Chapter Twenty-Five
Maren
The problem with carrying half of Carter Vance’s emotional cardboard box is that cardboard boxes do not have halves.
They have sides.
Corners.
Awkward bottoms.
One tragic handle that tears at the worst possible moment.
But Carter let me carry it anyway.
That mattered.
Maybe too much.
We crossed the parking lot with his old tape, freshman photo, chipped puck, and whatever else a person could fit into one box after four years of becoming himself inside a locker room.
The box was not heavy.
Carter acted like it weighed a building.
I did not tell him that.
Some truths did not need commentary.
He stopped beside his car and looked back at the arena.
The championship banners from previous years hung inside, barely visible through the glass. The capstone wall was still up beyond the doors. The rink existed behind all of that, cold and waiting and no longer mine only in memory.
Mine in work now.
Mine in choice.
I had said yes to the job.
Out loud.
In front of Carter.
In front of the locker room.
In front of Nolan, unfortunately.
Which meant the entire team probably knew before Human Resources did.
Carter shifted his side of the box.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I am carrying a box with one practice puck and enough symbolism to injure someone.”
“So no?”
“Good no.”
He smiled.
“New category?”
“Temporary category.”
“Respect.”
We set the box in his back seat.
He did not close the door immediately.
His hand rested on the roof of the car.
His eyes stayed on the arena.
I stood beside him.
Not touching.
Not yet.
The parking lot was too bright for the way he looked.
Endings should happen at dusk.
More flattering.
Less honest.
“I keep expecting to feel free,” he said.
I looked at him.
“And?”
“I do. A little.”
He swallowed.
“And I hate it. A little.”
That made sense.
I wished it did not.
“Because loving something does not mean every part of it was easy,” I said.
His eyes came to mine.
“Yeah.”
“And leaving does not mean every part of you wants to stay frozen in it.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“You have become annoyingly good at this.”
“I was trained by Coach Adler.”
“Condolences.”
“Accepted.”
He looked back at the arena.
“I am relieved I do not have practice tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“And I am sad I do not have practice tomorrow.”
“Also good.”
He sighed.
“Human beings are poorly designed.”
“Deeply.”
He closed the car door.
Then turned toward me.
“Do you want to see where I grew up?”
The question came out fast.
Like it had escaped.
His face changed immediately.
“I mean— not right now. Not as a demand. Not as a dramatic childhood tour. Just someday. Maybe. If you want. My mom would probably cry. Nolan would somehow appear. Forget I asked.”
I stared at him.
His mouth snapped shut.
The old Carter would have made seven jokes and buried the question before I could answer.
This Carter stood there, visibly regretting nothing except the volume of his own honesty.
I liked him so much in that moment it scared me.
“Yes,” I said.
He blinked.
“Yes?”
“Someday.”
His face softened.
Dangerous.
Bright.
“Okay.”
“Not tomorrow.”
“No. God no. Tomorrow I plan to stare at my ceiling and learn rest through suffering.”
“Healthy.”
“Suspicious.”
I smiled.
Then looked toward the arena doors.
“I have to go back in.”
His expression flickered.
“Right. Job person.”
“Job person.”
“Officially?”
“Almost. I still have paperwork.”
“But yes?”
“Yes.”
Saying it felt less terrifying this time.
Still terrifying.
But with structure.
I could handle terror with structure.
Carter stepped closer.
“Can I be proud of you in the parking lot?”
I looked around.
A maintenance cart rolled by in the distance.
A student in a championship hoodie crossed the far side of the lot.
Public.
Not too public.
“Medium,” I said.
His smile broke open.
Then he hugged me.
Not kissed me.
Hugged me.
Careful at first, then firm when my arms went around him.
His face pressed against my hair.
Mine against his chest.
No pads.
No gear.
Just him.
Warm.
Solid.
Still learning how to be held without making it a performance.
I felt the breath leave him slowly.
“Proud of you,” he said quietly.
The words landed in my ribs.
Not too heavy.
Not too light.
Exactly where they belonged.
I held on one second longer.
Then stepped back.
His arms fell immediately.
Good.
Always good.
“I will text you later,” I said.
“Good later?”
“Probable later.”
His grin flashed.
“I accept.”
“Go rest.”
“Bossy.”
“Concerned.”
His eyes softened.
“Good concerned.”
I left before the parking lot became a chapter neither of us was ready to finish.
Inside, the arena felt different.
Not quieter.
Not exactly.
Settled.
Like the building had exhaled after holding too much joy.
Patty found me near the capstone wall with a roll of labels in one hand and a granola bar in her mouth.
“You accepted?” she asked around the granola.
“That is not how supervisors should ask.”
“I am not your supervisor yet.”
“Yet?”
She smiled.
“Congratulations.”
My throat tightened.
“Thank you.”
She hugged me with one arm because the other held the labels.
It was brief.
Practical.
Still warm.
“I am very glad,” she said.
“That sounded sincere.”
“It was. Disturbing for both of us.”
“Deeply.”
She stepped back and looked at the wall.
“We need to decide how long this stays up.”
There it was.
Another ending.
I looked at the five sections.
Hazel and Grady.
Tessa and Rhett.
Sloane and Jace.
Eden and Mason.
Carter.
Then the ice archive.
Me.
The fall.
The getting up.
The finish.
“How long can it stay?” I asked.
“Through the championship celebration ceremony Friday. After that, we move some pieces to permanent digital archive. Maybe one physical panel near the media hallway if Coach approves.”
“Which panel?”
Patty’s gaze moved to Carter’s quote.
Then to my archive caption.
“I was thinking both.”
My chest tightened.
“Both?”
“The Last Rule and the Ice Programs Archive. Side by side. