before it happened. Felt their roles reverse, saw himself pummeled on the ice, the sound of his bone snapping under pressure, and her in the stands watching on in fear. She jumped into the air once more, and the rest of the stadium held their breath alongside him. It happened too fast, and he wouldn't know how to describe it if it weren't for the announcer saying, "Looks like she stepped out," just as Mel's knee hit the ice, followed shortly by her palms.

A few gasps echoed around the pavilion, but Langdon was the only one who shot to his feet. But she was okay. This wasn't hockey, she wasn't going to break any bones just by falling. To all her immense credit, she got up and slipped right back into the routine with a smile on her face.

He sat back down, and Mateo dropped a hand onto his shoulder with a chuckle, but Langdon could only shake his head. "Didn't know figure skating was so fucking intense."

"Yeah, man. Maybe you should be nicer to the twirl girls," Mateo said.

They both just laughed in response, like, of course we're not going to do that. Obviously, their friendships with Mel and Victoria notwithstanding.

After her routine, Mel skated toward the boards, toward the rest of her team on the bench. Langdon just couldn't help himself. It was a friend thing to compliment someone's performance, right? God, would he always assess his every action around her, determining whether or not something crossed the line he drew in the sand between them? A line he didn't want to draw but inevitably had anyway.

Langdon, Samira, and a girl he didn't recognize all made it to the boards at the same time, just as Mel stepped off the ice, slipping the guards back on her skates one at a time. The girl he didn't recognize bounced up and down with excitement. "That was so good, and you made full rotations in the axle before falling, so I don't think the penalty will even be that large. Obviously, the one point for the fall, but—" she said.

"Thanks, Becca," Mel said, a little out of breath. She reached for the water bottle on the bench and chugged a few sips before becoming a real person again. "Thanks so much for coming," she said, hugging Samira over the boards.

"Always. I always want to see you perform. And you were fantastic," Samira said, both of them smiling brightly at each other.

Mel worked her way down the line of three, landing at Langdon, and all of a sudden, the words disappeared from his tongue. He hadn't planned on there being an audience, not one that included her best friend and her sister. The two most important people in her life. He opened his mouth, forming his lips around the beginnings of words without sound.

Did Mel King have the Frank Langdon tongue-tied? In what world? Finally, he found his footing and said. "You were incredible." He'd attempted to say, in a cool friend kind of way, but the amount of effort put into making the words sound platonic only made them sound, well, full of admiration at best and romantic at worst.

But Mel just smiled, looking up at him with big brown eyes. He got lost in a haze, looking at her. All the sparkles, the makeup, the dress. He couldn't concentrate. Maybe it was because she was in her element, doing something she clearly loved.

All those thoughts were cut off by Samira's question. "Free programs tonight too, yeah?"

Mel nodded. "Mhm," she said, peeling her eyes away from Langdon. "All our shorts and then all our frees. Break in between, I think."

"Sounds like a long night," Samira said.

Why was Frank still standing there like an awkward fourth wheel? He should have gone back to his seat already. Unfortunately, he tended to lack common sense when it came to her.

"It will be, are you sure you're okay hanging with Becca here?" Mel asked.

Samira smiled, beaming at Becca beside her. "Of course. We're your number one fans after all. Gotta stick around to cheer you on."

"Best I'll do is bronze, with that fall and some of the other mistakes I made, but—" she paused, either losing her train of thought or deciding it wasn't all worth explaining. "It doesn't matter. It wasn't about winning," she said, smiling. Proud of herself. Langdon could see it in her eyes, the way she held herself.

Samira and Becca went back to their seats with one last hug as the music for the next skater started—that Chappell Roan song he'd been hearing everywhere lately, which, of course, was for Santos.

"Great job, Mel. Really," Langdon said, before taking a step back, hands tight on the handles of his crutches, sweaty.

But she just smiled again, that kind and patient smile he was starting to become familiar with. "Thanks, Frank," she said, and his heart skipped a beat. Frank. A name so utterly unfit for a college kid with a drug problem, but when she said it—he found it easier to like.

It was much harder to sit still for the rest of the competition with Mel only a few feet in front of him. His eyes stayed firmly planted on the back of her head, waiting to see if she'd turned around. Wanting their eyes to connect one more time. He barely even watched Santos skate to Chappell Roan in a flaming red jumpsuit, completely opposite of what Mel had worn. Santos looked deadly and a little bit evil, while Mel had looked like a princess straight out of a fairy tale.

When Victoria took the ice, Mateo sat forward and Langdon saw himself. That must have been what he looked like, his eyes following Mel around the ice and gasping when she jumped. Mateo looked like an idiot. That should have snapped him out of it, made it easier to ignore his thoughts, made it easier to stop looking at Mel. But instead, he found that he didn't care what he looked like, what other people thought.

Maybe that should have meant something. Honestly, there was a long line of actions and thoughts that should have meant something. But he kept ignoring the signs, holding his hands over his eyes to avoid disaster, to keep himself from driving straight into an explosion. That's what breaking up with Abby would be. An explosion. And he just couldn't deal with that right now.

They watched the rest of the competition, only clapping for the girls on the Pitt team and making snide remarks about the staters from the other teams—many of which the hockey team had rivalries with as well—so it all worked out.

The announcers declared the end of the short programs, tallying up the scores and putting Santos firmly in first place and Mel solidly in seventh. Victoria sat even lower around twelfth, with the other colleges filling out the ranks in between. After twenty minutes of downtime—not nearly enough time, especially since Mel flitted away with the rest of the team to the locker rooms, leaving Langdon with Mateo, who wouldn't shut up about Victoria—the teams returned to the ice.

Once more, Mel took the stage, and once more, like clockwork—Langdon couldn't look away. This time, for her free program, she wore a unitard with draped fabric cascading from shoulder to hip with a flowy skirt. The colors reminded him of clouds or cotton candy. Her hair and makeup looked the same, but that didn't keep him from staring.

"Now, Mel King would need an almost perfect score on her free program to compete with the consistently fantastic routines Trinity Santos gives us," one of the announcers said.

The other agreed. "And from what we've seen from her today, I'm uncertain if that's going to be possible. Unfortunately, Mel King has not shown us a standard worthy of the National team she, like many other skaters, strives to be on."

Langdon had half a mind to stand up and start booing, to throw his bottle of water across the ice and directly at them. But, apparently, figure skating was not that kind of sport. A lot less fighting than hockey, but somehow it still managed to capture his attention. That was definitely thanks to the sport alone, and of course, had nothing to do with the girl. No. Frank Langdon could like skating. He did. It wasn't just Mel King.

Lies, but pretending kept him from losing his mind completely.

"She's got some very difficult jump combinations in this routine, but we're very excited to see if she can pull them off."

