Chapter Fifteen
MARA
The proposal takes eleven pages, two sleepless nights, and one argument with Tessa about whether “goalies are haunted geometry” belongs in an academic summary.
“It is the thesis,” she says.
“It is not language university communications will approve.”
“Cowards.”
We call the project Behind the Mask: The Work No One Sees.
Six short audio episodes. Each follows a different invisible demand in college athletics: concentration, injury uncertainty, academic pressure, identity, leadership, and transition.
Finn’s episode focuses on goaltending technique and the mental reset between shots.
Any discussion of anxiety requires separate, explicit consent.
Mara Bell will host. Tessa Wu will produce.
Athletic participants retain the right to withdraw personal medical details before publication but cannot rewrite criticism or reporting.
Helen reads the proposal twice.
“This is good,” she says.
Tessa pumps both fists.
“It is also expensive.”
My excitement lowers.
“We have the donor money,” Tessa says.
Helen looks at me.
Conflict.
I cannot direct funds donated by Finn toward a project featuring Finn.
“I will apply for the Larkin student-media grant,” I say.
“Deadline is Friday.”
“I know.”
“Decision takes six weeks.”
“Then we wait.”
Tessa’s face falls, but she nods.
Helen says, “Good answer.”
Ethics is often a good answer with terrible timing.
That evening, Finn meets me at the library. He has never voluntarily entered the communications building because Jace once trapped him in a student-film audition, so neutral ground was required.
We sit in a study room with the proposal between us.
He reads every word.
I watch his thumb.
It remains still until page seven, where I describe the episode on identity beyond performance.
“What does this mean?” he asks.
“An athlete discusses what remains when the game ends.”
“Which athlete?”
“Not selected.”
“Not me.”
“Not unless you ask.”
He turns the page.
At the end, he signs the preliminary participation agreement.
I do not celebrate.
“You can change your mind before recording,” I say.
“I know.”
“You can stop a session.”
“I know.”
“You can—”
“Mara.”
“Yes?”
“I trust you.”
The room goes silent.
The sentence means more because he does not use it easily.
“I will protect the work,” I say. “Not by hiding it. By doing it right.”
He nods.
Then he reaches into his bag and gives me a small cardboard box.
Inside is a new drive belt for the turntable.
“You remembered,” I say.
“It was slipping.”
“This is dangerously thoughtful.”
“It cost eleven dollars.”
“Romance has a price.”
His mouth almost smiles.
We leave the library at ten. Snow has stopped, but the temperature has fallen. Finn gives me his gloves because I forgot mine. They swallow my hands.
At my apartment, I place them on the radiator.
He stands in the doorway.
“Come in,” I say.
His gaze moves past me into the small living room. Unlike his bedroom, my apartment makes no attempt at order. Records lean against books. Boots occupy a rack built for six pairs and currently holding twelve. Microphone cables share a basket with scarves. Photographs cover the walls.
Finn enters carefully, as if the clutter might be load-bearing.
“This is frightening,” he says.
“This is personality.”
“This is a fire code violation.”
“You repaired a turntable. Do not become arrogant.”
I show him the kitchen, bedroom, and the closet where I record auditions beneath hanging coats because the fabric absorbs echo.
He steps inside the closet.
His shoulders nearly touch both walls.
“You record here?”
“Budget acoustic treatment.”
I squeeze beside him and close the door.
Darkness settles.
Finn’s body tenses.
I open it immediately.
“Sorry.”
“I am okay.”
“Truth?”
“Not good. Okay.”
I leave the door open.
We stand between coats, faces inches apart.
“This is not how I imagined seducing you,” I say.
“You imagined it?”
“Extensively.”
His hand settles at my hip.
“How?”
“Better lighting.”
He kisses me inside the open closet.
Later, in my bed, he lets me take the lead.
I learn the shape of his pleasure, the places where control slips and trust begins. He learns that I like his mouth on my neck and his hand anchored at my hip. We talk, laugh, stop once when his breathing turns uncertain, start again when he asks.
After, we lie beneath a blanket patterned with orange suns.
Finn looks at the ceiling. “Your room is loud.”
“The walls are white.”
“Everything on them is not.”
I rest my chin on his chest. “Do you hate it?”
“No.”
“Truth?”
He looks down at me.
“It feels like you.”
The answer reaches somewhere vulnerable.
I kiss his sternum to hide it.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
An email from the National Student Audio Fellowship.
Congratulations. You have advanced to the semifinal round. Please submit a ten-minute narrative sample and project statement by March 1.
I sit up.
Finn reads my face. “What happened?”
I show him.
His expression changes to immediate pride.
“You made it.”
“Semifinal.”
“You made it.”
The fellowship places graduating producers at public-radio stations across the country for one year. It is the thing I have wanted since sophomore year.
It is also suddenly a map of possible distance.
Finn asks, “Where?”
“Could be anywhere. Chicago, Boston, Minneapolis, Seattle.”
His face remains steady.
“When would you know?”
“April.”
“When would it start?”
“July.”
He nods, already arranging facts.
I touch his jaw. “You do not have to solve it tonight.”
“I know.”
Thumb presses to finger.
Fear.
Not panic. Future.
I take his hand and lace our fingers together.
“Neither of us knows where next season puts you,” I say.
“No.”
“We can be happy now without demanding a guarantee from July.”
“That sounds irresponsible.”
“It is called living.”
He pulls me back onto his chest.
“I am bad at that,” he says.
“I have noticed.”
“Teach me.”
The request is playful.
The trust beneath it is not.
I close my eyes.
“Only if you teach me how to stop on skates.”
“That may be impossible.”
“Then we are doomed.”
He kisses the top of my head.
For tonight, doom feels warm.