Chapter Five #2
“You sure?”
“No.”
Good.
Too honest.
His body went still.
“What happened?”
“Skating alumni.”
Understanding moved across his face.
Not pity.
Guilt first.
Then care.
“Senior Night?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“That is not fair.”
I laughed once.
Sharp.
“Fair has not been involved in several chapters.”
His mouth opened.
Closed.
Good.
No joke.
“I can talk to Athletic Communications,” he said. “You should not have to—”
“No.”
He stopped immediately.
“I do not need you to fix it.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I am trying to.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
No grin.
No shield.
Just Carter, trying.
Terrible.
“I used to love that program,” I said.
His throat moved.
“I know.”
“And I hated that leaving it felt like letting the video win.”
He flinched.
Small.
Earned.
I continued because apparently my mouth had decided truth was happening.
“But staying felt like everyone had already agreed I was the joke.”
Carter’s face changed.
“I did not understand that then.”
“No.”
“I should have.”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
No defense.
No explanation.
Just yes.
That made my chest hurt.
He set his gear bag down.
Still did not come closer.
“What do you need?”
I blinked.
Not what are you going to do.
Not I am sorry again.
What do you need?
Very annoying.
“I do not know.”
“Okay.”
“I might go.”
“To the alumni reception?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“I might not.”
“Also okay.”
“I might go and hate everyone.”
His mouth twitched.
“Seems possible.”
“I might go and discover nobody remembers.”
“That might be worse.”
I stared at him.
He shrugged slightly.
“If nobody remembers, then you carried it alone. That feels worse in some ways.”
That was...
Unfortunately accurate.
I looked away first.
“I hate when you say useful things.”
“New hobby.”
“Do not overdo it.”
“I will ration.”
Almost a smile.
Mine.
Not his.
That felt dangerous.
He saw it and did not celebrate.
Good.
“I have your interview cut,” I said, because work was safer.
“Should I be afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Great.”
“I need one more section.”
“What section?”
“Hockey.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I play that.”
“Allegedly.”
“Ouch.”
“I need why you chose it. Not the quote version. The real one.”
He looked toward the ice.
The team had left now.
Only maintenance staff remained.
For a moment, I thought he would give me something easy.
Then he said, “Because hockey gave me a room where being useful counted more than being poor.”
My chest tightened.
There.
That.
I did not speak.
He looked back at me, mouth twisting.
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Usable?”
“Yes.”
“Depressing?”
“Honest.”
He nodded.
“My mom worked nights. We moved a lot. I got good at being the kid adults liked because likable kids get rides, extra snacks, used gear, patience.” He shrugged, but it did not hide anything. “Hockey rewarded that. Be fun. Be tough. Be useful. Make the room want you there.”
His eyes met mine.
“That is not an excuse.”
“I did not say it was.”
“I know. I am saying it before I try to make it one.”
I hated how much I liked that answer.
I took out my notebook.
“Say that again.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“For the camera.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I am sweaty.”
“This is hockey.”
He looked down at himself.
“Fair.”
I set up fast before either of us could overthink.
No formal room.
No perfect lighting.
Just Carter sitting in the empty lower bowl with the ice behind him.
I turned on the camera.
“Why hockey?” I asked.
This time, he answered.
Not polished.
Not perfectly.
Better.
“Hockey gave me a place where being useful counted,” he said. “I knew how to make people laugh. I knew how to keep the room from feeling too heavy. And when you grow up needing people to want you around, that can feel like survival.”
He stopped.
Looked down at his hands.
Then back up.
“But survival is not the same as leadership. I am trying to learn the difference before I leave Lakeview.”
Silence.
Good silence.
The kind even athletes could not ruin.
I turned off the camera.
Carter rubbed both hands over his face.
“Was that awful?”
“No.”
“Medium awful?”
“No.”
“Small awful?”
“It was good.”
He looked at me.
Really looked.
The air changed.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Recognition.
The thing between old hurt and possible future.
The fragile middle.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You did the work.”
“You asked the question.”
“My job.”
“No,” he said quietly. “You always asked the question.”
I swallowed.
The arena felt too empty.
Too full.
Both.
I packed the camera.
He picked up his gear bag.
Neither of us moved toward the exit for a second.
Then Carter said, “For what it’s worth, I think you should go.”
“To the alumni reception?”
“Yes.”
“Because it would be healing?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“Then why?”
His face was serious.
“Because you loved it. And I hate that what I did made the place feel like mine to ruin.”
The words hit so hard I had to look away.
He continued, careful.
“But if you do not go, that is not losing. And if you do go, I will not make it about me.”
I looked back at him.
“Promise?”
He nodded.
No joke.
“I promise.”
Promises were dangerous.
This one felt like a handrail.
Not a cage.
I nodded once.
“Okay.”
That was all.
He accepted it.
At my desk later, I reviewed the new footage.
Carter’s face on the screen.
No easy smile.
No laugh.
Just truth.
I placed it into the timeline after the Ridgeview practice footage.
The story shifted immediately.
Got stronger.
Deeper.
More dangerous.
I watched it once.
Twice.
Then I opened a new note beneath his feature file.
Carter Vance does not need to stop being funny. He needs to stop using funny as an exit.
I stared at the sentence.
Then saved it.
At the bottom of my camera bag, the puck sat heavy and ridiculous.
I took it out.
Placed it on my desk.
This time, I left it there.