Chapter Two
Carter
The problem with Maren Ellis is that she has never known how to laugh at the right things.
Specifically, my things.
My very useful things.
My charming, room-saving, pressure-lowering, socially generous things.
She calls them avoidance.
This is rude.
Also occasionally accurate.
I stand in the stairwell for thirty-seven seconds after she leaves me there, which is not dramatic because I am an athlete and athletes often stand in stairwells for recovery purposes.
Breathing.
Hydration.
Emotional stabbing.
Same family.
No.
That was Mason’s phrase.
Bad sign.
I run one hand over my face, then shove the smile back where it belongs.
Easy.
Clean.
Familiar.
By the time I walk into the locker room, I am Carter Vance again.
Loudest laugh.
Quickest comeback.
Guy who makes the freshman stop looking like Coach Adler personally stole his childhood.
“Vance,” Rhett says from his stall.
I point at him.
“No.”
He has dark hair, tired eyes, and the expression of a man who got married and became emotionally inconvenient.
“I did not ask anything.”
“You were preparing.”
“I was observing.”
“Worse.”
Mason sits two stalls down, unlacing skates with the calm of someone who has survived living with Eden Cross and emerged with houseplants.
Or vases.
I do not know their domestic specifics.
I avoid couple details for medical reasons.
Mason looks up.
“You know her.”
I gasp.
“Excellent detective work. Someone get Hale a badge.”
Jace leans against the equipment room door, arms crossed, quiet in the way that makes people confess crimes.
“Old friend?” he asks.
“Old terrorist,” I say.
No one laughs.
Terrible room.
I reach for my towel.
“She worked a junior media clinic here freshman year. We knew each other.”
Rhett’s gaze sharpens.
“Knew each other how?”
“In the biblical sense, Callahan? No. In the she once told me my postgame quote sounded like a cereal commercial sense? Deeply.”
Mason’s mouth twitches.
Small win.
Jace does not move.
“What happened?”
“Why does everyone assume something happened?”
All three men stare at me.
Fair.
Annoying.
I throw the towel over my shoulder.
“Nothing relevant.”
Rhett says, “That means very relevant.”
Mason nods.
“Deeply relevant.”
Jace adds, “Probably catastrophic.”
I look at them.
“Has love made all of you worse?”
“Yes,” Mason says immediately.
Rhett says, “More precise.”
Jace says nothing, which is Jace for yes.
I clap once.
“Great talk.”
I head toward the showers.
Rhett’s voice follows me.
“Carter.”
I stop.
Because Rhett does not use that tone often.
Captain tone.
Friend tone.
Do not be an idiot tone.
Tragically versatile.
“What?”
He studies me.
“Coach benched you today.”
“I noticed.”
“Because you joked after missing the pass.”
“I also noticed that.”
“You good?”
Two words.
Too much.
I grin.
“I am always good.”
There it is.
The lie so old it has its own locker.
Rhett’s face does not change.
Mason looks down.
Jace looks away.
No one calls me on it.
That may be worse.
I shower.
Dress.
Do not think about Maren.
This lasts until I reach the parking lot and see her crossing toward the media building with her camera bag and her head held like posture can defeat history.
Maren Ellis always did have lethal posture.
Back straight.
Chin level.
Hair dark and glossy, tied low today instead of braided like it used to be.
Black coat.
Flat boots.
No nonsense.
No softness she did not authorize.
She used to wear ribbons around her wrists during competition season.
Not cute ribbons.
Practical ones.
She said they helped her remember which side of her body needed attention after an old skating injury.
I once tied one for her before a showcase.
Blue ribbon.
My hands shaking more than hers.
I remember that.
Unfortunately.
She does not look toward the parking lot.
Good.
Bad.
Fine.
I get in my car and sit there without starting it.
My phone buzzes.
Mom.
Great.
Perfect timing from the universe’s most committed woman.
I answer.
“Your favorite son speaking.”
“You are my only son.”
“Still ranked first.”
“And last.”
“Balanced.”
My mother does not laugh.
Suspicious.
“How was practice?”
“Good.”
“Carter.”
I lean my head back against the seat.
“Why do people keep using my name like punctuation today?”
“Because you answer like a politician.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
I start the car.
Do not move.
Practice was fine.
Coach benched me.
Maren Ellis is back.
I saw the girl I ruined, and she looks better than I deserve.
Normal Tuesday.
“Practice was practice,” I say.
“Is Coach Adler still terrifying?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You support fear-based leadership?”
“I support anything that gets you to take yourself seriously.”
“Wow. Betrayal before dinner.”
“You have always taken hockey seriously, Carter. You just pretend you do not.”
I close my eyes.
Everyone has become impossible.
“Can we talk about your knee instead?” I ask. “How is PT?”
“Do not redirect me with my own knee.”
“Worth a shot.”
“It hurts less today.”
“Good.”
“Do not come home this weekend.”
