Chapter Four
Carter
The problem with apologizing correctly is that nobody tells you what to do afterward.
There should be a handbook.
Step one: ruin everything.Step two: wait three years.Step three: return to the scene of emotional vandalism.Step four: apologize without jokes.Step five: what now?
Nothing.
No diagram.
No flowchart.
Deeply irresponsible.
By Thursday morning, I have considered emailing Maren a follow-up apology six times.
I do not.
Growth.
I have also considered sending her a coffee.
I do not.
More growth.
I have also considered asking Coach Adler to make someone else go first in the senior features so I can avoid becoming a documentary cautionary tale.
I do not.
This is less growth and more fear of Coach Adler.
Still counts.
Practice starts at seven.
Ridgeview week begins Monday, which means everyone is pretending not to care too much while caring aggressively.
Lakeview versus Ridgeview is not a game.
It is a weather event.
The kind that makes alumni text.
The kind that makes freshmen vomit quietly into trash cans before warmups.
The kind that makes Coach Adler speak in short sentences and stare like he can see every dumb penalty before it happens.
We are in the locker room at six forty-two when Adler walks in.
Conversation dies instantly.
Beautiful leadership.
Horrible vibes.
“Ridgeview has won six straight,” he says.
No greeting.
No warmup.
Just violence.
“They have the best penalty kill in the conference. They lead in blocked shots. They bait retaliation better than anyone you will play this season.”
His eyes land on Nolan.
Then me.
Rude.
Accurate.
“They will chirp. They will lean. They will laugh when you lose control.”
I feel that sentence under my ribs.
Laugh when you lose control.
Great.
We have entered thematic practice.
Adler looks around the room.
“You want to beat Ridgeview?”
No one answers because this is not actually a question.
“Then do not give them the version of you they can use.”
Oh, good.
Fantastic.
Coach has become Maren with a whistle.
I look down at my gloves.
Rhett sits across from me, dark hair damp from his pre-practice shower, expression already locked in.
Mason is beside him, focused in the scary calm way that came after Eden finished rebuilding him with coffee and rules.
Jace looks like a man who would enjoy blocking a shot with his face if Sloane found it honorable.
Nolan looks like he is trying to behave and suffering.
I probably look delightful.
Or haunted.
Same family.
No.
I need my own phrases.
Adler claps once.
“On the ice.”
Practice is brutal.
Not dramatic brutal.
Worse.
Precise brutal.
Ridgeview systems.
Faceoff pressure.
Neutral-zone traps.
Penalty-kill reads.
Every small mistake becomes a whistle.
Every lazy habit becomes a correction.
Every joke I almost make dies in my throat because Maren is on the media platform with a camera.
Not pointed at me.
Still there.
Watching.
Not like a fan.
Not like a girl who used to know me.
Like someone whose job is to see what everyone else misses.
I hate it.
I need it.
Bad combination.
Halfway through practice, I miss a backdoor pass from Rhett.
Not badly.
Bad enough.
The puck hits my blade and skips wide.
My first instinct arrives before thought.
Bow.
Grin.
Say something stupid about the puck rejecting commitment.
I feel the joke rise.
Then I see Maren above the glass.
Still.
Waiting.
Not smiling.
And I swallow it.
I skate back into position.
Coach Adler’s whistle does not blow.
Interesting.
Painful.
We run the drill again.
This time, I make the play.
Rhett scores.
He taps my shin pad on the way by.
“Look at you,” he says.
“No.”
“Growth.”
“I said no.”
He smiles.
Terrible friend.
After practice, Adler catches me near the bench.
“Vance.”
I stop.
“Yes, Coach.”
“You ate the joke.”
That is a weird sentence.
Still true.
“Trying something new.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He looks toward the media platform.
Maren is packing her camera.
Not looking at us.
Probably.
“Do not change because she is watching,” Adler says.
I look back at him.
“I thought that was the point.”
“No. Change because you see it too.”
Then he walks away.
Efficient emotional assault.
Classic Adler.
In the locker room, the team is buzzing.
Ridgeview week does that.
Everything is louder.
Tighter.
Meaner.
Carter Vance would usually feed it.
Add air.
Make the room breathe.
I can feel the old role waiting for me.
Say something.
Make them laugh.
Take the edge off.
But Coach’s words stick.
Do not give them the version of you they can use.
There are versions of me people can use.
The clown.
The flirt.
The guy who makes every serious thing small.
The teammate who can turn fear into noise.
Useful.
Until it is not.
Nolan throws a tape ball at Eli Green, one of the freshmen.
It misses and hits the wall.
Green flinches.
Not big.
Enough.
I see it.
Normally, I would make a joke at Green.
Something light.
Something easy.
Something that tells everyone he is fine whether he feels fine or not.
This time, I pick up the tape ball and throw it at Nolan.
Hard.
It hits his chest.
“Ow,” Nolan says.
“Stop throwing things at freshmen.”
