Chapter Twenty
FINN
Public attention changes the sound of a room.
At Friday practice, conversations stop when I enter. Not all of them. Enough.
Two first-years look away from their phones. A student equipment assistant turns red. Jace says, “If anyone asks whether Finn bought Mara, I will demonstrate why fighting remains an important cultural tradition.”
Coach Mercer says, “No fighting.”
“Metaphorical tradition.”
Theo closes the locker-room door.
“We are not discussing Finn’s relationship or medical information with media,” he says. “Questions about the donation go to communications. Questions about hockey go to us. Questions about whether Jace can read go unanswered.”
“I can read,” Jace says.
Theo looks at him. “Prove it later.”
Practice begins.
I stop the first six shots. The seventh hits the crossbar. The eighth enters high glove because I move too early.
From the stands, a student reporter photographs me.
Camera click.
My heart stutters.
Another click.
The article headline appears behind my eyes. Mara’s name. Romantic relationship. Anonymous donor.
A shot strikes my blocker.
I lose the rebound.
Jace scores.
Coach blows the whistle. “Reset.”
Feet.
The ice feels far away.
Three sounds.
Camera. Blades. Blood in my ears.
The third is not external.
My vision narrows.
Maeve stands at the bench gate.
“What do you need?” Theo asks beside me.
I could say thirty seconds.
I could finish practice. I have finished through worse.
But the question is not can.
It is should.
“I need out,” I say.
Theo nods immediately.
No disappointment.
I skate to the bench and leave the ice.
The reporter’s camera follows.
Humiliation burns beneath panic.
In the training room, Maeve checks pulse and blood pressure. Both high, both lowering. I use the breathing pattern. Name sounds. Press my palms to the table.
Coach enters after ten minutes.
“You done today?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
I look at him.
“That is all?”
“What else?”
“Lineup.”
“We will decide lineup tomorrow based on health and performance, same as always.”
“I left practice.”
“You reported a symptom and followed the plan.”
The answer should relieve me.
Instead, anger searches for somewhere to land.
“They were watching.”
Coach sits across from me. “Someone is always watching.”
“You do not understand.”
“No. I probably do not.” He folds his hands. “But I know pretending no one saw does not make you safer.”
I look away.
After he leaves, my phone shows twelve messages. None from Mara. She is at the station board review and does not know what happened.
Good.
Then I hate that thought.
The old system: hide until control returns, then present the finished version.
I call her.
She answers after one ring. “Finn?”
“I left practice.”
“What happened?”
“Panic. Reporter had a camera. Could not reset.”
“Where are you?”
“Training room. Maeve is here.”
“Safe?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me?”
I close my eyes.
“Yes. But the board?”
“Ended five minutes ago.”
“How did it go?”
“Later.”
She arrives carrying no coffee, no jokes, no plan. She sits beside me while Maeve finishes documentation.
“How bad?” Mara asks when we are alone.
“Seven at peak. Three now.”
“Do you want quiet?”
“No.”
“Do you want distraction?”
“No.”
She waits.
“I want you to tell me about the board,” I say.
Her shoulders lower.
“They paused the project for two weeks. Not canceled. Helen defended the safeguards. One member asked whether I manipulated you into donating.”
Rage arrives cleanly.
“What did you say?”
“That I did not know. Then I asked whether he uses that question for every young woman connected to money.”
“What happened?”
“He became interested in procedure.”
My mouth almost smiles.
Mara touches my hand. “They did not fire me. They did not remove the fellowship endorsement. The station stays open.”
“For now.”
“For now.”
I turn her hand over.
“How are you?”
She looks surprised.
“Angry. Exposed. Afraid I will never know whether people respect the work or the access.”
“I respect the work.”
“You love me.”
The words stop both of us.
Mara’s eyes widen.
“I meant—you care about me. Bias.”
I should let her correct it.
Instead, I say, “Yes.”
Her breath catches.
“Yes what?”
“I love you.”
The training room becomes completely still.
This is not how I planned it. There was no plan. I expected a better location, one without resistance bands hanging behind her head and a disinfectant smell.
Mara stares at me.
Panic flickers for a new reason.
“You do not have to say it,” I tell her.
“I do.”
“No, you do not.”
“I mean I do love you.”
The alarm system stops.
Not gradually.
One moment fear is searching for threat. The next, Mara’s hands are on my face and she is kissing me.
I pull her onto my lap.
She laughs against my mouth, then cries, then says, “This is a terrible location.”
“I know.”
“Maeve could return.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
I kiss her again.
The world outside remains complicated. Cameras. Boards. Scouts. Public records.
Inside the training room, the truth is simple.
It does not solve anything.
It gives us something worth solving honestly.