Chapter Eighteen
Carter
The problem with holding Maren Ellis’s hand under my own quote is that eventually I have to let go.
This feels unfair.
Possibly illegal.
Definitely poor event planning.
For twelve minutes, we sit on the concourse floor beneath the capstone wall like two people who have temporarily forgotten that hockey tournaments exist, fluorescent lights are unromantic, and protein bars should be regulated.
Her shoulder rests against mine.
Her fingers stay threaded through mine.
Not tight.
Not loose.
There.
That is the dangerous part.
There.
Maren is not clinging.
I am not performing.
No one is asking what this means.
The wall behind us already has too many words.
The loudest guy in the room is still allowed to be known.
Falling was never the whole story.
Apparently, the universe has decided subtlety is for cowards.
Maren shifts first.
Not pulling away fast.
Just enough that I know the moment is changing.
I loosen my hand immediately.
She does not let go.
My heart does something so stupid I am grateful there are no witnesses.
“Good?” she asks.
I look down at our hands.
Then at her.
“Good yes.”
Her mouth curves.
“That was mine.”
“I am honoring your language.”
“You are stealing it.”
“Emotionally collaborative theft.”
“No.”
“Fair.”
She laughs softly and lets go.
Not because she wants to.
Because she needs to.
I can feel the difference now.
Maybe that is the whole terrifying miracle.
I stand first, then offer my hand.
She looks at it.
Looks at me.
Takes it.
I help her up and let go before holding on becomes a question.
Her eyes flicker.
She noticed.
Of course.
“Tournament tomorrow,” she says.
“Yes.”
“Westhaven.”
“Not Northbridge.”
“Disappointed?”
“Northbridge is annoying. Westhaven is slippery.”
“That sounds technical.”
“It is emotional and technical. They trap. They wait. They make you think you have space, then suddenly you are making a terrible decision and Coach Adler is staring through your bloodline.”
“Graphic.”
“Accurate.”
She adjusts her camera bag.
“Then do not make terrible decisions.”
I smile.
“Revolutionary coaching.”
“I am available for consultant rates.”
“Do you accept payment in terrible protein bars?”
“I would rather lose money.”
“Smart.”
We walk toward the media office together.
Not touching.
Still somehow closer than touching.
At the door, she stops.
“I need to finish exports.”
“I need to go home before Nolan files a missing-person report with too many emojis.”
“Go.”
“I am going.”
“You are standing still.”
“Emotionally, I am leaving.”
“Physically, try harder.”
I grin.
She does too.
Then her smile softens.
“Carter.”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow matters.”
There is more under it.
Hockey.
Pressure.
The old version.
The new us.
All the ways wanting can become a weight if carried badly.
“I know.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
I correct before she can.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
I lean one shoulder against the wall.
Not casual.
Grounding.
“I am not going to make you responsible for how I play.”
Her face stills.
Good.
Right door.
“And if I get scared, I will tell someone who is not standing behind a camera trying to do her job.”
“Good.”
“I may still look at you too much.”
“Reasonable.”
“Possibly heroic amounts.”
“Less reasonable.”
“I will attempt moderation.”
“Do that.”
The smile comes back.
Tiny.
Mine to see.
Not own.
“Goodnight, Maren.”
“Goodnight, Carter.”
I leave while it still feels good.
This is becoming a skill.
A terrible, adult, character-building skill.
At home, Nolan is on the couch with three blankets, two controllers, and a bowl of popcorn balanced on his chest.
Green is at the kitchen table with a notebook open, diagramming Westhaven’s neutral-zone trap like a man planning a bank heist.
Nolan looks up.
“Well, well, well.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to make a noise with eyebrows.”
Green glances over.
“That is accurate.”
Nolan points at him.
“You were supposed to be innocent.”
“I am evolving.”
“Disappointing.”
I drop my bag by the door and head to the kitchen.
There is leftover chicken in the fridge.
Actual food.
A miracle built from grocery shopping and fear of my mother.
Nolan watches me.
“Did you eat with Maren?”
“No.”
“Did you kiss Maren?”
I open the fridge.
“No committee.”
“That sounds like yes.”
“That sounds like you value pain.”
Green says, without looking up, “He is smiling at the refrigerator.”
Traitor.
I close the fridge.
“You are both benched from my personal life.”
Nolan sits up.
“But we are emotionally invested.”
“Get a hobby.”
“This is cheaper.”
I microwave chicken and rice while Green slides his notebook across the table.
“Can you check this?”
I look at the diagram.
Westhaven’s trap.
Not bad.
Actually good.
“You drew this?”
“Yes.”
“Nerd.”
“Correct.”
I sit beside him.
“Here,” I say, pointing. “This is where you think you have the lane. You don’t. Their wing is baiting you. Wait half a beat. Reverse if the center supports. If he doesn’t, eat it along the wall. Ugly safe beats pretty dead.”
