Chapter Twenty-Eight
FINN
The first public statement I make about panic is not for Mara.
That matters.
The conference semifinal media session takes place in Harbor Ice’s press room. I am cleared to dress as backup. Ellis will start. Reporters have asked for an explanation since I left the quarterfinal.
Stoneharbor communications gives me three options:
1. Lower-body illness.
2. Non-specific medical issue.
3. No comment.
All are technically available.
I choose different words.
Coach sits beside me. Theo sits on the other side. Maeve waits near the door.
The first reporter asks whether I was injured.
“No,” I say.
“Then why did you leave the game?”
The room tightens.
I place both feet flat beneath the table.
“My name is Finn Callahan. I have panic attacks.”
Pens stop.
Camera shutters begin.
I breathe out slowly.
“I have been working with our medical and counseling staff. During the quarterfinal, my symptoms reached a point where I could not perform safely or reliably. I reported that, left the game, and followed the plan.”
A reporter asks, “Did public attention about the radio donation trigger the episode?”
“I am not assigning one cause. Panic is not always a logical response to one event.”
“Are you fit to play?”
“I am cleared to participate. Ellis earned the start. I will support him.”
“Could this affect your professional future?”
“Yes.”
The answer creates murmurs.
I continue. “Hiding it could also affect my future. I cannot control how every team evaluates me. I can control whether I give accurate information to the people responsible for my health and performance.”
Someone asks about Mara.
Coach starts to intervene.
I say, “Mara Bell did not cause my panic attacks, manage my treatment, or ask me to make this statement. Her station accepted a gift from my family foundation under an agreement protecting editorial independence. When our relationship created a conflict, she disclosed it and stopped covering me. The university—not the station—released the donor information.”
“Are you still together?”
“That is private.”
Thumb remains still.
Truth.
The clip spreads before warmups.
In the locker room, Jace watches it on his phone with tears in his eyes and claims he has allergies.
Theo says, “Good statement.”
“Immediate is not the only timeline,” I answer.
Owen’s phrase.
He texts thirty seconds later.
OWEN: You stole my line. Proud of you.
Mara sends nothing.
I did not speak for a response.
The truth remains difficult to live after it stops earning applause.
Ellis plays the semifinal.
He is brilliant.
Stoneharbor wins three–one.
In the locker room, Coach announces I will start the conference final if symptoms remain stable and I want it.
“Do you?” he asks.
Everyone waits.
I assess.
Fear, yes.
Readiness, also yes.
“I do.”
The final is two days away.
After the team leaves, I find an envelope taped to my stall.
Inside is a copy of the Keep the Signal On donor report. Four hundred and twelve gifts. Names, amounts, safeguards. At the bottom, an anonymous public gift with internal verification.
A sticky note in Mara’s handwriting reads:
Your mother closed the gap. Her choice. No conditions. She gave permission for me to tell you.
Beneath that:
Your statement was brave. It also sounded like you.
I sit on the bench.
My mother donated the exact remaining amount.
I call her.
“You were not supposed to know until after the fundraiser,” she says.
“I know now.”
“Are you angry?”
“No.”
“Truth?”
I press my thumb to my finger, then let the hand open.
“No. I am proud.”
Mom cries.
Dad takes the phone and says, “Good press conference.”
“Thank you.”
“Your mother made me watch it three times.”
“I watched your games three thousand times,” Mom says in the background.
After the call, I text Mara.
ME: Thank you for telling me.
She replies:
MARA: She helped me understand something.
ME: What?
Three dots appear.
MARA: Help can be transparent and still private. Care can be offered without taking over.
I read the sentence.
ME: I am learning that too.
MARA: I know.
My chest aches.
Not panic.
Possibility.
I do not ask what happens next.
The next thing is the conference final.
I can let it be enough for tonight.