All Chapters of A NERD FOR THE HOCKEY ALPHA: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

CallaIt is stupid early when the taxi drops me a block from the house. The sky is a pale bruise and the air bites. I jog the last stretch with my hood up and my shoes in my hand because I do not trust the porch steps not to squeal on me like snitches.The door sticks the way it always does. I press my shoulder into it slow, slow, slow until it gives with a soft sigh. Inside smells like stale coffee, the candle Ava forgot to blow out, and laundry detergent. The living room is dim and blurry, couch sagging with the blanket nest we never fold, textbooks stacked like crooked teeth. The clock on the stove blinks 6:02.If I move like a ghost maybe I can make it to my room, shower, pretend I woke up at dawn to do yoga like one of those people who post sunrise captions. Right. I inch across the floor. The boards say, hi Calla, welcome home, let’s scream.I wince and lift my feet higher, heel-toe, heel-toe, breath held so tight my ribs complain. My backpack bumps my hip and I catch it before

CallaMy phone rings while I am pretending to study. Problem set open, highlighter uncapped, brain elsewhere.I peep in to see an unknown number. Perfect. I answer anyway.“Hello?”“No need asking how I got your contact,” a familiar voice says, rough and amused. “You know.”I freeze. “Ronan?”He does not deny it. Behind him I hear traffic, a car door, and a leather creak. “Look out your window.”I lift the blind. He is on the sidewalk, one hand in his jacket, phone to his ear, eyes already on my window. He raises two fingers like a salute. My heart does gymnastics.“You are a menace,” I whisper.“Come down,” he says. “I am taking you out.”“We did not make any arrangement.”“We have now. Five minutes, Calla.”He hangs up. I gape at my phone, then catch my reflection and groan. I look like a before picture. Hoodie off. Hair into a ponytail, then out, then back in. Clean tee, oversized sweater, favorite jeans, sneakers, socks that match because hope is a thing.I do not do makeup for me

RonanThe road home tastes like pine and diesel. I push the car harder than the speed limit allows because motion calms the thing inside me that wants to tear out of my chest. Calla’s face in the window this morning is still a bright cut across my brain—soft, surprised when I kissed her. I play it over like a prayer and like a confession.The packhouse sits on the ridge the way a heavy thing settles into place: stone, dark wood, windows like watchful eyes. There are lights on. Smells of stew and old leather find me before the door does. Darko claws at the inside of me like a caged animal when I step into that scent. I pin him down where I can; tonight is not the night to let him roar.Casen meets me at the door. He has that Beta face, tidy, ready, apology folded into his posture. He slides a look over my shoulder like a man who reads trouble in the air and prefers it to knock politely.“You’re late,” he says. It is Casen’s version of everything from a reprimand to a welcome.“I had to

RonanRain stains the windows of the war room and the smell of wet pine crawls under the door. It reminds me of her hair. I should be in the city with a coffee and her laugh in my mouth, not pacing between maps while the ridge radios hiss. My phone lies faceup by the compass. I type a message, delete it, type again, delete again. Be there soon. Trust me. Useless. I am sorry. I will explain. Worse. Darko paces in my chest and does not help.Casen pushes in without knocking. He never knocks. He drops patrol logs and a roll of damp scent flags on the table. “Eastern markers got pushed,” he says. “Two roving squads. Same triangle pattern as last week.”I drag the map closer. The boundary line cuts the forest from north peak to creek bend. The contested strip curls along the old seam where the mineral vein runs shallow. The elders call it Ironwater because the stream tastes like rust in summer. “How many?”“Eight, maybe ten. Footwork says Blackridge. Wyatt wants us twitchy.” His jaw ticks.

CallaThe test scores are posted on the whiteboard like a public execution. People cluster and compare. I stand at the edge because proximity feels safer than the spotlight. My stomach is a fist.Someone taps my shoulder. "Calla," a voice says. I force a smile and step forward. The paper flutters against my palm as I scan up and down the list of names.Sixty-two.Red ink, cruel and tidy. The number sits on my tongue like bile. Sixty-two is not a scandal; it is a bruise, a precise measure of disappointment."Sixty-two? You? With glasses?" a girl near the board says loudly, as if she invented disappointment. Her hair is a perfect braid. She points, and a small laugh ripples through the group."Apparently I misread evolution," I say, louder than I intend. Humor is armor. "My prescription must be set to sarcasm."Another chuckle. A boy smirks and says, "If you wear glasses, a lot is expected. You let the lab down."The words wedge between my ribs; the comeback dies in my throat.Professor