"She'll pull them off," Langdon grumbled under his breath, eliciting a laugh from Mateo.

The music started, Vivaldi's "Autumn" soft and warm but building to something dramatic and chilling. But the music didn't matter. Nothing else mattered, and he hated that. He hated having these thoughts over and over again, despite how much he tried to convince himself that he didn't care about her. The bottom line was that he could not care about her, could not have her. And maybe that made it all the more tempting, maybe that made him want her even more. And so, the whole thing was just a giant fucking mess he couldn't crawl out of.

Like before, each jump had him on the edge of his seat, waiting with bated breath. Jumps he couldn't identify, barely knew the words for, but wanted her to land. Just like she wanted him to succeed with his schoolwork, he wanted her to succeed in this, wanted her to win.

Maybe it was lost hope after her fall, but he didn't know enough about figure skating to know for sure. And either way, win or lose, he'd cheer her on. She landed her last jump combination to the sound of the roaring crowd, Langdon's cheers louder than anyone else's.

Chapter Text

Mel King could hear Langdon's cheers from the stands and had to put in actual, real effort to keep her eyes from drifting over to him. Instead, she kept her eyes locked firmly on Samira and Becca, who jumped up and down, clapping and yelling. Becca waved with her entire arm and a bright smile on her face. It made her smile, too, to return the wave, to have her sister there. Samira offering to bring Becca would be something Mel remembered for a long while. It wasn't often she had so many people in her corner, so many people willing to help her.

Caring for Becca had been a full-time job for years after their mother died. After switching schools and getting Becca placed in a fantastic care program, the load was a lot lighter. But still, she was used to being the primary caretaker. The one who looked out for everyone else. The one who arranged schedules and pick-up times and aligned all the plans to make sure Becca would be well taken care of, no matter what.

It was strange to have these new people in her life who were willing to look after her, too. Even if she was confident that she didn't actually need looking after.

She could have stood there for hours, basking in the applause and feeling the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins, all the confidence of finishing a routine that she'd needed desperately at the start. If only she could remember it, this moment, for the next competition. She tried to internalize it, put all those smiling faces into her pockets, tried to remember the sounds of their applause like permanent background noise she could record and play later.

The moment in the spotlight ended, and she skated off the ice and toward the bench, where she plopped down next to Victoria as Trinity readied to take the stage. Despite the fall during her short program, she felt good. Really good. Proud of herself. Even Collins shot her a smile and a clearly complimentary nod before they both turned forward, waiting for the score. It appeared on the jumbotron as the announcers said it. "83.61. I believe that's a new record for the senior skater. With her 45.72 from the short program, this puts her at—," there was a pause as they tabulated the total score, "—129.33."

Collins placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Really great job, Mel." They'd have to wait and see where it landed her. That was the worst part of going first: watching your name fall down the list after every performance.

Mel had done exactly what was asked of her—one of many of her special skills, taking specific instructions and implementing them. Sure, it cost her a nasty fall during the short program, but she had felt more confident during both programs, had managed to shake some of her self-consciousness away. It would not be permanent, but something she'd have to continue working on. Unfortunately, her next opportunity to do so would be the Eastern Sectionals, and she simply could not risk a fall at that event, could not jeopardize her potential spot at Nationals.

Once more, on the bench, she struggled not to turn around to look back at Frank Langdon. He existed like a fly buzzing around her ear. Except, even more unfortunately, she didn't want to swat him away. She wasn't annoyed, didn't wish to squish him under the flat of her shoe. Instead, she wanted to put him in a jar, if only to keep him around. She'd done that with caterpillars as a kid, even going as far as to set them up with little environments, sticks, and leaves sourced right from where she'd found them.

Only one time did she turn, under the guise of looking at Samira and Becca, diagonally behind her, in order to catch Frank's eyes briefly before turning back. A pressed, tight smile lit up his face immediately, and she couldn't help but let it reflect on hers, too.

Trinity looked beautiful in a black skirted unitard with wing-like sparkling cutouts on her shoulder blades that made her look like some kind of dark angel. Her performance to "Mars, Bringer of War" was just as stunning as the times Mel had seen it in practice. Practically perfect in every way. She nailed every step sequence, every jump, and inevitably secured her first-place position. At least, first over Mel for now. As more of the skaters performed, the distance between Trinity and Mel grew, Trinity keeping a firm hold on first place and Mel slipping further down in the rankings.

Trinity and two other girls, one from Pittsburgh University and one from Penn State, filled out the top three. But surprisingly, Mel just barely missed the podium. She didn't mind sitting in fourth, didn't mind leaving without a medal or a trophy. She still felt accomplished, proud of herself. And even more so, capable and ready for the next competition.

Her support squad greeted her with the same excitement, Becca throwing her arms around Mel as soon as she emerged from the locker room, having changed out of her sparkling dress and back into her miles more comfortable tracksuit.

"You were amazing, Mel! A new record, I can't believe it!" Becca said. "Some of their point deductions seemed a bit unfair, but I think you're going to crush it at Eastern Sectionals, and I can't wait to see it!" Her words were a bit jumbled, strung together with excitement. "And your dress, you looked like such a pretty princess."

Frank couldn't approach soundlessly, due to the crutches, so she heard him coming from rows away, struggling down the steps. Looking at him, she almost missed Samira's compliments entirely.

"Agreed," she was saying to Becca, "And that song, Vivaldi? You should do something to Swan Lake, it would be stunning."

"I'll have to keep that in mind," Mel laughed under her breath. Swan Lake was a pretty popular choice, especially in the minor circuits. Someone else at Eastern Sectionals would almost certainly be doing it, probably dressed in white too. Trinity had plenty of criticisms for people who chose typical, overused songs for their routines. Hence Megan thee Stallion.

"Hey," Frank said, a little bit out of breath from his trip down the bleachers on crutches. Mateo was no longer at his side. If she had to guess, he was probably hanging around Victoria. She wasn't entirely sure what was going on with them, but it seemed less like friendship than whatever she had with Frank. Not that she had anything with him, really.

"Hey," Mel said back, and that split second of awkwardness fell over all four of them. The awkwardness that always fell between the two of them, except now Samira and Becca got to experience it for themselves, which, well, made everything all the more awkward.

All three of them looked to her in the silence. Frank's eyes shifted between her and everyone else, his mouth opening once before closing again—probably just as uncertain what the right thing to say was.

The silence didn't last too long, though, because Becca quickly chimed in with, "Who's that?" as she leaned forward to look past Samira. "What happened to your leg?"

"Oh," Mel said, looking between Becca and Frank and immediately, immediately finding a ton of reasons to worry. All the things she'd told Becca about her feelings, about the night of the party, about, well, a lot of things. The girl wasn't exactly great at keeping secrets. If she wanted to say something, she would say it—which was, of course, part of her charm, as well, but it didn't make the situation any less terrifying. "This is Langdon," she said, gesturing toward him but keeping enough distance that she wouldn't be tempted to reach out and touch him. "I told you about Langdon, remember?"

