The Last Rule (Lakeview State Hockey Romance #5)

Chapter One

Maren

The last time I saw Carter Vance, he was laughing.

Of course he was.

Carter laughed at everything.

Bad calls.Broken sticks.Professors who said no extensions.Guys twice his size trying to start fights after the whistle.

He laughed like the world had never put a hand around his throat and squeezed.

Like nothing had ever hurt him long enough to leave a mark.

Like he had not looked me in the eye three years ago and made a joke that ruined us.

Now he was doing it again.

Center ice.

Lakeview State arena.

Navy practice jersey. White helmet. Stick tucked under one arm like it was an extension of his body.

Head tipped back.

Mouth open.

Laughing.

The sound carried all the way up to the media platform where I stood with a camera bag digging into my shoulder and a Lakeview staff badge clipped to my coat.

Perfect.

Wonderful.

Exactly the emotional ambush I deserved for agreeing to come back.

“You good?”

I looked over.

The student beside me was named Ben.

Maybe Brent.

Possibly Blake.

He had introduced himself thirty seconds ago while I was busy not having a cardiac event over a man in skates.

“Fine,” I said.

He glanced at my hands.

I stopped gripping the railing.

“First day nerves?”

“Something like that.”

He nodded toward the ice. “You’re the documentary person, right?”

“Media fellowship,” I corrected automatically.

Because apparently I could face an arena full of ghosts, but not an inaccurate job title.

He blinked.

“Right. Media fellowship.”

I softened my voice because none of this was his fault.

“Yes. I’m working with Athletic Communications on senior-season features and the championship run coverage.”

“Cool.”

“It will be if everyone signs releases and nobody says anything legally unusable on camera.”

He laughed.

I did not.

His smile faded.

“Right.”

On the ice, Carter stole the puck from a freshman, spun backward, and slid it between his own skates before passing cleanly to Rhett Callahan.

Rhett did not smile.

Rhett rarely looked like he had discovered joy by accident.

Dark hair. Sharp focus. Steady hands.

Carter, on the other hand, threw both arms up like he had personally invented hockey.

The freshman groaned.

Carter skated backward in front of him.

I could not hear the words from the platform.

I did not need to.

I knew the shape of Carter’s mouth when he was making himself ridiculous.

I knew the easy tilt of his head.

I knew the way he took up space so no one noticed the parts of him he kept hidden.

“Vance is great for camera,” Ben-Brent-Blake said.

My stomach tightened.

“Yes,” I said.

He glanced at me again.

“You know him?”

I looked through the glass at Carter.

He was laughing with Jace Wilder now.

Jace said something dry.

Carter clutched his chest and pretended to stagger.

Sloane Bennett would have rolled her eyes if she had been here.

Eden Cross probably would have documented the behavior for later prosecution.

Tessa Callahan would have called it emotional theater and been correct.

Hazel and Grady were coming back for senior weekend, according to the schedule I had been handed fifteen minutes ago, which meant every happy ending this series of people had built would be orbiting this rink soon.

And then there was Carter.

The last rule.

The one nobody had broken yet because Carter had made sure no one knew where to push.

Except me.

I looked at Ben-Brent-Blake.

“I used to.”

That was all I gave him.

It was more than I should have.

Coach Adler blew the whistle.

The sound sliced through the arena.

Every player snapped into motion.

Carter too.

The laughter vanished like it had never been there.

For three seconds, I saw him.

Not the grin.

Not the room-lighter.

Not the player who could make a bench breathe after a bad goal.

Just Carter Vance with his jaw set and his eyes locked on the puck like wanting something too badly might kill him.

Then Mason Hale barked something from the boards.

Carter shot him a grin.

Mask back on.

Clean.

Fast.

Practiced.

My chest hurt.

Annoying.

Unprofessional.

Extremely inconvenient.

I opened my folder and checked the first name on my interview list.

Because the universe had a terrible sense of structure.

Carter Vance — senior forward. Feature subject.

Of course.

Of course he was first.

I had argued with Clara Monroe once at Bellhaven about timelines being emotional weapons.

This was worse.

This was a spreadsheet with teeth.

“Adler wants you down after practice,” Ben-Brent-Blake said. “He said he’ll introduce you to the leadership group.”

“Great.”

“You sure you’re good?”

I smiled.

It was not my best smile.

Still usable.

“I’m excellent.”

He did not look convinced.

Smart boy.

Practice ended twenty-two minutes later.

Not that I counted.

I watched Carter the entire time.

Professionally.

Mostly.

He was good.

That was the problem.

He had always been good, but now there was weight under it.

Senior-year weight.

Last-season weight.

The kind of pressure that made some players sharper and some players stupid.

Carter looked sharper.

