The variable of You

Redefining the schedule

The morning sun had barely cleared the top of the engineering building when I found myself walking back toward the athletic complex. But as I walked up the concrete steps of the arena, I forced the panic of my discovery yesterday down. The digital world had to stay separate from reality. In the real world, Lucas Cross was a student failing advanced statistics, and I was the tutor whose summer grant depended entirely on his performance. And right now, the primary obstacle to that performance wasn't his lack of capability—it was his schedule.

I bypassed the sub-level media room and headed straight for the administrative offices overlooking the main rink. The smell of cold ice and rubber was stronger up here. I stopped outside a door marked Head Coach Arthur Callahan, took a deep breath, and knocked.

"Come in," a booming voice called out.

Coach Callahan was exactly what you envisioned when you thought of college hockey royalty. He was a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, sporting a sharp gray crew cut and a track jacket zipped tight to his chin. His office was a shrine to decades of victories, lined with framed photographs of championship teams, silver trophies, and signed hockey sticks.

He looked up from a stack of player evaluation sheets, his sharp blue eyes assessing me instantly. "You must be Ariana. Dr. Vance said you’d be taking over the Cross file. Sit down."

"Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Coach Callahan. I’ll get straight to the point. I reviewed Lucas’s current syllabus alongside the team's travel and practice itinerary. As it stands, his schedule is actively hindering his ability to focus."

Callahan leaned back in his chair, folding his large hands over his chest. A faint, dismissive smile played on his lips. "Ariana, we’re two weeks out from the Frozen Four tournament. The team practices three hours a day on the ice, followed by film study and weight training. Lucas is the captain. His presence on that ice isn't optional."

"I understand his role on the team, Coach," I replied, maintaining a calm, measured tone. "But yesterday, he was ten minutes late to our session because a video review ran over. Tomorrow, you have a mandatory team dinner during what should be his peak study hours. He is running on pure exhaustion, and statistics isn't a subject you can cram into the final fifteen minutes of a day."

Callahan sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "Look, the athletic department pays for top-tier tutoring to ensure our guys get the support they need around their athletic commitments. The ice schedule is set in stone months in advance. Surely you can adjust the sessions to later in the evening? The boys usually finish up around eight."

"At eight o'clock in the evening, his cognitive retention is at its lowest," I countered directly, refusing to be brushed off by his status. "I’m not asking for him to skip practice entirely. I’m asking for a structural compromise. If he doesn't get at least ninety minutes of uninterrupted, focused study time during the day, he will not pass Professor Sterling's exam."

Callahan’s expression hardened slightly. "Young lady, you’re asking me to disrupt the training routine of a team destined for a national title. I can't just let my captain walk out on drills early because of a few math problems. We have a system here."

I let a small, deliberate pause fill the room before I leaned forward, looking him directly in the eye.

"With all due respect, Coach, your system won't matter if your captain is sitting in the bleachers in a suit instead of wearing a jersey," I said, my voice steady and unyielding. "You can run all the drills you want, maximize his ice time, and perfect his power play, but if his grade drops by even half a point, the NCAA eligibility rules apply automatically. All these extra practices, the film reviews, the late-night strategy sessions—they will be an absolute waste of time if he isn't legally allowed to step onto the ice."

The room went dead silent. The faint hum of the ice resurfacer downstairs was the only sound cutting through the tension. Callahan stared at me, his jaw tightening as he weighed the blunt reality of my words. He wasn't used to students speaking to him without a layer of deference, but he was a pragmatist. He knew the math didn't lie.

Slowly, the tension left his shoulders, replaced by a gruff sigh. He reached for his desk phone and buzzed his assistant. "Get Cross up here. Now."

Five minutes later, the door opened, and Lucas walked in. He was still in his practice gear, his skates replaced by slides, his hair messy beneath a backward team cap. He looked between Coach Callahan and me, his eyebrows raising slightly in surprise when he realized I was the one sitting in the office.

"You called, Coach?" Lucas asked, his voice low.

"Sit down, Lucas," Callahan ordered.

Lucas took the chair next to mine, casting a long, suspicious glance in my direction. "What's going on?"

"Your tutor here just gave me a reality check," Callahan said, leaning forward. "And unfortunately, she’s right. If you don't pass this stats exam, the whole season goes down the drain. Effective today, your schedule is changing. You’re excused from the final thirty minutes of afternoon ice sessions and the post-practice film reviews on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You’ll leave early, head straight to the media room, and you will give her your full attention."

Lucas blinked, clearly caught off guard. He looked at his coach, then turned his gaze to me, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Coach, leaving early means missing the special teams drills. We need those reps for the weekend game against State."

"The assistant captain can handle the line adjustments," Callahan barked. "Your only job outside of maintaining the top line is passing this class. Ariana says you need ninety minutes, so you're getting ninety minutes. Don't make me regret compromising my ice time, Cross."