Green writes that down.
“Ugly safe beats pretty dead.”
“Do not quote me in public.”
“Too late.”
Nolan leans over the couch.
“That sounds like Coach.”
I stare at the diagram.
Maybe it does.
Maybe that is not the worst thing.
After food, I call my mother.
She answers with, “Did you win yet?”
“Game is tomorrow.”
“Then why are you calling?”
“To experience maternal warmth.”
“Suspicious.”
“I cooked leftovers.”
“Good.”
“I ate broccoli earlier.”
“Proof?”
“I refuse surveillance.”
“You are hiding something.”
“Always.”
She laughs.
Then softens.
“You sound good.”
Dangerous word.
“I think I am.”
“Good yes?”
I freeze.
“Who taught you that?”
“You did, apparently. You said it yesterday.”
“Unacceptable.”
“It is useful.”
Everyone is in league against me.
“You okay after Senior Night?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Good yes?”
“Good yes,” she says. “It was a lot. But the good kind.”
I lean against the counter.
“Maren said yes to the archive clip.”
“I heard.”
“You heard?”
“She left me a message about the newsletter caption because she wanted to make sure I did not mind being referenced in the same alumni packet as your feature.”
Of course she did.
Careful.
Thorough.
Maren.
My chest tightens.
“She did not have to do that.”
“No,” Mom says. “But she did.”
I look toward the living room where Nolan is loudly losing a video game and Green is ignoring him with academic discipline.
“I like her,” I say.
My mother goes quiet.
Not surprised.
Not pushing.
Just there.
“I know,” she says.
“I mean—”
“I know.”
Not know.
Understand.
But from her, somehow, it is both.
“I am trying not to rush it,” I say.
“Good.”
“She is careful.”
“She has reason to be.”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
I frown.
“What about me?”
“Are you careful with yourself?”
People need to stop asking that.
It is not my favorite.
“I am careful with her.”
“That is not what I asked.”
I close my eyes.
Mothers are worse than coaches.
At least Coach uses a whistle.
“I don’t know how,” I admit.
Her voice softens.
“Start by not making every good thing something you have to earn again tomorrow.”
Ouch.
Accurate.
Domestic.
Terrible.
After we hang up, I write that down.
Do not make every good thing something you have to earn again tomorrow.
I hate it.
I need it.
Tournament day arrives gray and cold.
The kind of day that makes the arena lights look warmer than they are.
Westhaven is already in the building when we get there.
Their players move quietly.
No Ridgeview villain energy.
No dramatic chirps.
Just calm, structured, deeply irritating hockey.
I hate them.
Respectfully.
Morning skate is sharp.
Coach Adler says almost nothing.
That is how we know he cares.
Before we leave the ice, he gathers us around center.
“Tonight is not about Senior Night. Not about the wall. Not about the stories people are telling. Tournament hockey is simple. Win the next shift.”
He looks at each of us.
“Do not carry the whole ending into the first period.”
His gaze lands on me.
Of course.
I nod.
Win the next shift.
Not earn the room.
Not prove the feature.
Not make Maren proud again.
Next shift.
At two, I nap badly.
At four, I dress.
At five, I arrive back at the arena.
The capstone wall is still up.
People are already taking photos by it.
Maren is near the media table with Patty, hair pulled back, headset around her neck, camera in hand.
She looks busy.
Focused.
Beautiful.
Not mine.
Maybe becoming something.
Still not mine.
Good.
Important.
She looks up as I pass.
Our eyes meet.
She does not wave.
I do not stop.
She gives one small nod.
Professional.
Private.
Enough.
In the locker room, the energy is tight but steady.
Nolan is quiet.
Green is pale.
Rhett is locked in.
Mason tapes his stick twice.
Jace stares at the floor like it owes him money.
I sit at my stall and tie my skates.
Left.
Right.
Pull tight.
Breathe.
Win the next shift.
Coach comes in.
No speech.
Just, “You know who you are. Play like it.”
Then we go.
The first period is exactly what Westhaven wants.
Ugly.
Slow.
Crowded.
Every pass contested.
Every rush interrupted.
They do not hit like Ridgeview.
They smother.
The crowd gets restless.
We get impatient.
That is the trap.
Halfway through the first, I force a pass through the middle.
Bad choice.
Turnover.
Westhaven nearly scores.
Coach’s whistle from the bench is not a whistle.
It is my name.
“Vance.”
I skate to the bench.
He does not yell.
Worse.
He says, “Pretty dead.”
Green, two seats down, looks at me.
I hate that my own phrase has returned with consequences.
“Yes, Coach.”
Next shift, I make the ugly safe play.
Chip deep.
Take contact.
Let Rhett recover.
No highlight.
No applause.
Good hockey.
At intermission, scoreless.
The locker room is quiet.
Not dead.
Thinking.
Coach draws adjustments.
Rhett speaks once.
Mason adds one thing.