Chapter Eight #2
“Can both be true?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“How do I know which one I’m doing?”
“You probably already know.”
Unhelpful.
True.
We hang up after she promises to accept neighbor help and I promise to eat vegetables without sending photographic proof.
No one believes anyone.
Family.
I sleep badly.
Ridgeview is part of it.
Maren is the rest.
Not in a romantic fantasy way.
Mostly.
In a what if I ruin everything again way.
At seven the next morning, I am at the arena early.
Not for practice.
For quiet.
The rink is dark except the emergency lights and the faint glow from the concourse.
I sit in the stands with coffee and watch the ice.
No one is on it.
Still looks like it is waiting.
I think about Maren stepping on yesterday.
The way she froze.
The way she kept going.
The way she said the wanting was loud.
I understand that now.
The wanting is loud.
Hockey.
Her.
Winning.
Being known.
Being useful.
Being forgiven.
Not being forgiven just because I finally learned how to say the thing right.
Too much wanting.
Terrible volume.
The door opens below.
Of course.
Maren.
She steps into the rink wearing a long coat, leggings, and boots.
No skates.
Camera bag.
Hair down.
She sees me in the stands.
Stops.
“Do you live here?”
“Emotionally.”
“That tracks.”
She climbs the stairs.
Not all the way.
Just to my row.
Leaves two seats between us.
Good.
Painful.
Correct.
“You’re early,” I say.
“So are you.”
“Ridgeview week.”
“Feature edits.”
“Ah. Mutually unhealthy.”
“Deeply.”
We sit in silence.
The rink hums.
No crowd.
No cameras on.
No one needing Carter energy.
Maren wraps both hands around her coffee.
I look at her.
Then the ice.
Then not at her.
Very mature.
“The cut is good,” I say.
She does not look at me.
“You watched it?”
“Yes.”
“Too many times?”
“No.”
She glances over.
I sigh.
“Yes.”
Her mouth curves.
“I figured.”
“It is rude how good you are.”
“Thank you.”
“Not praise.”
“I accepted it anyway.”
A small smile.
Mine too.
Then quiet.
I let it stay.
Long enough that it becomes something else.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Yes.”
Immediate.
Her fingers tighten on the cup.
“Do you miss who you were before you became useful?”
That question goes under the ribs.
No warning.
No mercy.
Maren Ellis.
Always making the answer stand still.
I look at the ice.
The easy answer is no.
The truthful answer takes longer.
“I do not remember him well,” I say.
She turns toward me.
“Before hockey?”
“Before needing people to want me around.”
Her expression softens.
I do not look at it too long.
“I think he was louder in a different way,” I continue. “Happier maybe. More annoying.”
“You are still annoying.”
“Comforting.”
“He liked things without turning them into jobs?”
I think.
“Maybe.”
The rink is quiet enough to hear the lights.
“I do miss him,” I say finally. “But I do not know if he is real or just something I made up because I am tired.”
Maren says nothing.
Good.
Then she says, “Maybe parts of him are real.”
I look at her.
“Which parts?”
Her gaze holds mine.
“The part that got Lily on the ice.”
My chest tightens.
“And?”
“The part that made Green breathe instead of laugh at him.”
I swallow.
“And?”
She looks away first.
“The part that brought me coffee and moved it away when I said it was not nothing.”
That lands differently.
Soft.
Heavy.
I want to reach across the two seats.
I do not.
“I missed you,” I say.
She goes still.
Bad.
No.
True.
“I do not mean—” I stop. Start again. “I do not mean that as a request. Or pressure. Or reunion thing.”
She looks at me now.
Careful.
“I mean I missed the person who knew when I was lying before I did.”
Her eyes shine.
Maybe from rink light.
Maybe not.
“Carter.”
“I know.”
“No, you do not.”
Fair.
I wait.
She says, “You missed me after making it unsafe for me to stay.”
The words cut.
Clean.
Needed.
“Yes.”
“And I missed you after learning I could not trust you with the worst part of a day.”
My throat closes.
“I know.”
Her eyes narrow.
I correct immediately.
“I understand.”
She breathes out.
Good.
A door does not open.
But it does not lock either.
We sit there until the rink lights come up.
When they do, the ice flashes bright.
Maren looks down at it.
Not scared exactly.
Not easy either.
“You going to skate again?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
“Tiny reaction?”
“None.”
I press my lips together.
She sees.
Her mouth curves.
“Good restraint.”
“Terrible restraint.”
“Still counts.”
She looks at me.
“You said it.”
“I did.”
“Domestic phrase theft.”
“I am compromised.”
“Clearly.”
At nine, people start arriving.
The spell breaks.
Maren stands.
I stand too.
Not because she needs me to.
Because practice is soon.
Because the day has begun.
At the end of the row, she pauses.
“Carter.”
“Yes?”
“Ridgeview will probably try to make you the easiest version of yourself.”
I look down at the empty ice.
Then at her.
“Yes.”
“Do not let them.”
It sounds like an instruction.
It feels like trust.
Small.
But there.
I nod.
“I won’t.”
She looks at me for one second longer.
Then leaves for the media office.
I watch her go.
Not too long.
Probably too long.
Then I head to the locker room.
Ridgeview is coming.
Senior Night is coming.
Everything is loud.
But for the first time in a long time, the loudest thing is not fear.
It is the part of me that wants to be known and somehow survive it.