I open my eyes.
“What?”
“You were about to offer.”
“I was not.”
“You were.”
I was.
My mother had knee surgery three weeks ago. Minor, she said.
Nothing about my mother is minor.
She raised me on nurse’s shifts, vending-machine dinners, and the ability to smile at people who could ruin your day because rent existed.
“I can come Sunday,” I say.
“No.”
“You cannot carry groceries.”
“I have neighbors.”
“I am your son.”
“You are in your last season.”
“My last season does not make me unavailable for groceries.”
“No,” she says. “But guilt does.”
That hits.
Cheap shot.
Accurate.
I grip the steering wheel.
“I do not like you alone.”
“I know.”
“I do not like not knowing if you need something.”
“I know.”
“I do not like—”
“Carter.”
I stop.
Her voice softens.
“You cannot make every person you love into a job.”
There it is.
The sentence of the day.
Apparently people woke up and chose violence.
I look out the windshield.
Maren has disappeared inside the media building.
“I am not doing that.”
“Okay.”
“That was not believable.”
“No.”
I laugh once.
It does not feel good.
“Love you, Ma.”
“I love you too. Eat something green.”
“Gummy worms count?”
“No.”
“Harsh.”
“Honest.”
I hang up and drive back to the house I share with two teammates and one sink that has seen war.
Carter Vance, senior forward, Lakeview State Wolves.
Good time.
Easy guy.
Future uncertain.
Mother healing.
Coach angry.
Maren back.
Championship run beginning.
Great.
Absolutely great.
At home, Nolan is in the kitchen eating cereal out of a mixing bowl.
He is younger, chaotic, and recently trying to become less emotionally explosive after the whole Sadie situation last year.
Growth looks terrible on everyone at first.
He looks up.
“You look weird.”
“Hello to you too.”
“Did Coach yell?”
“Coach exists in yell.”
“True.”
I open the fridge.
Nothing green except one cucumber that has seen God.
I close it.
Nolan points his spoon at me.
“Media girl knows you.”
I stare.
“Does the team have no hobbies?”
“Hockey.”
“Besides hockey.”
“Gossip.”
“Wonderful.”
He chews.
“She hot?”
I give him a look.
He lowers the spoon.
“Wrong question.”
“Extremely.”
“Sorry.”
I grab a protein bar from the cabinet.
He watches me.
“She the reason Coach benched you?”
“No. My own delightful personality is the reason Coach benched me.”
“That tracks.”
“Thank you.”
He grins.
Then his face shifts.
Softer.
Careful.
“Seriously, though. You okay?”
I point the protein bar at him.
“What happened to all of you?”
“What?”
“Everyone keeps asking that.”
“Maybe you look not okay.”
“I have an expressive face.”
“You have a lying face.”
Rude.
True.
I tear open the wrapper.
“Go to class.”
“I already went.”
“All of them?”
“Define all.”
“Leave.”
He takes the mixing bowl with him.
I sit at the kitchen table and open my laptop.
Not because I need it.
Because doing something with my hands is better than texting Maren.
Not that I would.
I do not even have her number anymore.
Probably.
Maybe.
I search.
Do not search.
Search.
There.
Old thread.
Three years old.
The last message is from her.
Maren: I needed you to tell them to stop laughing.
No answer from me.
Nothing.
Because I had stood in that hallway after the showcase footage got passed around, after someone clipped her fall and my stupid voice in the background joking that she “made gravity look committed,” after everyone laughed because I made it easy.
Because I saw her face and panicked.
Because the joke had been a reflex.
Because stopping the laughter would have meant admitting I started it.
So I did nothing.
Then she left Lakeview’s skating program.
Left the media clinic.
Left me with one message I never answered.
I stare at it until the letters blur.
Then close the laptop.
Not helpful.
Tomorrow she gets to ask questions.
Great.
Fantastic.
Cannot wait.
At six, Rhett texts.
RHETT: Dinner at our place. Tessa says mandatory.
I type back:
ME: Sounds optional.
RHETT: For emotionally stable people. You are in the mandatory category.
I stare.
Then:
ME: Love destroyed your boundaries.
RHETT: Yes. Be here at 7.
Tessa and Rhett’s apartment is warm in a way that feels personally aggressive.
Shoes near the door.
Books on the table.
A framed picture from their wedding on the shelf.
A tiny Lakeview wolf wearing a bow tie because Tessa thinks she is funny.
She is.
Do not tell her.
Mason and Eden are already there when I arrive.
Eden is arranging salad like vegetables have deadlines.
Mason is looking at her like she invented air.
Disgusting.
Jace and Sloane show up five minutes later, carrying dessert and the kind of quiet confidence that makes people assume they know secrets.
They usually do.
Tessa opens the door for me and immediately studies my face.
“No.”
I point at her.
She smiles sweetly.
“I said hello.”
“You said it with concern.”
