Chapter Twelve
Carter
The problem with almost touching Maren Ellis is that almost becomes its own sport.
High stakes.
No scoreboard.
Terrible officiating.
By the time I leave the media room, I have replayed the moment twelve times.
Not the video.
Not my feature.
Her face.
Her saying yes.
My hand on her cheek.
The part where she stepped back and I let her.
That part matters most.
This is deeply inconvenient because I have spent most of my life believing the best part of wanting something was getting it.
Turns out the best part might be not taking it badly.
Horrible discovery.
Very adult.
I hate it.
In the locker room, Nolan takes one look at me and says, “You look weird again.”
“I miss when you lacked emotional vocabulary.”
“I still do.”
“Good.”
“You look like something happened with Media Girl.”
I stop.
He lifts both hands.
“Maren. Sorry.”
“Still not your business.”
“So yes.”
I point at him.
“No.”
Green looks up from his stall.
“Are we talking about the feature?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No,” Nolan says.
We look at each other.
Green blinks.
“I am going to pretend I understand the team dynamic.”
“Smart,” I tell him.
Nolan sits beside me.
“Seriously. You okay?”
This is his new trick.
Asking serious questions while pretending they are not serious.
It is very annoying.
Also probably healthy.
“No,” I say.
He nods like that is a normal answer.
“Good.”
“Everyone has ruined that word.”
“Coach started it.”
“Coach starts most crimes.”
Green says, “Is the feature good?”
I lean back against my stall.
“Yes.”
“Are you nervous about it?”
“Yes.”
“Because people will see you?”
I stare at him.
Freshmen should not be allowed direct access to accurate summaries.
“Yes.”
Green nods.
“I would hate that.”
“Thank you.”
“But I think people already see you more than you think.”
The room goes quiet.
Nolan slowly turns toward Green.
“What?”
Green looks worried.
“What?”
“That was emotionally competent.”
“I can leave.”
“No,” Nolan says. “I am proud and afraid.”
I clap Green on the shoulder.
“You are growing too fast. Stop.”
Green smiles.
Small.
Real.
Good.
Coach Adler calls us into the team room at four.
Senior Night prep.
Which means hockey, alumni, family logistics, donors, and the entire emotional history of Lakeview State Wolves hockey pressed into one event with a reception and probably three kinds of cheese.
Patty from alumni relations stands beside Coach with her clipboard empire.
Maren stands near the screen with her laptop.
I do not look at her cheek.
I do.
Once.
She does not look at my hand.
Probably.
Maybe.
This is unsustainable.
Patty claps once.
“Senior Night is not just a game. It is a program.”
Nolan whispers, “That sounds dangerous.”
“It is,” I whisper back.
Coach Adler looks at us.
We shut up.
Patty continues. “Families will arrive at five. Alumni reception begins at five thirty. Pregame ceremony at six forty. Puck drop at seven. The video package plays before senior introductions.”
My stomach tightens.
Video package.
My face.
My words.
My mother watching.
Maren’s editing.
Fantastic.
Patty points at the screen.
“Maren has built the senior feature structure around the five-rule series legacy.”
Several players look confused.
Green raises his hand.
Patty looks delighted.
“Yes?”
“Are we allowed to ask what that means?”
“No,” Coach Adler says.
Maren’s mouth twitches.
Patty ignores him.
“It means this year’s senior celebration will honor the couples and moments that shaped the Lakeview State hockey program’s public story over the last four years.”
Nolan whispers, “We have lore.”
I whisper back, “Too much.”
Coach says, “Vance.”
“Yes.”
“No whispering during lore.”
The room cracks.
Even Coach’s mouth almost moves.
Almost.
Patty gestures to the screen.
Maren clicks to the first slide.
The Rival Rule — Hazel & Grady
Old footage.
Hazel in the stands.
Grady on the ice.
A first-year Lakeview team shot.
Hazel and Grady both look impossibly young and very emotionally doomed.
The room softens.
Then:
The Flirt Rule — Tessa & Rhett
Rhett makes a choking sound.
Tessa is not here to defend herself, which is unfair.
The slide shows Rhett in game gear and Tessa near a fundraising table, smiling like she already knew how much trouble he was.
The Kiss Rule — Sloane & Jace
Jace looks at the floor.
Bad choice.
The team notices.
Nolan says, “Aww.”
Jace says, “Do you want to live?”
“No.”
The room laughs.
Maren clicks again.
The Roommate Rule — Eden & Mason
Mason’s face changes.
Soft.
Proud.
He looks down immediately.
Too late.
We all saw it.
“Domestic king,” Nolan whispers.
“Do not,” Mason says.
I feel Maren glance at me.
I keep my eyes on the screen.
Then the final slide appears.
The Last Rule — Carter Vance
No couple name.
Just mine.
The room quiets.
That lands.
I hate it.
I need it.
Maren does not look at me now.
Good.