Becca nodded. "Yep!" she said while nodding, looking at Frank like she was trying to puzzle him out. "My sister tutors you. She's really smart, you're lucky to have her."

A blush spread on Mel's face fast, and she chuckled under her breath, avoiding Langdon's eyes.

"Yeah, I am," Langdon said, which only made the fairly pink blush deepen into a red. "Nice to meet you," he said with a smile, leaning on one crutch. "You must be Becca, right?" he asked, and Mel's mouth dropped open with the smallest gasp. It didn't mean anything. People remembered the names of their friends' family members all the time. Especially people like Frank Langdon. Totally normal. There was no reason at all for the blush that refused to leave her cheeks. She tried to will it away, an impossible feat.

"That's me!" Becca said, her hand shooting out for him to shake. He took it, letting one crutch fall against his side. "What happened to your leg?" she asked again, when the question went too long without an answer.

"He broke it," Mel interjected. "Playing hockey. He's the team captain, isn't that cool?"

"I was the team captain. Not sure I'm going to get that title back from Mateo, but we'll see," Langdon said, trying not to sound defensive.

Becca didn't care about any of that, though, because she immediately asked, "Which bone? Your fibula or your tibia?" Mel had taken an anatomy course a few semesters back, and Becca had really enjoyed learning all the names of the bones alongside her.

"Tibia, a transverse fracture, I think they called it," Langdon said.

"Wow, that must have really hurt," Becca said.

Frank nodded, and all the while, Mel and Samira exchanged glances, Mel's worried eye contact provoking Samira's action.

"Yeah, it did," Frank said.

"Hey, Becca. Wanna go grab some snacks at the cafe next door?" asked Samira. It wasn't exactly what Mel had been hoping for, as it involved leaving her alone with Frank instead of getting them all out of there together, but at least it separated Becca and Langdon before Becca could say something like oh you must be the one my sister talks about wanting to kiss.

"Nice meeting you, Becca," he said as they walked away.

"What are you doing here, Langdon?" Mel asked, as soon as they had a second alone. She hadn't meant for the words to come off with the hint of anger that escaped her lips, but once they were out in the open, she couldn't take them back.

As much as seeing him made her smile, made her chest flutter, she also didn't want to see him, didn't want him to intrude on the space that had so far proven to be Langdon-free. Her mind was already so full of him, and she worked so hard to keep it that way. Him showing up didn't exactly help. Not that she wasn't grateful, she was. It was just all so complicated.

A bit of a pained expression crossed his face, his brows drawing together for a quick moment before they settled.

"Mateo invited me," he said, that cool, charming, doesn't-care-about-anything facade falling into place. Not one he used often in her presence, but she could still spot it. The person everyone else thought him to be versus the one he was when they were alone. He stopped meeting her eyes, and the warm kindness disappeared from his tone. Had her words truly hurt him that badly? "He wanted to see Victoria, so."

Maybe their friendship was doomed. With her feelings, maybe they would never exist on common ground. Her, always pushing him away out of fear, and him not understanding exactly why.

"Oh," she said, her teeth grinding as she cursed herself for her prior words again and again. Neither of them looked at each other, and Mel longed to be out of the pavilion and next to Samira and Becca once more if only to escape the awkward situation she'd constructed. Her hands twisted together in front of her abdomen, and Langdon's eyes trailed down her arms, lingering on her interlocked fingers as she chewed on her lower lip. Just rip it off. Like a band-aid, she thought. "I'm glad you're here," she said.

They could only exist in two separate scenarios in her mind. Her, trying to ignore her crush while being his friend and ultimately failing or her pushing him away and again, ultimately failing. The second always led back to the first, and too much of the first led to the second. A vicious cycle she wouldn't be able to escape until the semester ended. And even then, he would still be around, even if she stopped tutoring him.

He softened at that, a slight smile appearing on his lips that made things feel more comfortable right off the bat. "Yeah?" he said, like he needed a confirmation to make sure he wasn't going crazy.

"Yeah," she said, with a nod. "I am." After all, she needed to work on her confidence, her audience appeal (or sex appeal as Trinity would call it), and Langdon's presence at events gave her someone to focus on—even if that same presence sometimes shook the very confidence she tried to improve. He upped the challenge rating, so to speak, but if she could manage to pull off a routine under his gaze, she could do anything.

His smile grew. "Okay. Cool," he said. "You were great, by the way."

"Thanks," Mel said, meeting his ice blue eyes. How could she not feel the way she did about him when he looked at her like that, when his compliments sounded so genuine?

They stood there for a few seconds, another lull in the conversation, neither of them making the move to end it.

Finally, Langdon broke the tension. "Well, I don't want to keep you," he said.

"Right," Mel said, as if suddenly remembering she had to meet Becca and Samira over at the coffee shop, like she hadn't known the whole time, like she hadn't been searching her brain for something else to talk about in order to keep him there in front of her. "I'll see you Monday morning?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said with a firm nod.

She turned on her heel and fast walked away from him without another word, desperate for her brain to start working correctly again. She wanted him, she didn't. She knew how to talk to him, she didn't. She felt confident, she didn't. The truth of the matter was, Frank Langdon made everything a hot, steaming mess.

Mel plopped down in a booth next to Becca and across from Samira, who looked at her with a semi-concerned expression and one raised eyebrow. Mel, sick of feeling like this—all confused and incapable of relying on her brain to make logical and consistent decisions—shook her head and said, "I don't want to talk about it."

Samira, ever understanding and always quick to be the best friend in the known universe, nodded and promptly changed the subject. "Fourth place, that's huge, right?"

"I think you should have gotten third," Becca commented with a knowing smirk. Her understanding of the point deductions and challenge ratings rivaled Mel's.

"And I think you have a future in judging skating competitions," Mel said with a chipper smile, lacing her fingers through Becca's, anchoring them both in the present.

It was much easier to stop thinking about Langdon as soon as she was out of his orbit and around friends. But instead of that complicated combination of crushing and wishing to push him away getting all jumbled up in her head, she only felt a slight sense of embarrassment at her actions. Samira and Becca's company, however, helped to keep her from spiraling, kept her from remembering over and over again every single word she'd said, kept her from over-analyzing her own actions and his, to death.

Chapter Text

Langdon lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He had the whole thing memorized by this point, could still see the cracks when he closed his eyes. Beside him, Abby sat upright, scrolling through her phone and leaning over every once in a while to show him some TikTok that he had to force a laugh at.

