Chapter Ten
Carter
The problem with telling Maren Ellis I wanted to kiss her is that I still have to go celebrate like a normal person afterward.
Normal person.
Very funny concept.
I walk back into the locker room after beating Ridgeview in overtime, after not taking the bait, after taking the bait a little, after passing instead of shooting, after telling the girl I hurt that I wanted to kiss her and then leaving like a mature adult.
I deserve a medal.
Instead, Nolan dumps water on my head.
“VANCE!”
Cold hits my hair, neck, jersey.
The room explodes.
I stand there dripping.
Silent.
Everyone freezes.
Nolan’s smile drops.
“Oh no.”
Rhett looks between us.
Mason looks ready to mediate.
Jace looks like he has already chosen where to bury the body.
I wipe water from my face.
Slowly.
Then grin.
“Nolan.”
He backs up.
“I thought we were celebrating.”
“We are.”
“Then why do you sound like Coach Adler?”
“Because I am growing.”
“That is upsetting.”
“Deeply.”
I grab a towel from the nearest stall and whip it at him.
Chaos resumes.
Good chaos.
Winning chaos.
The kind that smells like sweat, tape, cold water, and twenty guys trying not to admit overtime made them want to cry.
Green is still standing near his stall, staring at his phone like it might confirm the goal happened.
I walk over.
He looks up.
“I scored against Ridgeview.”
“Yes.”
“In the third period.”
“Yes.”
“On your pass.”
“Technically, Rhett’s entire line structure and Mason’s net drive created—”
“Carter.”
I smile.
“Yes. On my pass.”
His face cracks into the kind of smile freshmen do not know how to hide yet.
Good.
Keep that, kid.
Do not let the room teach it out of you.
Rhett appears at my side.
Dark hair wet, towel around his shoulders, expression calm in the annoying way captains become after winning.
“You made the right play,” he says.
“I do that occasionally.”
“You wanted the shot.”
“Of course I wanted the shot.”
“Still passed.”
“Heroic.”
“Useful.”
I look at him.
Useful.
The word does not cut the same way tonight.
Maybe because I chose it instead of hid inside it.
“Yeah,” I say.
Rhett nods once.
No speech.
Good friend.
Terrible haircut.
No, his hair is fine.
I am emotionally vulnerable and looking for flaws.
Across the room, Coach Adler enters.
The noise dies.
Mostly.
Someone’s speaker keeps playing for half a second before Eli Green dives to shut it off.
Adler stands in the middle of the room.
Hands in jacket pockets.
Face unreadable.
We wait.
This is how he kills us.
Then he says, “Good win.”
The room detonates.
Sticks against floor.
Shouts.
A towel flies.
Coach lets it go for exactly four seconds.
Then lifts one hand.
Silence returns.
“Not perfect,” he says.
Of course.
“First period too tight. Second period too cute. Third period better. Overtime disciplined.”
His eyes land on me.
“Vance.”
My stomach tightens.
“Yes, Coach.”
“You got baited.”
The room goes quiet.
My mouth almost opens.
For a joke.
For defense.
For something easy.
I close it.
“Yes.”
Adler nods.
“You corrected.”
“Yes.”
“You made the right play when the room wanted the loud one.”
The words land harder than praise.
Maybe because they are not praise exactly.
They are truth.
I nod once.
“Thank you.”
Adler looks around the room.
“Remember what won the game. Not noise. Not revenge. Not proving anything. Discipline. Trust. The extra pass.”
His gaze returns to me.
“And knowing the version of yourself the other team can use before they use it.”
No one speaks.
Good.
Everyone heard it.
Good and terrible.
Adler claps once.
“Enjoy tonight. Film at ten tomorrow.”
Groans.
A win and a punishment.
Classic.
After he leaves, the room comes back to life.
Nolan points at me.
“You got Coach-poetry.”
“I do not want it.”
“You earned it.”
“Take it back.”
“No.”
Mason sits beside me as I peel off tape.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He nods.
“Good.”
I glance at him.
“You all stole that from Coach.”
“It works.”
“It is deeply annoying.”
“Also works.”
I pull tape from my wrist.
Too fast.
Winces are for men with nerve endings.
Apparently I am one.
Mason lowers his voice.
“Soren’s chirp.”
I stop.
There it is.
The bruise, still warm.
“What about it?”
“You laughed.”
“Yes.”
“Then you stopped.”
I stare at the floor.
“Not fast enough.”
“Maybe.”
That surprises me.
I look up.
Mason shrugs.
“I do not think change means the first instinct disappears. I think it means the second choice gets stronger.”
That is annoyingly useful.
Marriage made him profound.
Horrible.
“Eden say that?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“She said it better.”
“Of course.”
He smiles.
Then bumps my shoulder.
“Good pass.”
“Thank you.”
“Terrible bow in the second.”
“I was concussed by embarrassment.”
“You were not.”
“Emotionally concussed.”
“Still no.”
Fine.
At the postgame reception, I am required to be charming.
This is normally easy.
Tonight, it feels different.
Not impossible.
Just deliberate.
I shake donor hands.
Thank alumni.
Tell one little kid that yes, Green’s goal was real, and yes, freshmen are technically allowed to score.
I find my mother’s text waiting when I finally check my phone.
MOM: I watched the stream. Extra pass. Good boy.
Good boy.
I stare at the words too long.
Then type:
ME: Soren chirped about you.
She replies almost immediately.
MOM: Did you hit him?
ME: No.
MOM: Did you score?
ME: Assisted winner.
MOM: Better. Make them chase the puck, not your temper.
I laugh once.
My mother should coach.
No.
She would terrify everyone.
Actually, yes.
I step into a quieter hallway to call her.
She answers on the first ring.
“You should be celebrating.”
“I am.”
“You sound like a hallway.”
