Chapter Fourteen
Carter
The problem with kissing Maren Ellis is that I immediately become stupid.
Not outwardly.
Outwardly, I walk out of the media office like a functional adult man with places to be and decent lung capacity.
Inside, I am mostly hallway.
Fluorescent lights.
Rubber flooring.
Her hands on my hoodie.
Her mouth soft under mine.
Medium.
She called it medium.
This is possibly the greatest rating system ever invented.
I make it all the way to the locker room before Nolan ruins my life.
He is lying across two benches with his phone above his face.
He looks at me once.
Sits up.
“Oh.”
I stop.
“No.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“No.”
“You look kissed.”
“I look normal.”
“You look like a golden retriever got promoted.”
“Banned.”
“By whom?”
“Me.”
“Emotionally illegal.”
Green looks up from his stall.
“What does kissed look like?”
“Do not answer that,” I say.
Nolan grins.
“Like that.”
Green studies me with horrifying freshman curiosity.
I point at him.
“Watch film.”
“It is paused.”
“Unpause your future.”
He obeys.
Good kid.
Nolan swings his feet to the floor.
“Was it Maren?”
I stare.
He lifts both hands.
“Respectfully.”
“No version of that question is respectful.”
“Was it respectfully Maren?”
I take off my hoodie and throw it at his head.
He laughs into it.
Good.
The room breathes.
I breathe too.
The strange part is that I do not want to make the kiss a joke.
Not really.
I want to keep it somewhere quiet.
Not hidden because I am ashamed.
Hidden because some things deserve walls.
New information.
Adult.
Horrible.
Rhett walks in with Mason and Jace behind him.
One look at me.
One look at Nolan wearing my hoodie like a hostage blanket.
Rhett sighs.
“What did he do?”
“Existing,” I say.
Nolan pops his head out.
“He got kissed.”
Mason’s eyebrows lift.
Jace looks mildly entertained.
Rhett’s face goes still in the dangerous captain way.
I point at all of them.
“No committee.”
Mason sits.
“Too late.”
“No.”
Rhett asks, “You good?”
There it is.
The question.
Not teasing.
Not nosy.
Real.
I lean against my stall.
“I think so.”
Rhett nods.
“Is she?”
That one lands better.
Worse.
Important.
“I think so,” I say. “But I am not treating that as confirmed without evidence.”
Jace says, “Growth.”
“I hate you all.”
Mason smiles.
“Did you make it weird?”
“No.”
Nolan says, “He is lying. His face is weird.”
“Different category,” I say.
Rhett’s mouth twitches.
Then his expression sobers.
“Carter.”
“I know.”
He waits.
Fine.
“I understand,” I say. “She is still angry. Still careful. This did not fix anything.”
“Good.”
“Everyone really loves that word.”
“Because it is useful.”
Mason and I both look at him.
Rhett frowns.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Mason says.
“Domestic contamination,” I say.
Rhett throws a towel at me.
Peace restored.
Practice that afternoon is not peaceful.
Coach Adler smells happiness from a hundred yards away and punishes it with defensive-zone coverage.
The next conference game is two days away, and Senior Night sits behind it like a big emotional billboard.
We are past Ridgeview.
Not past pressure.
The tournament seeding is tight. One mistake this week and we lose the cleaner path. Win out, and Lakeview controls the bracket. Lose one, and everything gets complicated.
Coach Adler hates complicated.
He explains this by making us run the same breakout drill until our legs stop believing in democracy.
“Again,” he says.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Eli Green misses the weak-side read on the fourth rep.
I want to say something funny.
Not at him.
Near him.
Lighten it.
But his face is pale and furious, and I know the difference now between light and escape.
I skate beside him.
“Breathe.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He glares.
Freshman glare.
Tiny but ambitious.
“I understand,” I correct.
He huffs.
“I know what you are doing.”
“What?”
“Using therapy words on me.”
“They were forced on me.”
“I can tell.”
“Again,” Coach Adler barks.
Green mutters, “Falling is correct.”
I grin.
“Look at you. Cult member.”
He makes the pass clean on the next rep.
Good.
After practice, Coach keeps me and Rhett for faceoff work.
By the time he releases us, the arena is mostly empty.
Mostly.
Maren is in the lower bowl with Patty, pointing at the capstone wall mockup on her tablet.
She has her hair up today.
Loose pieces at her neck.
Professional face.
Kissed mouth.
No.
Do not be eighteen.
Be twenty-two and slightly less stupid.
Rhett follows my gaze.
“Do not hover.”
“I was not hovering.”
“You were pre-hovering.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is absolutely a thing.”
I look at him.
“You sound married.”
“I am.”
“Terrible defense.”
“Strong defense.”
He leans his stick against the boards.
“She tell you what she needs?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Space. Honesty. Not making it huge.”
Rhett nods.
“Can you do that?”
I look back at Maren.
She is laughing at something Patty says.
Small.
Busy.
Hers.
I want to be near it.
I stay where I am.