He felt numb. He'd popped a few Xanax before Abby showed up. Maybe one too many. It was difficult to care about the dosage so much anymore—not when taking too little left him anxious and reeling, the pain in his chest exploding through the rest of his body. He was on his third refill. This is the last one, his doctor had said, pressing over the phone, before giving him instructions on how to start tapering so it would be easier to handle.

Of course, he hadn't listened to those instructions. He was already halfway through the bottle, and his dose had only gone up instead of down. The .25mg pills were tiny, ineffective on their own. Four made the pain go away. A full milligram. If only the feeling lasted more than an hour or two. In a few days, the bottle would be empty. He didn't think about the future, though. Instead, rooted himself in the present, not allowing any worries about what could happen.

Abby tossed her phone to the side and lay down next to him, dropping her head onto his shoulder. Maybe even a few months ago, he would have reached a hand up to tangle in her hair, would have dragged his fingers along her arm. Now he just lay there, no reaction to her touch. It stoked nothing in him.

She lifted her head and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Nothing. Then, batted her false lashes at him, slipped one leg between his, careful to avoid his cast. She lay half atop him, angling her face up for a kiss. He looked into her eyes, trying to find something, anything that made him happy.

He didn't hate her, didn't even dislike her really. He hated himself, more than anything. Hated the person he was and would always be, hated that he couldn't find it within himself to love her anymore.

But he kissed her anyway. Not because it was the right thing to do or not even really because he wanted to, but because deep down—unrecognizable to him—he was lonely.

Moving his lips slowly against hers did stoke some sort of feeling in his chest. Not love, but a bit of ignited desire. He was just a man, after all. She hummed against his lips with delight, placing her hand against the side of his face and propping herself up slightly to hover over him, deepening the kiss.

He slipped a hand under her shirt, settling it on the small of her back. Her hand dropped from his face and trailed downward, dipping into the band of his sweatpants. He should have stopped her, but didn't. Instead, letting her move her hand up and down his length while his eyes fluttered closed.

With his eyes closed, it was easy to pretend the situation was different. That he wasn't with Abby at all, but someone else. The thought alone shocked him out of the haze of letting himself enjoy something he didn't really want.

He jerked away from Abby, jumping out of bed. "Fuck," he said as he put too much weight on his bad leg. Abby looked horrified, sitting back on her ankles with wide eyes and a mouth half-agape.

"What's wrong?" Abby asked, clearly annoyed at his blatant rejection. People didn't reject Abby.

"Nothing, nothing," he said. He put one hand flat on the desk, leaning his weight on it. With the other hand, he pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, trying to eliminate the thoughts of Mel doing that to him. Unfortunately, once his brain got started, it was hard to stop it. And, boy, did it fucking spiral.

Abby gestured toward the bulge in his sweatpants. "Definitely doesn't seem like there's a problem." She slid off the bed and walked toward him with a smirk on her face, then looped one arm around his neck and batted those lashes at him again, tossing her auburn hair over her shoulder with a coy smile. "Should we…?" she asked, cocking her head to the side, reminding him of all the reasons why he'd been drawn to her in the first place. That raw sex appeal, the way that she could make him want her with only a look. Except now, he could only see the petite blonde in her place.

"I think you should go," he said, words firm, taking a step back from her, letting her arm drop between them.

She blinked a few times in rapid succession, taken aback by his words. She laughed because he must have been joking, then drew her brows together and said, "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. I am," he said.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked, grabbing her coat and bag and storming out of the room without waiting for a response.

That was something he'd been trying to figure out his entire life. Clearly, it was something. Never happy enough with what he had, always disappointing the people around him. Eventually, he knew he would let Mel down, too.

Langdon limped over to the door, slamming it the second she left. His fists clenched at his sides as tight as possible before relaxing once more with a deep exhale.

"How's it going, Langdon?" Whitaker asked, as soon as Langdon came to a halt in front of him, the winter complex's small gym where they'd been meeting for the last month and a half. It was almost the end of October, and he didn't feel any fucking better. In fact, he felt much, much worse. He'd skipped the Xanax that morning, on account of the bottle being practically empty, and muscled through the pain in his chest. He had to get over it sometime, somehow, right? Why not today?

Langdon could only grumble in response, sleep deprived and anxious, annoyed already at whatever bullshit his child psychiatrist had in store for him. "Still hurts like a bitch," he said. Again, not explaining the why of the matter. The why being Mel King. Sure, it probably wasn't exactly right to blame it all on her, but she definitely accounted for a good portion of it. All the weight he'd put on it while taking care of her, and catapulting himself away from his actual girlfriend the previous day. He still couldn't get those thoughts out of his head, couldn't get them to leave him alone. They'd even begun sneaking into his dreams. Mel King was a poison, infecting every part of his life in a way he couldn't so easily fix.

So yeah. He blamed her for the extra leg pain he'd been experiencing. Even if he'd never actually say it to her face, could never even bring himself to admit to her that he'd hurt himself for her. Because it was for. Not because of. At least, maybe the first time. The second time, well, there was really no one to blame but himself for that. Himself and his stupid, horny brain.

Another problem with Mel. Before the kickoff party, he'd found her cute. Adorable. But after? Something changed at that party, and suddenly she was sexy and alluring, and he couldn't stop looking at her eyes and her lips and her chest. God, he was a fucking idiot.

Now, Mel King and the pain in his chest vied for first place and all his attention. Sometimes, thinking about Mel and her soft, kind voice made the pain start to subside. And sometimes, thinking about her crushing at beer pong and wearing Trinity's clothes, made the pain so much worse.

"Sorry to hear that," Whitaker said, snapping Langdon out of the haze that more frequently fell over his eyes as he got lost in his own world.

His brain couldn't decide if he was relaxed or angry, calm or upset. It was like every synapse fired in a strange order, shooting different messages every few seconds. He could only shrug, overwhelmed by everything happening internally, that he could barely focus on the external.

"You okay otherwise?" Whitaker asked.

"I'm fine," Langdon snapped. A bit of sweat started to bead at his hairline, and his hands tensed and untensed, forming into fists and then relaxing again, over and over. Whitaker looked at him as if under a microscope, one brow raised, and a bit of concern obvious in the way he pursed his lips. Langdon hated it. To be under scrutiny, especially from the scrawny little kid who knew absolutely nothing about him.

"You sure?" Whitaker asked, brows still scrunched together in the center, clearly not believing a word that Langdon had to say, which, of course, only served to piss Langdon off even more. And the best move, the one he should have taken, was to get up and leave. If it really pissed him off so much, he should have stormed off. It wasn't a great idea, obviously, but it was better than what he did, which was yell.

