Chapter Seven
Maren
The first rule of returning to something you loved is simple.
Do not make eye contact with the ice.
The ice knows.
It remembers.
Every fall.Every edge.Every version of yourself you left behind because staying started to feel like bleeding in public.
Unfortunately, ice is large.
And white.
And reflective.
And extremely difficult not to make eye contact with when you are standing six feet from it holding a pair of skates you swore you would never wear again.
Senior Night alumni skate was scheduled for four.
At three thirty, I was in the equipment corridor with a camera bag on one shoulder, my old skates in one hand, and every bad idea I had ever had apparently gathered in my lungs.
The skates were still mine.
White leather.
Scuffed toe picks.
One blue ribbon tied around the left hook because I had never been as emotionally tidy as I pretended.
I had not worn them in three years.
I had taken them out of storage last night and stared at them for twelve minutes like they might explain themselves.
They did not.
Rude.
“Those yours?”
I looked up.
Hazel stood near the corridor entrance in jeans, a Lakeview sweatshirt, and the warm expression of someone who absolutely knew she had walked into a moment.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good.”
“That feels premature.”
“Probably.”
Grady came up behind her carrying two coffees and an expression that said he was here under emotional instruction and was wise enough to accept that.
He handed Hazel one.
Then looked at my skates.
“Nice blades.”
“Old blades.”
“Still yours.”
Fantastic.
The original Lakeview couple had arrived speaking in symbolism.
I needed hazard pay.
Hazel glanced toward the rink.
“Do you want company?”
“No.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
Then she stayed exactly where she was.
I looked at her.
“You said okay.”
“I did.”
“You are still here.”
“Company you did not request. Different category.”
Grady took a sip of coffee.
“Hazel has categories.”
“I see that.”
Hazel smiled.
“Carter is already on the ice.”
My grip tightened on the skates.
I hated that she noticed.
I hated more that I wanted to know.
“Good for him,” I said.
“Very neutral.”
“Professionally neutral.”
“Deeply.”
Grady hid a smile in coffee.
Traitor.
I shifted the camera bag higher on my shoulder.
“I am filming first. Skating only if needed for moving shots.”
Hazel nodded.
“Practical.”
“Yes.”
“And if you want to skate without needing a professional reason?”
“I do not.”
She looked at the skates.
Then at me.
“Okay.”
This woman wielded okay like a blade.
I appreciated it.
I also wanted to throw a skate guard at her.
Before I could do either, Tessa arrived with Rhett.
Tessa Callahan did not enter rooms.
She invaded them with excellent hair and emotional intelligence nobody asked for.
“Maren,” she said warmly.
“Tessa.”
Her gaze dropped to the skates.
Her whole face softened.
“No.”
I pointed at her.
She stopped mid-soften.
“Respecting boundaries.”
“Thank you.”
“I am doing it visibly.”
“I noticed.”
Rhett, dark-haired and calm beside her, nodded toward the rink.
“Good crowd.”
I looked through the open tunnel.
He was right.
Alumni. Families. Current players. Staff. Donors wandering too close to the boards with hot chocolate.
A celebration.
A capstone.
Every happy ending the series had promised, gathering in one building.
Hazel and Grady.
Tessa and Rhett.
Sloane and Jace.
Eden and Mason.
And Carter somewhere on the ice, probably making a child laugh or an adult question his maturity.
The thought settled too warmly.
Dangerous.
I checked my camera.
“Work,” I said.
No one argued.
Good.
I stepped into the rink.
The sound hit first.
Skates cutting ice.
People laughing.
Music low over the speakers.
The hollow echo of a puck bouncing off boards.
The smell followed.
Cold.
Rubber.
Coffee.
Memory.
I stopped at the tunnel mouth.
Just for half a second.
Maybe a full second.
No one commented.
Good people.
Terrible witnesses.
Carter was near center ice with a group of alumni kids, demonstrating how not to stop by almost crashing into the boards.
The kids shrieked with laughter.
He bowed.
Of course.
Then he glanced toward the tunnel.
Saw me.
His face changed.
Not big.
Not publicly.
He did not skate over.
Did not point.
Did not make it a moment.
He only held my gaze for one careful second.
Then turned back to the kids.
Emotionally invisible.
As requested.
My chest hurt.
Good.
Bad.
Both.
I lifted the camera.
Work.
Filming helped.
Framing the room made it less likely to swallow me whole.
Hazel and Grady skating hand in hand, laughing when Grady tried to spin her and almost failed.
Tessa leaning on Rhett because she claimed she was not built for ice, even though he clearly would have carried her if she asked.
Sloane filming Jace with her phone while pretending she was not smiling.
