Chapter Twenty-Five
MARA
The first night after Finn and I end, I go on air and speak for two hours without saying anything true.
The facts are accurate. The weather is fourteen degrees. Student senate approved the transit proposal. The women’s hockey team beat Red Lake four–two. Rowan Hale scored twice and declined to call Theo Park’s congratulatory email “surprisingly coherent” on record.
My voice is bright. My timing is clean.
I am nowhere inside it.
At midnight, Tessa turns off the ON AIR sign.
“That was technically excellent,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“And emotionally dead.”
“Less helpful.”
She rolls her chair closer. “Do you want me to ask?”
“No.”
“Do you want me not to leave?”
I look at her.
Tessa has learned the question.
“Not yet,” I say.
She stays while I organize cables that are already organized.
At one, Sophie arrives with soup. Apparently Tessa has become part of the family emergency network.
“I am not hungry,” I say.
Sophie removes the lid. “Feed it.”
“This problem cannot be fed.”
“All problems believe that before pasta.”
She sits on the floor beside me.
I tell her about the breakup. The legal notice. The money. The way Finn said okay when I asked for time.
“That was loving,” she says.
“It was awful.”
“Both.”
“I hate that word now.”
Sophie hands me a spoon.
The next morning, Helen calls a staff meeting.
We have twenty-one days to replace eight thousand dollars or end Sports After Dark. The station cannot simply accept another anonymous restricted gift under current university policy. We need transparent underwriting, unrestricted donations through the station foundation, or a grant.
Tessa raises her hand. “Can we sell Jace Bennett?”
“Legally complicated,” Helen says.
“I know buyers.”
We build a campaign called Keep the Signal On.
No celebrity savior. No secret donor. Small public commitments: ten dollars from listeners, fifty from alumni, local business underwriting disclosed on air.
Rowan offers the women’s team for a live fundraiser game.
Theo, through an email that contains too many bullet points, offers the men’s team too.
Finn’s name is not included.
I do not know whether that is respect or cowardice.
By Friday, we have raised twelve hundred dollars.
A local coffee shop sponsors one week. Sophie’s hospital nursing unit collects two hundred and seventeen dollars. Lena and Owen send a public donation of one hundred dollars with the message For the next sentence.
I cry in the office bathroom, then record a thank-you spot.
Finn sends nothing.
That should make me feel heard.
It makes me miss him.
At the fellowship semifinal showcase, my audio piece plays for an audience of producers and faculty. I stand beside the stage and listen to my own voice say, I am learning to stay without standing guard.
Afterward, the Chicago judge asks whether I would consider expanding the piece into a series about care, consent, and invisible labor.
“Yes,” I say.
Not maybe. Not if the goalie project survives.
My story is not a substitute for Finn’s. It is mine.
On the walk back, I pass Harbor Ice.
The Wolves are playing conference quarterfinals. I can hear the crowd through the walls.
I have not attended a game since the breakup.
Tessa covers it. The conflict plan remains.
I stand beneath the arena lights and check the score on my phone.
Stoneharbor leads two–one after the first.
Finn has stopped eighteen shots.
I tell myself that is enough information.
Then the app updates.
GOALTENDING CHANGE — 2ND PERIOD. Callahan replaced by Ellis.
My body moves before thought.
I enter through the media door, show my station credential, and reach the lower corridor.
Maeve stands outside the training room.
She sees me and holds up one hand.
“He is safe,” she says.
The words stop my lungs from collapsing.
“Panic?”
“I cannot share details.”
Of course.
“Did he ask for me?”
Maeve’s expression softens. “No.”
Pain and pride arrive together.
He used the plan. He did not make me the plan.
“Can I leave a message?”
“Yes.”
I take out my phone, type, delete, type again.
ME: I heard you made the health decision. I am proud of you. No response needed.
Maeve carries the message inside.
I return to the station before the third period.
Tessa looks at my face through the booth glass.
“Safe?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to take over?”
“No.”
The answer costs me.
It is also correct.
I sit outside the booth while she calls the final period.
Stoneharbor wins four–three.
Finn does not return to the bench.
The signal stays on.
So do I.