Lucas clenched his jaw, but he knew better than to argue with Callahan. "Understood, Coach."

"Good. Now get down to the media room. Your session starts now," Callahan said, already turning his attention back to his paperwork.

We left the office in silence, walking down the long, concrete corridor toward the sub-level stairs. The air grew colder with every step, matching the distinct drop in temperature between Lucas and me. He walked with long, annoyed strides, his slide sandals slapping against the floor.

"You've got a lot of nerve," he said finally, cutting through the silence without looking at me. "Going over my head to the old man? You’ve been my tutor for exactly one day, Lin."

"I didn't go over your head, Cross. I went to the person who controls the schedule that is currently causing you to fail," I replied smoothly, adjusting my backpack strap. "If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at the NCAA guidelines. I’m just the one enforcing the survival strategy."

"Survival strategy?" He let out a dry, mocking laugh as he pushed open the heavy metal door to the auxiliary media room. "You looked like you were enjoying that a little too much. Let me guess, you like the power trip of benching the sports crowd?"

"I don't care enough about your sports crowd to want a power trip," I said, taking my usual seat at the metal table and opening my laptop. "What I care about is efficiency. Yesterday, you were too tired to focus. Today, you have no excuses. Pull out your notebook. Let's see if you actually did the five problems I assigned."

Lucas tossed his gear bag to the side and dropped into the chair opposite me. He pulled the crumpled notebook out of his hoodie pocket, flipping it open to a fresh page and sliding it across the table with a defiant look.

I looked down. To my utter surprise, the five problems were there. Three of them were entirely correct. The other two had simple arithmetic errors, but the underlying statistical logic was completely sound.

"Well?" he asked, leaning back and crossing his arms, watching my face closely. "Are they another calculation error, or do I get a gold star?"

"They're mostly correct," I admitted, looking up to meet his gaze. "You messed up the final summation on problem four, and you forgot to square the variance on problem five. But the process is right. You actually studied."

A small, genuine flash of satisfaction crossed his face before he quickly masked it with his usual guarded expression. "Told you. I'm not stupid, Lin. I just have better things to do than calculate the standard deviation of a fictional lightbulb factory's lifespan."

"Clearly," I said, pointing to the mistake on problem four. "Fix the summation here. If you make this kind of careless mistake on the actual exam, Sterling won't give you partial credit."

For the next hour, the tension between us slowly evolved into a strange, hyper-focused rhythm. Without the immediate exhaustion clouding his face, Lucas picked up the concepts faster than I anticipated. He was highly analytical when he wanted to be—a trait that probably made him a great captain on the ice, but one he rarely applied to a classroom setting. We traded sharp remarks and quick corrections, our usual banter cutting through the cold air of the concrete room.

The ninety minutes were up, my laptop battery was running low, and the sheets of scrap paper between us were covered in formulas.

"We're making progress," I said, gathering the papers into a neat stack. "Keep this up, and you might actually reach that seventy percent before the deadline."

"Don't sound thrilled about it," Lucas muttered, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. "You might accidentally admit that hockey players have brains."

"I'll admit it when the final grades are posted," I replied, packing my bag. "Don't forget the readings for chapter six tonight."

"Yeah, yeah. See you Thursday, Professor Lin," he said, throwing his bag over his shoulder. He gave me a brief, lingering look before turning and exiting the room.

I sat back in my chair, letting out a breath. The session had gone surprisingly well, but the underlying anxiety of the StudyBuddy secret still weighed heavily on my mind. I needed to check the app. I needed to see if lucrx17 had posted anything else, or if he suspected anything after our interaction today.

I pulled my phone out of my pocket, opened the encrypted app, and logged into my account. A new direct message icon was flashing red in the corner of the screen.

My thumb hesitated over the glass. I tapped it open.

lucrx17: The crazy part? The tutor actually went to my head coach today and demanded he cut my practice time so I could study. Nobody stands up to Callahan like that. She looked like a completely different person when she was defending my eligibility. I think I underestimated her.

My heart skipped a beat. I began typing a generic response, trying to play the role of the detached online friend.

Academic_Ace: Sounds like she's dynamic. Maybe she genuinely wants to see you succeed.

I hit send, intending to lock my phone and leave the room. But less than three seconds later, the three dots appeared on the screen. He was online right now.

lucrx17: Maybe. But here’s the weird part. I was looking at her laptop screen while we were working on a regression formula today. She had a custom sticker on the corner of her keyboard—a silver geometric owl.

I froze entirely, my breath catching in my throat.

Another message popped up, making my blood run completely cold.

lucrx17: Are you still on campus right now, Ace? Because I'm standing right outside the media room door, and I can see the silver light through the window.