Eden standing at the boards with Mason, both of them looking at a tiny arrangement of event flowers someone had placed near the donor table like this was a normal thing to bring to an arena.
The current team moving through the crowd.
Nolan carefully helping a little boy stand.
Green skating slowly with both arms out like balance was a rumor.
Carter everywhere.
Not hogging the spotlight.
Creating motion.
Pushing joy toward the edges of the room so everyone got some.
That was the thing people loved about him.
It was real.
That was what made the rest so complicated.
At four thirty, Patty from alumni relations found me by the boards.
“There you are.”
Unpromising opening.
I lowered the camera.
“Yes.”
“We need moving footage from inside the alumni circle. The staff shooter is stuck upstairs with donors.”
“I can get it from the boards.”
“We need more immersive.”
Immersive.
A dangerous word.
I glanced at the ice.
“I can ask one of the student assistants.”
“They’re all working registration.”
Of course they were.
Patty’s earrings swung with urgency.
“We only need five minutes.”
Five minutes.
Nothing.
Everything.
I could say no.
I had that right.
The world would continue.
The feature would survive.
The ice would remain ice.
And I would remain the woman standing beside it with my skates in my hand.
Hazel’s voice from yesterday found me.
Do not forgive him if being near him requires you to abandon the girl he hurt.
But what if the girl he hurt wanted the ice back?
Not for him.
Not because of him.
For herself.
I looked down at the skates.
My hands were steady.
Mostly.
“I need ten minutes to change.”
Patty smiled.
“Perfect.”
It was not perfect.
It was terrifying.
Same family.
No.
Absolutely not.
In the equipment alcove, I sat on a bench and unlaced my boots.
The skates looked smaller than I remembered.
Impossible.
Memory makes everything larger except the things that once made you feel strong.
Those it shrinks until you have to decide whether to believe your body or your fear.
I slid one foot in.
Then the other.
The leather was stiff.
Familiar.
Mean.
I tied the laces slowly.
Left skate first.
Blue ribbon against my fingers.
Three years ago, Carter had tied that ribbon before a showcase and said, “There. Now your left side has leadership.”
I had laughed.
Because I had laughed at him then.
Because before the joke became the wound, Carter had been my easiest person.
I closed my eyes.
No.
Not there.
Not yet.
I stood.
The blades touched rubber mat.
My body remembered before my mind approved.
One step.
Then another.
At the tunnel, I stopped.
Carter was across the ice with Green and two alumni players.
He turned like he felt me.
That was ridiculous.
He turned anyway.
His gaze dropped to the skates.
Then back to my face.
Everything in him went still.
For one second, I saw the reaction.
Not performance.
Not joy for himself.
Something softer.
Pride maybe.
Pain too.
Then he looked away.
No gesture.
No smile.
No moment.
Thank you, I thought.
Then hated that I was grateful.
Then stepped onto the ice.
The first glide was awful.
Not technically.
Technically, my body knew.
Emotionally, every nerve screamed.
The cold came up through the blades.
My ankles adjusted.
Knees softened.
Weight shifted.
Left edge.
Right edge.
Air in.
Air out.
I moved.
Just a little.
Not elegant.
Not strong.
Not yet.
But I moved.
Nobody laughed.
Of course nobody laughed.
The arena did not stop.
The music continued.
A kid fell near the far boards and popped up smiling.
Rhett said something to Tessa that made her smack his arm.
Hazel waved once.
Small.
Not sentimental.
Good.
I lifted the camera.
Work.
The first minute was shaky.
The second better.
By the third, I found a rhythm.
Slow glide along the edge.
Camera low.
Wide shot.
Alumni circling.
Current Wolves weaving between them.
The senior-night banner above the glass.
Lakeview State Wolves in navy and silver.
A room built from years of rules broken and kept and rewritten.
I could use this.
Professionally.
Personally, I was trying very hard not to cry into a viewfinder.
At center ice, Green lost balance.
Carter caught him by one elbow.
“Falling is correct,” Carter said.
I heard it.
So did Green.
He laughed.
Then corrected his stance.
Carter looked over.
Not at my face.
At the camera.
Professional.
Good.
I kept filming.
Then someone behind me clipped my skate.
Not hard.
Not malicious.
A kid wobbling past with too much confidence and not enough steering.
My left blade skipped.
For one horrible second, my body went back.
The old fall.
The video.
The sound.
Laughter.
Carter’s voice.
Gravity committed.
My knee bent wrong.
My hand flew out.
I did not fall.
A hand caught my elbow.
Steady.
Warm.
Careful.
Carter.
Of course.
He had moved fast.
Too fast for subtle.
The whole world narrowed to his hand around my arm and the ice beneath us.
“Got you,” he said quietly.
Not loud.
Not for anyone.
Just me.
My breath shook.