Page 122 of The Equation of Us

The moment is interrupted by Coach Stevens tapping his microphone at the podium. “If I could have everyone’s attention, we’ll begin the senior recognition portion of our evening.”

Henry slips away toward the bar, probably for a soft drink he can dump the contents of that flask into. As the first senior takes the podium—Adams, awkward but sincere in his thanks to the team—Nora leans closer to me.

“What’s his story?” she whispers, nodding toward Henry’s retreating form.

“That’s the question everyone’s been asking for three years,” I respond quietly. “Most talented goalie in the conference. Could go pro if he wanted to. But he’s his own worst enemy.”

“And Becca?”

I consider what I know about Becca Monroe—serious, intense, with a reputation for uncompromising articles in the campus paper. The exact opposite of Henry in every way.

“Oil and water,” I say. “Or possibly matches and gasoline.”

The speeches continue, each graduating senior sharing brief reflections and thanks. I half-listen, most of my attention focused on Nora’s hand still resting on my thigh, her thumb occasionally tracing small circles that are just distracting enough to be deliberate.

Two can play that game.

I shift slightly, my hand dropping casually below the tablecloth to rest on her knee. I feel her slight intake of breath as my fingers begin a slow journey upward, tracing the hem of her dress.

“Dean,” she warns quietly, though she doesn’t move away.

“Problem?” I ask innocently, fingers continuing their path along her inner thigh.

“We’re in public,” she reminds me, her voice impressively steady despite the slight flush creeping up her neck.

“Very public,” I agree. “Which means you’ll have to stay very quiet.”

Her eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating even as she maintains her composed expression. This is what I love about Nora—the contrast between her carefully controlled exterior and the responsiveness I can feel beneath my fingertips.

“Matthews, Carter,” Coach calls from the podium. “Get up here.”

Saved by the speech. I withdraw my hand, catching Nora’s mix of relief and frustration with a small smile. “To be continued,” I promise quietly.

Gavin and I make our way to the podium for our joint recognition as team co-captains. Coach Stevens goes through the usual accolades—leadership, dedication, academic excellence—before surprising me with a specific mention of my Archer Initiative grant and prosthetics research.

“Carter here isn’t just a hell of a hockey player,” Coach says, genuine pride in his voice. “He’s going to change lives with that brain of his. Remember that when you’re watching him in the Olympics someday.”

The exaggeration makes me uncomfortable, but the sentiment behind it—the acknowledgment of the work that matters most to me—is unexpectedly meaningful.

When it’s my turn to speak, I pull the folded paper from my pocket, then change my mind. The rehearsed words suddenly seem inadequate.

“Hockey has given me a lot,” I begin, looking out at the team, the coaches, the support staff who’ve been part of my collegeexperience. “Structure. Purpose. A brotherhood that pushed me to be better on and off the ice.”

My eyes find Nora in the crowd, her attention completely focused on me in that way that always makes me feel like the only person in her world.

“But the most important lesson came this year,” I continue. “When I learned that sometimes the best plays are the ones you don’t plan. The ones that happen when you let go of the structure and trust your instincts.”

Nora’s expression softens, understanding the subtext of my words.

“I want to thank everyone who’s been part of this journey—Coach Stevens for seeing potential I didn’t know I had. My teammates for having my back for four years. And Nora Shaw—” I pause, holding her gaze across the room, “—for teaching me that not everything in life can be controlled. Some things are just meant to happen, whether you’re ready or not.”

The personal acknowledgment draws a few knowing chuckles from the team and a surprised smile from Nora. It’s more public than either of us would have imagined months ago, but it feels right—a declaration not just to her, but to myself. This isn’t temporary. This isn’t casual. This is real.

After the speeches conclude and dinner is served, the formal portion of the evening gives way to a more relaxed atmosphere. The hockey team is nothing if not efficient at transitioning from ceremony to celebration.

Nora excuses herself to the restroom, and I watch her go, admiring the way the simple black dress skims her curves. I’m so distracted I almost miss Coach approaching to talk to me.

We discuss post-graduation plans and talk about the team’s captaincy spot for next year.

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