Until he did not.

Twice, he turned a mistake into a joke before Coach Adler could correct him.

Twice, Adler did not laugh.

Interesting.

The third time, Carter missed a pass and immediately bowed to the empty stands like the puck had rejected him personally.

A few guys laughed.

Adler’s whistle cut through it.

“Vance.”

The rink went quiet.

Carter straightened.

Still smiling.

“Yes, Coach?”

“Bench.”

The smile stayed.

Barely.

The whole arena felt it.

Or maybe I did because I knew what it looked like when his face stayed bright and his eyes did not.

Carter skated to the bench.

Sat.

No joke this time.

Good.

Terrible.

Necessary.

After practice, I followed Ben-Brent-Blake down through the staff corridor with my badge, camera bag, and an emotional stability level best described as structurally questionable.

The hallway smelled like ice, rubber mats, and old coffee.

It should not have felt familiar.

It did.

Lakeview State had changed in three years.

New sponsor wall.

Fresh paint.

A bigger Wolves logo outside the locker room.

But some things remained exactly cruel.

The buzz of fluorescent lights.

The slap of shower sandals behind a closed door.

The trophy case near the tunnel where my reflection looked older and younger at the same time.

I stopped in front of it.

There was a photo from Carter’s freshman year.

Team charity skate.

He was in the back row, one arm around Rhett, one around Grady, grinning like he had never once been told he was too much.

I was in that photo too.

Barely.

Bottom corner.

Event volunteer badge.

Hair in a braid.

Eyes turned toward Carter instead of the camera.

Fantastic.

Wonderful.

I loved archival betrayal.

“You coming?” Ben-Brent-Blake asked.

“Yes.”

I stepped away from the case.

Coach Adler stood outside the locker room with a clipboard and the expression of a man who had personally invented disappointment as a motivational tool.

“Maren Ellis,” he said.

“Coach Adler.”

He shook my hand.

Firm.

Quick.

Assessing.

“You worked the junior development media clinic three years ago.”

I blinked.

“Yes.”

“I remember organized people.”

“That sounds like a warning.”

“It is.”

I liked him immediately.

Inconvenient.

Adler looked toward the locker room. “The players know Athletic Communications has embedded media for the final run. They do not know every detail of your fellowship project.”

“I’ll brief them before interviews.”

“Good.”

“Any restrictions?”

“Yes. Do not let them waste your time.”

“That broad?”

“With this group, yes.”

A laugh almost escaped.

I stopped it.

Barely.

The locker room door opened.

Rhett Callahan stepped out first.

Dark hair damp. Expression guarded. Tessa’s ring on his hand catching the hallway light because apparently people had gone and built entire lives while I was gone.

Behind him came Mason Hale, calm and watchful.

Then Jace Wilder, quiet in a way that made the hallway feel like it should behave.

And then Carter.

Of course.

He came out laughing at something Grady’s name was apparently involved in, one hand shoving wet hair off his forehead, equipment bag over his shoulder, grin already loaded.

Then he saw me.

The grin did not disappear.

That would have been too honest.

It froze.

Only for a second.

Maybe less.

But I saw it.

I had always seen him too clearly for both our comfort.

“Maren Ellis,” Coach Adler said. “Media fellow. She’ll be producing senior-season features, championship coverage, and postseason material for Athletic Communications.”

Rhett nodded politely.

Mason smiled like a person who had learned not to perform every feeling out loud.

Jace said, “Welcome back.”

Back.

The word landed.

Carter looked at me.

The grin warmed again, easy as flipping a switch.

“Well, well,” he said. “Lakeview finally got desperate enough to rehire the only person who once called my interview answers ‘emotionally unusable.’”

Rhett’s eyebrows rose.

Mason looked between us.

Jace went very still.

I smiled.

Professional.

Polished.

Deadly.

“They were emotionally unusable.”

Carter placed one hand over his heart.

“Wounded.”

“No,” I said. “You would have had to answer honestly first.”

Silence.

Not big.

Enough.

Rhett looked down like he was hiding a smile.

Mason’s mouth twitched.

Jace’s eyes sharpened.

Coach Adler watched me like he had just found a tool he intended to use irresponsibly.

Carter’s smile held.

His eyes did not.

There he was.

For half a second.

The boy from the old hallway.

The one who had looked at me after everything fell apart and said, Come on, Maren. Don’t make it dramatic.

Like I had made it dramatic.

Like he had not been the one who turned my pain into a punchline because the alternative was admitting he caused it.

Then he blinked.

Gone.

“Good to see you too, Ellis,” Carter said.

“Vance.”

His grin widened.

“Still formal.”

“Still accurate.”

“Still terrifying.”

“Good.”