She says, “The final senior feature is built around Carter’s role in the room and the question of what the last rule actually costs.”
Patty nods enthusiastically.
Coach Adler watches the team.
Rhett watches me.
Mason watches Maren watching the laptop.
Jace watches everyone.
Useful.
Terrifying.
Green raises his hand again.
Brave child.
“What is the last rule?”
The room shifts.
Good question.
Bad question.
My question.
Maren’s eyes lift to mine.
One second.
Then away.
I answer before anyone else can.
“Never let them see it hurts.”
No joke.
No smile.
The words enter the room and sit there like a puck no one wants to touch.
Green’s face changes.
Nolan’s too.
Rhett lowers his head.
Mason looks at me with quiet approval, which I immediately resent and need.
Coach Adler nods once.
“Good.”
Patty looks moved.
Maren looks at the laptop.
Her hands are still.
That is how I know it got to her.
The rest of the meeting becomes logistics.
Where to stand.
When to wave.
Do not block cameras.
Do not swear near microphones.
Nolan takes personal offense to that one.
After the meeting, Patty corrals half the team for banner sorting.
Somehow, I end up in the concourse with Maren, Hazel, Tessa, Sloane, Eden, and several boxes labeled ARCHIVE PHOTOS.
This is not an accident.
This is matchmaking disguised as event planning.
Women are terrifying.
Also efficient.
Hazel hands me a stack of old photos.
“Sort by year.”
“I am a hockey player.”
“You can count.”
“Debatable.”
Tessa walks by carrying tape.
“Carter, be useful.”
I freeze for half a second.
She catches it.
So does Maren.
Of course.
Tessa’s face softens.
“I mean practically.”
I exhale.
“I know.”
Then I correct myself because apparently that is my whole personality now.
“I understand.”
Tessa smiles.
“Good.”
Maren kneels beside a box, pulling out photos.
Her hair falls forward.
She tucks it behind one ear.
I remember her saying yes.
No.
Not now.
Photos.
Year sorting.
Stay alive.
I pick up a stack.
Freshman year.
My face appears in three photos immediately.
Back row.
Grinning.
Mouth open.
Arm around Rhett.
Pointing at something off-camera.
Every version of me looks loud.
Maren glances over.
Her gaze drops to the photo in my hand.
I hold it up.
“Baby Carter. Very rare. Extremely annoying.”
She takes the photo.
Studies it.
“You looked happy.”
I wait for the rest.
She says nothing.
That somehow hurts more.
“I think I was,” I say.
Her eyes flick up.
“Sometimes.”
“Useful qualifier.”
“Accurate qualifier.”
I nod.
“Same family?”
She gives me a look.
“Do not steal more domestic phrases.”
“I have so few of my own.”
“Develop some.”
“Fine.”
I look at the photo.
“Same... species.”
“No.”
“Emotional cousins.”
“Worse.”
“Adjacent weather.”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
She laughs.
Small.
Real.
Victory.
The kind I do not perform.
I just keep sorting.
Hazel watches from across the table with the expression of a woman enjoying a private prophecy.
I ignore her.
Mostly.
A photo slides from Maren’s stack and lands faceup on the floor.
We both reach for it.
Our hands stop short of touching.
Ridiculous.
We are adults.
Mostly.
She picks it up first.
Then goes still.
I know before I see it.
The showcase.
Not the fall.
A better moment.
Maren on the ice in her old skating dress, arms lifted, blue ribbon at her wrist, face focused and fierce.
I am in the background near the boards, freshman hoodie, watching her like the rest of the room had disappeared.
Neither of us speaks.
The concourse noise fades.
That photo should not exist.
Or maybe it always did and we were just not ready for proof.
Maren’s fingers tighten on the edge.
“Where did this come from?”
I read the back.
“Junior development media clinic. Archive set.”
Her throat moves.
“I did not know there were good ones.”
The sentence hits.
Hard.
Good ones.
Not the fall.
Not the video.
Not the laughter.
A version of her before the room turned.
I look at her.
She is still staring at the photo.
“You look strong,” I say.
She does not answer.
I add, because honesty is apparently contagious, “I remember thinking that then.”
Her eyes lift.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you do with it?”
The question is not cruel.
It is worse.
Fair.
“I hid it under jokes because I was eighteen and terrified of wanting someone I respected.”
Her face changes.
That was not planned.
But there it is.
The truth.
Messy.
Specific.
No exit.
Maren looks back at the photo.
“You respected me?”
“Yes.”
Even then.
Especially then.
“I did a poor job showing it.”
Her mouth curves without humor.
“Yes.”
I accept that.
We stay kneeling beside the archive box like two people who have stumbled on evidence from a life neither of us fully understands anymore.
Hazel approaches quietly.
“Everything okay?”
Maren holds up the photo.
Hazel’s face softens.
“Oh.”
“That was in the archive?” Maren asks.
“Yes. There are probably more. The photographer shot the whole showcase week.”
Maren’s breath catches.