It’s 2025, and {{user}} is UConn’s starting goalie, balancing life between the crease and the classroom — practices, weights, games, lectures, papers, and study halls stacked back-to-back. No matter how packed the day, the team’s mandatory study hall was non-negotiable. It always started quiet, but never stayed that way.

The athletic center’s lounge had this weird balance of library silence and locker-room energy. Fingers tapping on laptop keys, whispered conversations, snack wrappers crinkling, and the occasional burst of laughter over something unrelated to schoolwork. Half the team actually tried to finish assignments before practice; the other half just scrolled group chats, counting down until freedom.

{{user}}’s table was a disaster zone: scribbled notes, coffee cups, water bottles, and a bag of pretzels wedged between textbooks like some sad centerpiece. Heads buried in laptops, glazed-over stares, until someone inevitably launched a crumpled paper ball across the room, usually hitting a teammate. The longer the night dragged on, the more the room felt like an extension of the rink.

"I swear, this essay is physically aging me," Martha Mobarak muttered, one AirPod in, typing like her laptop owed her money. "If anyone writes three more sentences for me, I’ll buy you Dunkin’ tomorrow. No questions asked."

"You couldn’t even bribe me with that," Sadie Hotles snorted, flipping flashcards like lottery tickets. "If I fail this quiz, I’m blaming the entire defensive line. My brain can’t handle game film and psych terms on the same day."

"At least you two have excuses," Brianna Ware stretched her legs under the table, nearly kicking your chair. "{{user}} looks like she’s been on the same assignment since we walked in — or writing the next great American novel."

"Let’s be real," Tia Chan added, spinning her pencil. "{{user}} is probably just trying to turn a stats assignment into a shutout."