"Yeah, man. I'm fucking peachy," Langdon said, his voice inching up in volume. "I broke my leg, I can't play hockey, my girlfriend sucks, and I'm pretty sure I'm still failing all my classes. But yeah, man. I'm doing fucking great. What the fuck is wrong with you?" He paused for a second, giving Whitaker the space to respond. When he didn't, Langdon continued. "Dumbass fucking question." He grabbed his crutches, struggling for a second to get up from the bench, which only pissed him off even more.

He didn't look at Whitaker, didn't see the look of pure concern crossing his physical therapist's face, didn't see him trying to put together puzzle pieces when he didn't have the final picture.

"What's going on?" Whitaker asked, trying one more time even though it was probably worthless.

Langdon, with his crutches tucked under his armpits, took an assisted step toward Whitaker. "You're a doctor, you figure it out," he scoffed. "And if you do manage it, make sure to let me know."

Because despite taking the pills for over a month, escalating his dose without doctor permission, and skipping it cold turkey that morning, he didn't really know exactly what was wrong with him. Didn't know withdrawal symptoms kicked his ass, didn't know he loved Mel King, didn't really know a goddamn thing about himself. And that pissed him off, too.

"I'm actually not a doctor—" Whitaker said.

"No shit, bro. You're in undergrad," Langdon said, more annoyed than anything else. He didn't actually hate the kid, but needed someone to take his anger out on. Unfortunately, Whitaker was the only one in his path at the moment.

"Are you ready to proceed with our session? I have some new stuff planned for today that I think will really help you out."

Had his storming out not been obvious enough? Whitaker's program was bullshit, the whole thing. He didn't feel any better. Not about the injury or his time off the ice. In fact, everything felt worse. Maybe that was just the consequences of his own actions sinking in over time, but blaming it on someone else made him feel better.

"Fuck your session," Langdon said, leaning forward a bit while keeping himself upright on the crutches. His hands clenched tight around the rubberized bars, and he had half a mind to point one of the crutches in the kid's face.

"If you leave, I have to tell Coach Robinovitch," Whitaker said, grimacing, like he really didn't want to get Langdon's coach involved but had to out of obligation.

Despite his aggravation and desire to get back on the ice, he couldn't find it within himself to actually care about Whitaker's half-hearted threat to tell Robby. He wasn't going to get back on the ice anytime soon anyway, so did skipping one session really put him in jeopardy of losing anything more? It didn't seem possible, anyway, to lose more than he already had. What could Robby really do to him? Kick him off the team permanently? That didn't seem like such a huge loss anymore, not when this was his senior year, when it already seemed like he'd never join the team again anyway. If he managed to graduate, that would be it. Hockey would be over. And his pipe dream of joining some renowned team would probably never happen either, so. None of it mattered.

"Tell him, then," Langdon said, starting his slow, shameful walk away from Whitaker, who only took a few quick steps to keep up with him, keeping pace as Langdon walked out of the gym and into the hall.

"I know we aren't friends," Whitaker started.

Only to be interrupted by Langdon's, "Then why are you following me?"

Whitaker huffed, throwing his hands out to emphasize the importance of the situation. But he looked just as lost as Langdon, just another kid who didn't know what the fuck he was doing.

"I just want to help," Whitaker said.

"I don't need help," Langdon said sharply. Especially not from some child who didn't know anything about his situation.

But Whitaker didn't stop. He continued following Langdon until they were at the door of the pavilion. "Have you been taking medication, any pain meds or anything?" he asked.

This stopped Langdon in his tracks. Not because he feared being caught—that didn't matter to him in the slightest—but because he hated people sticking their noses where they didn't belong. Especially into his life. His problems. Whatever those were.

And the anger he felt didn't quiet as he turned on the heel of his good leg to face Whitaker one last time before exiting the building. "No. Can you hook me up? Some pain meds would be nice, actually."

"I'm not—"

"Yeah, you're not a doctor," Langdon said, scowling. "Stop acting like mine."

"I'm just trying to help," Whitaker said, as Langdon pushed open the door with his shoulder.

"Don't need it. Didn't ask for it," Langdon said, calling the words over his shoulder before letting the door slam closed behind him.

Chapter Text

Sitting across from Langdon in that small room on the third floor of the library, Mel tried to get work done, tried to add new, complex, and well-thought-out sentences to her essay on the human psyche. However, as per usual, thinking about anything in Frank Langdon's presence served to be almost impossible. For the past two months of tutoring, their friendship had gone through several hurdles.

It started on a level playing field. Her minor crush and his kindness. Then, the party intensified her crush, and Abby voiced her discomfort. There'd been a hitch there, but it seemed to settle out quickly afterward. Now, however, they were back to that awkwardness, to the inability to exist around one another. And she couldn't help but think that he just didn't like her anymore. At all. Even as a friend. That warm way in which he'd previously spoken to her evaporated as if it never existed, and now he hardly even looked at her. This was worse than the last time, when she'd been able to confront him about it.

Now it was just silent and even worse, weird. What had she done? She racked her brain, thinking about their every encounter and coming up blank. Things had been okay at the invitational. A bit awkward, but still friendly. Now, he hadn't lifted his eyes to hers once, had hardly even said hello. Maybe she was overthinking it all—a common occurrence. But neither did she want to overstep any invisible boundaries.

She couldn't help it. Closing the lid of her laptop, loudly, to catch his attention, she said, "Hey—" waiting to see if he'd look up. He didn't. "Frank?" she asked, and when he still didn't answer, she continued, "Are you okay?"

Because if it wasn't her—and she couldn't think of a single reason why it would be—it must have been something going on with him. Something she didn't quite understand, but wanted to.

Langdon didn't look up immediately. He kept typing on his laptop. Working on homework or something else, she didn't know, hadn't checked in. When he finally did look up, something was clearly wrong. His eyes were ringed with redness and glazed over. His lips were turned down permanently in a scowl, and he didn't really look at her, but through her, past her. Engaging in the conversation but not really, either.

"What?" he said, absentmindedly, his brows drawn together.

She didn't know why she did it, exactly. But the look in his eyes worried her more than anything, and she couldn't figure him out from all the way across the table. She rolled her chair around the table, closer to him. "I asked if you were doing okay."

"Oh," he said, still not really meeting her eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine. I guess."

The wound was so clearly open, and she wanted to pick at it, to prod at the pulsing skin and figure out how to heal it. She had a toolkit in her back pocket, one she used with Becca and even herself on hard days, but she worried her methods might feel condescending. Her fingers intertwined as a result of her own self-consciousness, her desire to help versus her fear of overstepping, twisting together tightly.

"Are you sure?" she asked, raising one brow. "You seem kind of, well, out of it."

His eyes finally lifted to hers, as if seeing her for the first time that day, despite existing in the same place for the past hour or so.

"No, I'm—" he said, pausing, thinking, deciding whether or not to lie to her again, probably.