“I am in one.”
“Carter.”
“I needed to hear your voice.”
Silence.
Soft.
“Oh.”
That one syllable nearly takes me out.
“Is your knee okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did you actually watch the whole game?”
“Yes.”
“Did you yell?”
“At the laptop.”
“Good.”
A pause.
Then she says, “The boy who chirped about me is not worth the penalty.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I lean against the wall.
“I understand.”
“Better.”
Everyone loves that word now.
I hate it.
I need it.
“I almost laughed the whole thing off,” I say.
“And?”
“I did. At first.”
“And then?”
“I played.”
“That is something.”
“It does not feel like enough.”
“It is not everything,” she says. “But it is something.”
I close my eyes.
Something.
Not nothing.
More domestic phrase theft.
Mason should be fined.
“I told Maren I wanted to kiss her.”
My mother is silent.
Deeply terrifying.
“Mom?”
“I am deciding how much to react.”
“Less.”
“Did you kiss her?”
“No.”
“Did you ask her to answer?”
“No.”
“Did you make it her problem?”
“I do not think so.”
“Good.”
A tiny exhale.
“Do you love her?”
My chest locks.
Subtle question, Ma.
Very casual.
Hallway appropriate.
“I do not know.”
Lie.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
I know I am not ready to know.
That is different.
Possibly cowardice with better vocabulary.
My mother says, “Okay.”
“That is all?”
“Yes.”
“You believe me?”
“No.”
“Rude.”
“Earned.”
A laugh slips out.
She says, softer, “Do not rush because you are scared of wanting.”
I open my eyes.
Across the hallway, framed Lakeview photos line the wall.
Old players.
Old wins.
Old versions of people who probably also had no idea what they were doing.
“I am trying not to.”
“Good.”
When I hang up, I stand there for another second.
Then I go back to the reception because I promised myself I would stop disappearing when things got hard.
Also because there are cupcakes.
Both reasons matter.
I find Maren near the media table with Hazel, Tessa, Sloane, and Eden.
All four prior heroines plus Maren.
The final boss of emotional perception.
Absolutely not.
I turn around.
“Carter,” Tessa calls.
Betrayal.
I face them.
“Ladies.”
Hazel smiles.
“Good game.”
“Thank you.”
Sloane says, “Good overtime read.”
“Thank you.”
Eden says, “Good no-penalty.”
“Lower bar, but thank you.”
Tessa looks too pleased.
“Good restraint.”
I point at her.
“Do not make it a theme.”
“It is absolutely a theme.”
Maren says nothing.
She is holding her camera, not filming now.
Her eyes meet mine for one second.
There is color in her cheeks from the arena cold.
A loose strand of hair near her jaw.
I remember wanting to kiss her.
I remember saying it.
I remember leaving.
Miracle.
She looks away first.
Not rejection.
Not invitation.
Something in between.
The women notice.
All of them.
Horrifying.
I grab a cupcake from the table.
“Great talk.”
Tessa smiles.
“Running?”
“Fueling.”
“Same family,” Eden says.
“Absolutely not,” I say.
Maren’s mouth twitches.
Worth it.
At eleven, I finally escape.
The house is empty when I get back.
Nolan is probably somewhere making questionable choices with team-approved supervision.
Green is asleep or studying or watching his goal on repeat until the internet breaks.
I take off my jacket.
Stand in the kitchen.
The spinach is still in the fridge.
I close the door.
Not tonight.
I shower.
Put on clean clothes.
Then open my laptop.
Ridgeview clips.
Maren’s feature.
I should watch systems.
I watch neither.
Instead, I open the old message thread.
Maren: I needed you to tell them to stop laughing.
I stare at it.
Tonight, Soren tried to make me laugh at my own hurt.
I understood something then.
Not enough.
But more.
Laughing can be a weapon even when nobody throws a punch.
Silence can be permission.
And sometimes the room laughs because the easiest person in it told them it was safe.
That person was me.
I open a blank document.
Not a text.
Not an email.
Just a document.
I type:
Things I did not understand then
Then I sit there.
Stupid title.
Useful maybe.
I type the first line.
I thought making pain funny made it smaller. It made people smaller.
I stare.
Then the next.
I thought if everyone laughed, nobody could blame me for the hurt.
Another.
I made Maren choose between staying in the room and staying loyal to herself.
That one hurts.
Good.
I keep going.
Not for her.
Not yet.
For me.
Because Coach said know the bruise first.
Because Maren said remembering and knowing were different.
Because my mother said becoming useful was not the same as being known.
Because I am tired of being the guy who needs someone bleeding before he admits the knife is in his hand.
At midnight, I have a page.
Not polished.
Not funny.
Not useful to anyone yet.
I save it.
Then my phone buzzes.
Maren.
My heart commits treason.
MAREN: I finished the Ridgeview cut.
A second message.
MAREN: The extra pass made the feature stronger.
I stare.
Then type carefully.
ME: Green made it easy.
Delete.
Too deflective.
Type.
ME: Thank you.
Send.
Three dots.
Then:
MAREN: That was alarmingly restrained.
I smile.
ME: I am becoming mysterious.
MAREN: You are becoming edited.
ME: By you?
Long pause.
Too long.
Bad text.
Too much.
Then:
MAREN: Maybe by you, finally.
I stop smiling.
Not because it hurts.
Because it lands.
Because she is right.
I type:
ME: Working on it.
Her reply comes after almost a minute.
MAREN: I noticed.
Two words.
Tiny.
Not forgiveness.
Not romance.
Not a promise.
Still, I read them three times.
Maybe four.
Then I close the laptop.
The house is quiet.
The game is won.
Ridgeview is behind us for now.
Senior Night is coming.
The championship run is alive.
Maren noticed.
And for tonight, that is dangerously close to enough.