Chapter Four #2
I stare at the phone.
“Who taught you that?”
“You did.”
Terrible.
My mother continues. “How is Ridgeview week?”
“Gross.”
“That means important.”
“Yes.”
“And the girl?”
I close my eyes.
“Do we need a code name?”
“No. Her name is Maren.”
“She is not a classified file.”
“She might be.”
“Carter.”
“She is here.”
“And?”
“And I apologized.”
Silence.
Long enough that I check the phone.
“Mom?”
“I’m here.”
“Judgment loading?”
“No,” she says quietly. “I am proud of you.”
My throat tightens.
Great.
Fantastic.
Chicken is dangerous now.
“It did not fix it.”
“Of course not.”
“She did not forgive me.”
“That was not the assignment.”
I look down.
“What was?”
“To become the kind of man who knew what he had done.”
I do not answer.
There are not many things my mother cannot soften with humor.
This is one.
“Are you doing that?” she asks.
“Trying.”
“Good.”
After lunch, I meet with Athletic Communications for general media day planning.
Maren is there.
So are two staffers, Coach Adler, and an alumni liaison named Patty who has aggressive earrings and a clipboard empire.
Senior Night is apparently becoming a full series capstone.
Hazel and Grady confirmed.
Tessa and Rhett.
Sloane and Jace.
Eden and Mason.
Families.
Alumni.
A pregame ceremony.
A video package.
A postgame reception if we win.
If.
Everyone says if differently during Ridgeview week.
Like it might bite.
Patty taps her clipboard.
“We need short on-camera reflections from each senior. Ten seconds.”
I groan.
Maren looks at me.
“Ten usable seconds,” she says.
“Cruel distinction.”
“Necessary.”
Coach Adler says, “Vance, try for twelve. We may need to cut around personality.”
The room laughs.
I laugh too.
Because it is funny.
Because it is fair.
Because this kind does not hurt anyone.
Maren watches me.
Noticing.
Always noticing.
After the meeting, Adler keeps me back.
“Maren’s feature will be shown during Senior Night if approved.”
My stomach drops.
“What?”
“Your first cut is strong.”
I look at Maren.
She looks surprised too.
“You watched it?” she asks Adler.
“Yes.”
She straightens.
“I have not finished.”
“I know.”
“Then—”
“I said first cut.”
She looks mildly offended on behalf of process.
Adler seems unmoved.
“I want honesty in the senior package,” he says. “Not just nostalgia.”
Great.
My emotional exposure may become arena content.
I love sports.
“I get approval?” I ask.
“No,” Maren and Adler say together.
Horrifying unity.
I hold up both hands.
“Wonderful.”
Adler leaves.
Maren gathers her notes.
I stay because apparently I hate peace.
“What was in the first cut?”
She does not look up.
“You.”
“Specific.”
“It is mostly the interview.”
“The emotionally defective parts?”
Her eyes lift.
“No.”
I wait.
She says, “The honest parts.”
That feels worse.
Better.
Same—
No.
I refuse.
“Do you think it should air?”
She pauses.
“I think it depends on what you do next.”
There it is again.
The future attached to behavior, not words.
“On the ice?”
“Everywhere.”
I nod.
“Fair.”
She zips her bag.
“You do not have to become serious all the time.”
That surprises me.
“I don’t?”
“No.”
“You sure? Because everyone seems very invested in making me emotionally beige.”
Her mouth twitches.
“There is a difference between funny and unavailable.”
I go still.
She says it gently.
That is the problem.
I can dodge a blade.
Not gentleness.
“Which was I?” I ask.
“With me?”
She does not look away.
“Both.”
Ouch.
Earned.
I nod once.
“Okay.”
She moves toward the door.
Then stops.
“And Carter?”
“Yes?”
“You were funny today.”
I blink.
“In a good way?”
“Yes.”
Then she leaves before I can ruin that.
Smart woman.
That evening, the team hosts open skate for local kids.
Ridgeview week tradition.
Community service disguised as branding.
Kids love us.
We love not admitting kids scare us.
Eli Green helps a little boy tie skates.
Nolan nearly gets taken down by a seven-year-old with no braking system.
Rhett signs a jersey.
Mason lifts a kid onto the boards so she can wave at her parents.
Jace teaches two twins how to hold sticks properly.
And I find myself with a girl in a purple helmet who refuses to move from the entrance.
She is maybe eight.
Tiny.
Furious.
“I am not scared,” she says.
“Great. Me neither.”
Her eyes narrow.
“You play hockey.”
“Still scared of many things.”
“Like what?”
Coach Adler.
Maren Ellis.
Honesty.
The future.
Ridgeview’s penalty kill.
My mother falling when I am not there.
Being useless if no one needs me laughing.
“Spiders,” I say.
She considers.
“Me too.”
Good.
Common ground.
“What is your name?” I ask.
“Lily.”
“Okay, Lily. You do not have to skate fast. You just have to move one foot.”
“What if I fall?”
“Then you will be doing hockey correctly.”
She frowns.
“Falling is correct?”
“Essential.”
“Do you fall?”
“All the time.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Do people laugh?”
The question hits with stupid precision.
Across the rink, Maren has her camera up.
Not at me.
At the event.
Maybe.
I look back at Lily.
“Sometimes,” I say.
Her face tightens.
“And if they do?”
I crouch carefully so we are eye level.
“Then someone should tell them to stop.”
The words land in me before they land in her.
Lily nods seriously.
Like I have given her a sacred law.
“Will you?”
“Yes,” I say.
This time, I mean it.
She takes one tiny step onto the ice.
Then another.
She wobbles.
Does not fall.
Looks absolutely furious about surviving.
I grin.
“See? Terrible. You’re natural.”
She smiles.
Small.
Real.
No shield yet.
I hope she keeps it that way.
When I look up, Maren is watching.
Camera lowered.
Expression unreadable.
But her eyes are soft.
Very soft.
I do not know what to do with that.
So I do nothing.
Progress.
Maybe.
Later, as the kids leave, Lily runs toward her mother and tells her, “Falling is correct.”
Her mother looks alarmed.
I choose not to clarify.
Maren comes to stand near the boards.
“That was good,” she says.
“Public service or child endangerment?”
“Both.”
I smile.
Not too much.
She holds the camera strap with both hands.
“You told her someone should make people stop laughing.”
My throat tightens.
“Yes.”
“She needed to hear it.”
“So did I.”
The honesty slips out.
Maren’s face changes.
I almost joke.
I do not.
Instead, I say, “I should have said it then.”
“Yes.”
“I cannot fix then.”
“No.”
“I can say it now when I see it.”
Her fingers tighten around the strap.
“That is different from saying sorry.”
“I know.”
“I believe you do.”
That sentence is a small door.
Not open.
Unlocked maybe.
I nod.
“Thank you.”
“Do not make it huge.”
“Medium?”
“Small.”
“Cruel.”
Her mouth curves.
Actual almost-smile.
Then a puck slides slowly across the ice and bumps the boards near us.
I pick it up.
Hold it out.
She looks at it.
“What?”
“Souvenir.”
“No.”
“It came to you.”
“It is a puck.”
“Fate puck.”
“No.”
I set it on the boards between us.
She stares.
I say, “No pressure. Just an emotionally neutral puck.”
“There is no such thing.”
“True.”
She does not take it.
I do not push.
We stand beside it for a second.
Then she picks it up and drops it into her camera bag.
Like it means nothing.
Like I do not see.
Fine.
Good.
Great.
The room inside me gets quiet.
Not empty.
Quiet.
And for once, I do not rush to fill it.