She wanted so badly to reach out and grab his hand, to provide him with an anchor to the real world. She didn't, wouldn't let herself. Instead, kept her hands twisted together tightly to prevent herself from doing so. And she waited, listening, giving him space to speak.

He continued looking at her, eyes boring into hers without accompanying words. He ran his tongue along his lower lip and tore his eyes away, finally. "Just a lot going on," he said.

"Okay," Mel said, with a nod of acknowledgement. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked. If his plate was full or if he was overwhelmed, maybe there were things she could take over to lessen the load.

Silence fell between them again as Langdon tried to find words. He seemed so, so out of it, as if he was in a haze or half asleep. She struggled to keep his eye contact, always watching them drift away for a moment before eventually crawling back. Langdon shook his head. "No," he said. "I don't think so. It's not really—it's nothing you can help with."

Could Abby? She hated herself immediately for that thought, for hating that she wasn't his first choice, the person he went to when he needed something. But why would she be? She was just his tutor, and at most, his friend.

"Okay," she said, trying not to let her own disappointment come out through the word. It certainly wouldn't help him feel better. "Well, if you change your mind—"

"I won't," he said sharply, cutting off her offer. Her mouth dropped open for a second before she snapped it closed, her lips curling into a frown she couldn't have hidden if she wanted to. But even if he saw it, he didn't acknowledge it, and he definitely didn't apologize.

Silence, again. So loud.

Suddenly, she wished she hadn't moved closer. In fact, she wished she were anywhere else. At home, next to Becca on the couch, watching a movie that made both of them feel better. Stretching in the dance studio with Samira, listening to her talk about Jack Abbot.

But no. She was there, sitting in front of Langdon, his eyes still falling into hers without feeling. Like a zombie. And she couldn't look away, either.

He shifted in his seat, rolling his left shoulder a few times and then letting out a labored breath, swallowing thick, and finally, finally averting his eyes. But it wasn't the relief she thought it would be. In fact, the worry only mounted twice over as he let out long breaths.

"Frank?" she said, dipping her head to catch his downcast eyes. What would it hurt to reach out to him now?

"I'm fine," he said, words sharper than before, even as he struggled to regulate his breathing, as his fingers drummed on his thigh, then tensed into a fist. "I'm fine," he said again, words softer, even harder to believe than the last. He let his head fall backward, lolling on his shoulders, rolling gently behind him as if to stretch out tense muscles.

Overstepping didn't matter anymore. She just wanted to help, needed to. Even if he didn't want it. "It's going to be okay," she said. "Just look at me." He did. "I'm here," she said. "Okay? Just breathe. With me," she said, then took a deep breath, counting to four in her mind, held it for a few seconds, then released it, exhaling for the same count. He followed, and she repeated it with her a few times.

He stopped on the third round, dropping his chin to his chest, and saying, "It's not working," through labored breaths.

She scooted her chair even closer, so she was basically seated between his legs. But still, she didn't reach for him, tried to help any other way first. "Tell me what you're feeling."

"I—I don't know," he said, a warm blush rising on his cheeks. Maybe the first time she'd ever seen him blush.

"Frank, I think you might be having a panic attack," she said, because she knew exactly what it felt like, having had them herself once or twice after her mother died. She could remember the tight feeling in her chest, the pain spreading outward, all of it serving to freeze her muscles and limbs, holding her in place. She wouldn't wish that pain, that fear of imminent doom, on anyone.

"No," he said, shaking his head, still breathing heavily and pressing fingers against his chest. "I think I'm having a heart attack. I'm pretty sure it's a hard attack."

She could remember that fear like the back of her hand. The symptoms were so similar, and with a racing heart, it was impossible to tell the difference.

"You're not," Mel said. "I promise you're not. I know it might feel like it. But your heart is racing, right? Beating so fast it feels like it's going to explode?"

"That's not helping," Langdon said, running his hands through his hair.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," Mel said, laughing a little bit, trying to make light of the conversation. She still wanted to reach out to him, wanting to grab his hand more than anything. "I know this sucks. It's going to pass soon, though, I promise."

"Are you sure I'm not dying?" Langdon asked with a bit of a glare as he picked up his head to look at her. His features softened somewhat, even though she could tell that pain still lingered in the corners.

Fuck it. She reached out and placed her hand on top of his. "I'm sure," she said. "You just have to keep breathing."

He tried again, a deep breath and a long exhale, coming out shaky. "Got any other strategies, King?"

"Yeah, okay," she said, racking her brain again, flipping through strategies she'd used on herself, things she'd tried with Becca to calm her down in the worst situations. "Okay, the breathing, right?" she asked. She slipped her hand under his, holding it tight. He didn't pull away, only looked at her like she had all the answers, like she could fix him. He didn't need fixing. Just care. She could give that, if he let her. "It's not enough to just breathe. You have to believe it. It sounds cheesy, but it's true. You have to trick your brain into believing it. So, breathe and in your head—tell yourself I'm okay. I'm totally chill."

He looked at her like she was crazy, and Mel only laughed, squeezing his hand again. "I'm serious. Try it."

Langdon closed his eyes. She didn't release his hand, and he squeezed tighter. "Tell yourself you're relaxed. That everything is fine. And just keep breathing."

Maybe he didn't realize he was doing it, or maybe it was completely intentional, but his hand moved and his fingers laced through hers, keeping her tied to him. She couldn't have detached even if she wanted to. And of course, she didn't.

He took a few even breaths, rolled his shoulders back, and let out a long, steady exhale. Not as shaky as the ones before. He didn't speak for a few seconds, just looked between her and their hands, twisted together.

"Feeling better?" Mel asked, her eyes meeting his. Soft brown and bright blue, and a moment of clarity for them both.

With his thumb, he drew circles on the back of her hand. Goosebumps rose on her arms. Fireworks. Electricity shooting up her arms. Is this what it had felt like when she was drunk? When her head was resting against his chest, when his arms were looped low around her waist? Her eyes lingered on their hands before dragging slow up his chest to his eyes again. They were somewhere else entirely, not in that library room, not surrounded by books and students and studying.

"Yes," Langdon said, nodding, taking another deep breath, finally looking away from Mel, too. "Yeah." He didn't withdraw his hand, though, didn't stop rubbing circles with his thumb. "Thanks, Mel."

Her brain didn't work. His touch short-circuited her entire system. Now she stumbled over words, trying to figure out exactly how to say anything at all. "Yeah, no, totally. Of course. Anytime, Langdon."

Hands. Still touching. Neither of them pulling away, and the time left on their study room reservation dwindling.

"Listen, I don't know if you're interested, but sometimes I stretch with Samira before practice. Would you want to come with me?" she asked, eyes flicking to his cast and back. "Could be good for you."