“I missed him.”
“That is not the point.”
The room quiets.
Nolan looks at me.
Not angry.
Surprised.
So am I, honestly.
“Okay,” he says.
Just that.
Okay.
Green looks down at his skates.
I sit beside him for twelve seconds while pretending to retape my stick.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
He nods too fast.
“Great.”
“Try again.”
He swallows.
“Ridgeview makes me nervous.”
“Correct.”
His head lifts.
“What?”
“If Ridgeview does not make you nervous, you are either lying or concussed.”
That gets a tiny laugh.
Good.
Not at him.
With him.
Different.
“We need you nervous and useful,” I say. “Not nervous and pretending.”
He nods.
This one feels real.
“I can do that.”
“Good.”
Nolan watches from across the room.
Rhett too.
Mason.
Jace.
Everyone, apparently.
I stand.
“What?”
Rhett shakes his head.
“Nothing.”
“Banned.”
Mason grins.
I point at him.
“No domestic phrases.”
“Too late,” he says.
Terrible.
After showering, I take the long way out because I am absolutely not trying to run into Maren.
Which means I run into Maren.
Obviously.
She is outside the equipment hallway, camera bag on one shoulder, reviewing footage on the small screen.
Her hair is loose today.
Dark waves tucked behind one ear.
Focused face.
Sharp mouth.
No coffee in sight.
Good.
Do not think about her mouth and coffee in the same thought.
She looks up.
“Vance.”
“Ellis.”
“Productive practice.”
“Were you taking notes or collecting evidence?”
“Both.”
“I respect efficiency.”
Her gaze moves over my face.
Not soft.
Not hard either.
That might be worse.
“You stopped yourself,” she says.
“From what?”
“The joke.”
I lean against the wall.
Bad idea.
Too casual.
I straighten.
Her eyes catch the adjustment.
Of course.
I sigh.
“You saw that?”
“Yes.”
“From the platform?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have telescopic judgment?”
“Standard lens.”
“Terrifying.”
Her mouth almost curves.
Almost.
I will take almost.
Then she says, “Why did you stop?”
Could be simple.
Because of you.
Bad answer.
Too much.
Also not fully true.
Because of Coach.
Because of Green.
Because I saw the habit before it escaped.
Because I heard an apology in my own mouth yesterday and did not want it to become decorative.
“I saw it coming,” I say.
Her expression shifts.
Good answer?
Maybe.
She waits.
Naturally.
“I saw the joke before I made it,” I continue. “And for once, it looked like a choice.”
Maren looks down at the camera.
Then back.
“That is worth noticing.”
Not praise.
Not forgiveness.
But something.
I put both hands in my hoodie pocket so I do not do anything stupid like reach for her camera bag.
Old reflex.
Old intimacy.
Not mine anymore.
“How was the footage?” I ask.
“Good.”
“That sounded ominous.”
“It was.”
“Am I embarrassing in HD?”
“Everyone is.”
“Comforting.”
“You looked different today.”
Dangerous.
I grin before I can stop myself.
“Better lighting?”
Her face closes.
Not all the way.
Enough.
Idiot.
I inhale.
“Sorry.”
She stills.
I do not say more.
No pile-on apology.
No making her reassure me.
Her shoulders ease a fraction.
“Different,” she says again, “because you let the room stay uncomfortable.”
That lands.
I look past her at the hallway.
The trophy case.
The Wolves logo.
The place where all our noise collects.
“It was not my favorite.”
“No.”
“But it did not kill anyone.”
“Usually doesn’t.”
I look at her.
“You did that too?”
“What?”
“Let rooms stay uncomfortable.”
Her expression changes.
I know immediately I stepped near something.
Not wrong.
Near.
“In different ways,” she says.
“Skating?”
“Life.”
That is not an answer.
It is a closed door.
I respect it.
Barely.
“Fair.”
She blinks once.
Maybe surprised I did not push.
Good.
“I need to edit,” she says.
“I need to avoid Coach.”
“Productive plans.”
“Extremely.”
I step aside.
She starts past me.
Then stops.
“Carter.”
My whole body reacts to my name in her voice.
Unhelpful.
“Yes?”
“Thank you for not sending coffee.”
I freeze.
She knows me too well.
Deeply annoying.
“I considered it.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You have patterns.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Everyone is right.”
I should make a joke.
I do not.
“Would coffee have been bad?”
Her eyes soften.
Barely.
“No.”
Then sharpen again.
“But it would have been easy.”
Ah.
There it is.
“Okay,” I say.
She nods.
Then leaves.
I stand there like a man who has just been praised and rejected by beverage policy.
At lunch, my mother calls again.
“You sound tired,” she says before hello.
“Hello to you too.”
“Are you eating?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
I look at the tray.
“Food.”
“Carter.”
“Chicken. Rice. Something green adjacent.”
“Good.”
“Do cucumbers expire emotionally?”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Banned.”