“That is because you look emotionally undercooked.”
“I miss when people respected charm.”
“No, you don’t.”
I step inside.
“Where is food?”
“Deflection station is in the kitchen.”
“Perfect.”
The others greet me.
Warmly.
Normally.
Which is almost worse.
I make it ten minutes before Tessa corners me near the counter.
She hands me a plate.
Then says, “Maren is back.”
I look at the chicken.
“Apparently.”
“She was nice.”
“Yes.”
“And sharp.”
“Also yes.”
“And she looked like she wanted to stab you with professional equipment.”
“Camera tripods are dangerous.”
Tessa’s eyes narrow.
“What did you do?”
“Wow.”
“Carter.”
I grin.
“Everyone loves my name today.”
She does not smile.
Neither does Rhett, who has wandered closer like he is not listening.
Mason and Eden pause at the table.
Jace and Sloane pretend not to.
Poorly.
I look around.
“Is this an intervention or dinner?”
“Both,” Eden says.
I point at her.
“You used to be quieter.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Fair.
I take a bite of chicken.
Chew.
Swallow.
Delay.
All six people wait me out.
Traitors.
“She and I were close freshman year,” I say.
“How close?” Sloane asks.
I look at her.
She does not blink.
“Not like that.”
“Then how?”
Worse question.
“Best-friend adjacent.”
Tessa softens.
“Adjacent?”
“She was in the skating program. I was a freshman trying to prove I deserved ice time. We both spent too many nights in the arena. She made schedules. I ignored them. She brought extra granola bars. I stole them.”
“And?” Eden asks.
The women in this room should be illegal.
“And I hurt her.”
Quiet.
No one jokes.
Terrible room.
I look at my plate.
“There was a showcase. She fell during a run-through. Bad fall. Not injury-ending, but ugly. Someone clipped it. I made a joke before I knew how embarrassed she was.”
My throat tightens.
I hate that.
“I thought I was making her feel less watched.”
Were you?
Maren’s voice in my head.
No.
No, I was making myself feel less responsible for seeing her hurt.
“The video spread,” I continue. “People laughed. I did not stop them.”
Tessa’s face changes.
Rhett goes still.
Mason looks down.
Jace’s jaw tightens.
Sloane watches me like she can tell there is more.
There is always more.
“She asked me to stop it. I joked again.”
Tessa whispers, “Carter.”
“I know.”
“Did you apologize?”
I smile.
Reflex.
Bad.
Tessa’s eyes sharpen.
The smile drops.
“No.”
There.
Truth.
Ugly.
Simple.
“I let her leave thinking her humiliation mattered less than my comfort.”
Silence.
Then Jace says, “You need to say that to her.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you?”
I look at him.
He holds my gaze.
Former rival.
Now friend.
Annoyingly good at not letting a man hide.
“I am becoming aware.”
Mason nods once.
“That is better.”
Eden points a fork at me.
“Do not turn the apology into a performance.”
“I would never.”
Everyone stares.
I sigh.
“Fine. I might.”
“Do not,” she says.
“Understood.”
Dinner continues.
Mostly.
They let me breathe after that, which is generous and suspicious.
At one point, Rhett sits beside me on the couch while the women discuss something involving senior night logistics and Jace listens because he is smarter than us.
Rhett says, “You know you do not have to be funny here.”
I lean back.
“Terrible hosting.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You can be the guy who messed up and is trying to fix it.”
“That guy sounds unpopular.”
“He is less exhausting.”
I stare at the ceiling.
“Do you ever miss being emotionally unavailable?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Sometimes.”
“Thank you.”
“But this is better.”
I glance at him.
He looks toward Tessa, who is arguing with Sloane about signage.
His face does the quiet thing.
The in-love thing.
The terrifying thing.
“Worth it?” I ask.
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
Rude.
Helpful.
At nine, I leave with leftover chicken, unsolicited advice, and the deep sense that my friends have become a committee.
My phone buzzes when I get to my car.
Unknown number.
For one stupid second, I think it is Maren.
It is not.
It is my mother.
MOM: Did you eat green?
I send a photo of the salad container Tessa forced into my hand.
MOM: Marry whoever gave you that.
I smile.
Then it fades.
Because I think of Maren’s old message again.
I needed you to tell them to stop laughing.
I sit in the dark car.
Open the old thread.
Type.
Delete.
Type.
Delete.
Do not apologize by text.
Do not make it easy for myself.
Do not make her responsible for forgiving me because I finally decided to feel bad out loud.
Growth is very inconvenient.
I put the phone down.
Tomorrow.
Interview room.
Maren with a camera.
Me with nowhere to hide unless I build the joke fast enough.
I think about what she typed in her file.
I do not know the exact question.
I know her.
It will cut.
Good.
Maybe it should.
The last rule has always been simple.
Never let them see it hurts.
Maren saw anyway.
And tomorrow, she is going to ask why I made that her problem.