His brows drew together, and she thought for certain he'd say no. "Yeah, sure. Why not? Let's do it."

She probably should have given Samira a heads up instead of walking into the ballet studio with Frank Langdon beside her, smiling and laughing like she hadn't just walked him through a traumatic moment. She still worried for him, worried what had caused it—because it was always something, even if that something was deep down under the surface, something he didn't even really know about. That's how her panic attacks always were. Summoned from lurking trauma or anger, or pain.

Samira, for what it was worth, didn't seem bothered about Langdon intruding. Interested and shooting curious looks in Mel's direction, but not annoyed.

The ballet studio was a safe place, four walls half-mirrored and a wooden plank floor. Sounds echoed off the walls and music played, creating warmth that ricocheted around. It was impossible to be unhappy there. Especially with Samira by her side, a ray of sunshine personified. Someone who always wanted to help however she could. And she'd shared that space when Mel needed it most. And now, she'd offered it up to Langdon, too.

"You're gonna stretch in that?" Samira asked, gesturing to Langdon's jeans.

Langdon laughed. A real laugh. One Mel hadn't heard in some time. No, she'd only heard the forced, awkward laughter of someone who didn't know how to be in the same room as her. This was different, full-bodied, and drenched in happiness. It made her smile, too.

"To be fair, this was kind of last minute and a little bit against my will," Langdon joked, tossing a smile in Mel's direction.

"He came with me with a sound mind and complete and total free will," Mel said, raising her hands defensively.

"Sound mind, maybe not," Langdon laughed. Then, "Besides, when a pretty girl tells you to follow, you listen."

Everything went silent, and Mel's cheeks flushed bright red. Samira cut the silence with, "That's okay, we'll make it work."

Samira walked them through some simple stretches, keeping Langdon's injury in mind. He stuck by Mel's side throughout the hour, always looking to her for validation, to double-check that he was doing everything correctly. He struggled, and sometimes pain laced through his features, but he smiled more than he had in that small study room, and the panic attack didn't come back.

Chapter Text

Langdon looked like a complete and utter moron. Even more than a moron. A loser, like someone he'd make fun of. Reflected in the mirror was a truly insane looking man. Frank Langdon in tiny, white spandex shorts. No shirt. His chest slathered with glittery baby oil. Why had he done this again? Oh right. Because Abby had asked him nicely. He didn't even like her, and yet, there he was. Making a complete fool of himself in a fucking angel costume. There were feathered white wings taped to his bare back. And he had one crutch, because apparently that was all he allowed himself in a party setting, under his arm to take the weight off his stupid fucked up leg.

It was safe to say he wasn't exactly thrilled about attending the annual Pitt Halloween party—a party that usually ruled. Like, all night long, black out drunk, forget what you did all night kind of ruled. The college party to end all college parties. And honestly? He kind of dreaded the whole thing.

He slung a fanny pack across his chest, white and equally ridiculous. At least his strong arms and chest distracted from the skin-tight shorts. At least all those years playing hockey gave him an impressive build. Not that he was really one to show it off. Not like some of the other guys on the team, who took their shirts off whenever possible, flexing for anyone who asked (or didn't).

Throwing on a coat—it was late October and fairly cold outside—he walked over to a house on the edge of campus, in the same neighborhood as the house they held hockey parties at. That whole neighborhood, honestly, was full of college kids, with ragers every weekend. The ridiculous feeling subsided a little bit as he approached, the crowd of party-goers in similarly scandalous outfits all walking in the same direction.

Mateo flagged him down and immediately started laughing when Frank got close enough. His bare thighs, after all, were on full display for the entire world to see. Mateo went with a more conservative costume. He wore a thin white space suit and carried a plastic helmet under one hand.

"Nice costume," Mateo said, both eyebrows raised.

"Shut the fuck up," Langdon said, half serious. Mateo's eyebrows raised even higher in shock at his friend's tone.

"Damn, you need a drink," he said, and they walked into the house together, directly toward the folding table lined with cheap liquor. "Abby pick that out for you?" he asked, handing Frank a red solo cup.

The house belonged to some kid Langdon had never met. Some guy on the football team. Usually, they were in charge of Halloween. Music blared over speakers. They'd even gone so far as to hire a DJ, who was set up between the sliding doors that led to the backyard and the sectional. A huge flat screen played a football game on mute, the Eagles versus the Cowboys. Only a few people paid attention to that, mostly football players, easily recognizable by their lazy costumes. Undead football players. Just an excuse to wear their uniforms streaked in blood. Not that he had room to judge, now that he'd shed his jacket and stood half-naked in their home.

The men, for the most part, were in boring, basic costumes, while the women wore elaborate outfits or lingerie. Abby would show up in the latter, whenever she did show up.

"Nah man, I went to Spirit Halloween and thought this seemed like a good choice," Langdon said, deadpan, before throwing back the contents of his drink. "Dumb fucking question."

"What's your problem, man?" Mateo asked, setting down his drink next to the poor excuse for a helmet he'd abandoned when they walked in. "You got spandex up your ass or did you just wake up and decide to be a dick today?"

Langdon's jaw worked, his teeth grinding together. Where was that kid he was supposed to meet up with, anyway? He looked down at his phone. Only 10:30 pm. Another half an hour before they could meet up, before he could take something to make the draining pain in his chest disappear.

"Just decided to be a dick," he said, then forced a smile to his face because he really didn't want to be a dick to Mateo, it just came naturally.

Taking the solo cup from his hand, Mateo poured him another drink. Mostly vodka. "Chill out, bro. It's gonna be a good night."

Langdon grumbled, but sipped the drink regardless.

"You're an angel," Mateo said, and Langdon chuckled mid-sip, almost choking.

"Listen, Mateo, we're good friends, but I'm not into you like that," Langdon joked with brows raised.

Mateo looked like he wanted to punch his friend square in the jaw. "Idiot. I meant, if you had let me finish, that you're an angel, which means Abby is supposed to be a devil—right?"

"The fuck you mean supposed to be?" If Abby showed up wearing anything other than a sexy little devil costume, he was going to lose his fucking mind.

"Maybe don't turn around," Mateo said.

Like everyone who's ever been told not to turn around, he, of course, immediately turned around. Abby stood in a circle with a few other girls from the cheer team. His jaw worked, his teeth grinding hard. He should have stayed home, he should have fucking stayed home. Abby Hart wore a tight-fitting dress with lace detailing, the same color as his spandex shorts. White. Where devil horns should have been, instead, a veil fell over her hair. Fists clenched at his sides.

Abby's eyes lifted to meet his from across the room, and the same expression developed on her face. Drawn together brows and pursed lips. Yeah, she was about to yell at him.

She strode across the room on high heels, the clicks audible even over music and conversation. Once she reached him, she stood still for a second, evaluating his appearance and smiling, almost smugly. "You look ridiculous."