“I can try.”
Rhett’s face softens in a way I do not appreciate.
“That might be the point.”
I groan.
“If you quote your wife at me, I’m leaving.”
“I was quoting myself.”
“Worse.”
He grins.
Then sobers again.
“Big week. Don’t let this pull you off center.”
“This?”
“Maren. Senior Night. Your mom coming. Feature. Championship. All of it.”
I look at the ice.
He is right.
Annoying.
Captain.
Married.
Still right.
“I know.”
He waits.
I sigh.
“I understand.”
“Good.”
I point at him.
“No.”
He smiles and skates away.
Traitor.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
Mom.
MOM: Neighbor is driving me Friday. Stop worrying before I arrive.
I stare.
Friday.
Senior Night.
My mother in this building.
Watching my feature.
Watching Maren’s work.
Maybe meeting Maren.
The universe is getting bold.
ME: I worry professionally.
MOM: You worry loudly.
ME: Knee?
MOM: Attached.
ME: Pain?
MOM: Managed.
ME: Eating?
MOM: Carter.
ME: That is not an answer.
MOM: I am eating. Are you?
I look toward the media table where leftover event crackers sit.
No.
ME: Yes.
Technically I ate breakfast.
Hours ago.
My mother sends one word.
MOM: Liar.
I love her.
Deeply inconvenient woman.
At six, Senior Night prep resumes.
This time, it is memory wall finalization.
The capstone wall has become annoyingly beautiful.
Five sections.
Five rules.
The Rival Rule: Hazel and Grady, old championship photo, their quote about getting tired of being safe alone.
The Flirt Rule: Tessa and Rhett, fundraiser shot, something about flirtation becoming trust.
The Kiss Rule: Sloane and Jace, rink-side photo, a quote about not letting pride choose loneliness.
The Roommate Rule: Eden and Mason, a candid with the vase in the background, a line about home being a choice.
The Last Rule: still in progress.
My section is a blank panel with printed labels and no final photo.
Very subtle.
Like a courtroom.
Maren stands in front of it with three photo options laid out.
Ridgeview pass.
Green helmet tap.
A still from my interview.
She has also added one smaller image I have not seen.
Me in the background of her skating showcase photo, watching her.
I go still.
She notices immediately.
Of course.
“That one is not for your panel,” she says quietly.
“Okay.”
“It is for mine.”
I look at her.
“Yours?”
She nods toward a narrow side section Patty added beside the main wall.
Lakeview Ice Programs Archive
There are skating photos there now.
Not the fall alone.
The full sequence.
Maren airborne.
Maren falling.
Maren getting up.
Maren finishing.
The caption reads:
Falling was never the whole story.
My throat tightens.
“That is...” I stop.
Words.
We need those.
Apparently.
“That is right,” I say.
Her face softens.
“Thank you.”
No one else is close enough to hear.
Good.
My gaze returns to the photo where I am watching her.
“Why include me?”
“Because you were there.”
Pain.
Not punishment.
Witness.
I nod.
“Yes.”
She points to my blank panel.
“I think the Ridgeview pass goes here.”
“Because the room wanted the loud choice.”
Her eyes meet mine.
“Yes.”
“And Green?”
“Small inset. Leadership.”
“And the interview?”
“QR code to full feature.”
I stare.
“A QR code?”
“Yes.”
“My emotions are scannable?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I object.”
“Denied.”
“By whom?”
“Me.”
I smile.
She does too.
Small.
Careful.
The kiss is between us.
Not mentioned.
Very present.
Patty walks up before I can say something foolish.
“Good, you’re both here. We need final quote for Carter’s panel.”
“No,” I say.
Patty ignores me.
Maren lifts her notebook.
“I have options.”
“Terrifying.”
She reads, “Option one: ‘The last rule has always been simple. Never let them see it hurts.’”
My stomach tightens.
True.
Too raw maybe.
Patty nods.
“Strong.”
Maren continues, “Option two: ‘Survival is not the same as leadership.’”
I hate that one.
Which means it is probably good.
“Option three,” she says, and pauses.
I look at her.
She reads, “‘The loudest guy in the room is still allowed to be known.’”
The concourse noise fades.
That one.
That one hits somewhere under the ribs and stays.
Patty presses one hand to her chest.
“Oh, I love that.”
I look at Maren.
“You wrote that?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After the feature review.”
After the cheek.
Before the hallway.
Maybe.
I do not ask.
Her eyes hold mine.
Not asking permission.
Offering truth.
“Use that one,” I say.
Patty beams.
“Excellent.”
Then she leaves, already yelling for someone named Dana.
Maren clips the quote sheet to my panel.
“The loudest guy in the room is still allowed to be known.”
I read it twice.
My eyes burn on the second.
I look away.
Maren pretends not to notice.
Good woman.
Dangerous woman.
After prep, people drift out.
I stay behind to help break down boxes because practical usefulness is allowed.
Maren packs up her laptop.
The office door remains open.
We are not alone, exactly.