"Can't help but notice you aren't dressed like the devil," Langdon said, towering over her even with her heels. He leaned over her.

"Oh!" Abby said, feigning confusion and a bit of forgiveness. "We were supposed to match? I must have forgotten." Then she pouted. "Don't be mad. You look so cute."

"Abby," he said, his tone warning, hinting at the blowout fight he wanted to get into, that they would get into if she kept pushing his buttons.

She leaned in, like she was about to go for a kiss, but instead just whispered, "Have a good time tonight, baby," before turning on her heel and disappearing back into the crowd. He watched her walk away, eyes on her ass because, of course, he was just a man. And even though he'd turned her down for sex recently, it didn't mean he wasn't horny. In fact, getting some would probably solve a lot of his problems. Unfortunately, one of those problems was that he didn't want it from her.

Langdon and Mateo stood in silence (and shock) for a few moments before Mateo broke it. "Wanna get shitfaced?"

Langdon raised his plastic cup, knocking it against Mateo's. "Abso-fucking-lutely."

They drank. Langdon danced with whatever girl ended up close to him in the pit of warm bodies, making the entire room's temperature rise. He took shots with anyone who offered them, and that same warmth crept into his bloodstream, warming his cheeks, too.

He spotted Santos first, dressed in shiny black latex, with whiskers painted on her face and cheap cat ears perched atop her head. His mind split in two, one half praying that Mel would not step into the crowd behind her while the other half pleaded with the universe for the exact opposite.

Victoria found them immediately, making her way toward Mateo wearing an oversized hockey jersey that very likely had nothing underneath. Neither of them mattered. Not Trinity, who lurked in the corner of the room, talking to some girl he didn't know, or Victoria, holding Mateo's attention. He especially did not care as a flash of blonde hair caught his eye, skirting the room. He went to the drink table first, poured two shots, then sought her out.

What he didn't expect to find, however, was Mel King standing with her arms covering her bare stomach, wearing a bright red bralette and the smallest skirt he'd ever seen. Atop her head sat a headband with two equally red horns. His mouth fell open. Not only at the coincidence of their costumes, but just how good she looked. Her hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her face had been painted with minimal makeup. Lip gloss on her lips and a dusting of something sparkly along her cheekbones, drawing his attention to places he shouldn't look. Her lips, the bare skin between her breasts, the tops of her thighs.

"Langdon?" she asked, looking at him with a similar expression, eyes widened, flicking between his eyes and his bare chest. He felt the sudden desire to cross her arms or bar them across his stomach as she did. Her gaze made him self-conscious, something he did not often experience.

He could only laugh, chuckling to himself as he got closer to her, offering the mini-solo cup shot glass. "Hey," he said, because what else was there to say? All the words fell out of his head the moment he'd looked at her, and he couldn't think of anything charmy or sarcastic or witty. He couldn't think of anything. Mel King had done the impossible and rendered him completely speechless.

It took her a second to say anything at all, and in that moment, they were both idiots, rendered speechless by one another, avoiding eye contact. But finally, she did say, "Hey," as she took the shot from Langdon's hand.

"Ready?" he asked, because he needed a little more liquid courage racing through his veins. She nodded, and they both raised their cups before throwing them back. He tried not to look at her and failed. Something about watching her take a shot turned him on immensely. It also fucked with his shot-taking abilities and had the vodka sitting in his mouth longer than it should have, so when he gulped it down it had him coughing.

Mel slapped a hand over her mouth, covering a laugh. "You okay?" she asked when he stopped choking.

He held a finger up, nodding, clearing his throat. "Shit, sorry," he said, chuckling, trying to cover his embarrassment. The shot went to his head immediately, and he had to blink a few times to focus on her again.

"It's okay," she said, but she wouldn't meet his eyes either, always looking slightly south.

"I know, the body glitter is pretty ridiculous."

She snickered. "No, it's—" she said, stopping herself.

"You can say it's ridiculous. I won't mind," Langdon said.

Her cheeks flushed red, maybe from the alcohol, maybe from something else. It was difficult work keeping his eyes on her face. When had she gone from this cute girl who tutored him to someone he could barely form words around, the sexiest woman he'd ever seen, even with her awkward pose and obvious discomfort? It made her even hotter.

"You look good," Langdon said, before she could get her words out. "I mean—" How could he backpedal from that? He didn't want to. "I know this isn't exactly your style, but you look—you look sexy, Mel." Had those words really just left his mouth? Surely he was in some drunk fugue state and had imagined this entire conversation entirely. Where was his girlfriend? Had she overheard? Did it even matter? Abby had set him up to look stupid, not exactly something a loving partner should do. And in doing so, she'd driven him right into Mel's devilish arms.

Mel's mouth hung open, and he couldn't help but stare at the curve of her lips, wondering what it would feel like to kiss her. God, curse his stupid fucking brain and its desires. Her lips formed around the beginnings of words she didn't say. But she did let her arms fall to her sides. She did roll her shoulders back, incline her head, and smile. That same pink warmth in her cheeks all the while. "Thanks," she said, chewing on her bottom lip.

"Ay, Langdon!" someone called from the crowd. He didn't want to look away from her, didn't want to miss whatever words she was about to speak. But at least, with the distraction, he could pretend the words he missed were a rejection, could pretend that she didn't want him as bad as he wanted her. And he could step away from her a lot easier that way, too.

"Sorry," he said, offering her a soft smile before turning away from her and following the kid who'd called his name into the crowd and up the stairs, slow going on his one crutch. The stairs met a long hallway that overlooked the party, railed off.

"How much?" Langdon said, as the kid—he couldn't remember his name through the drunk haze—pulled a yellow-tinted bottle from his pocket.

He never thought he'd end up buying pills from a sketchy sophomore at a college party, like a total fucking stereotype, but there he was. He'd asked around, talked to a few classmates he knew definitely sold weed, and was told about Jackie. That was his name. Jackie. Infamous pill-seller extraordinaire or whatever they'd called him. It didn't matter. They'd forked over his phone number and a menu of his available options. He'd found Xanax alongside Adderall and Ketamine and various other drugs he didn't know. Langdon didn't do drugs. Aside from the few times he'd smoked weed in high school behind the bleachers—again, like a stereotype—he hadn't touched the stuff. It wasn't good for his hockey career. But this? This was necessary.

He forked over a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill—withdrawn from his savings account earlier that day—and took the pills, waiting until Jackie left to unscrew the cap and dump a few into his palm. They looked just like the ones he'd taken before. Maybe he should have asked more questions. Asked the dosage. He was too drunk for that. An easy client. He threw two back, screwed the cap back on, put it into his pocket and headed for the stairs, never once taking a moment to consider who might be watching.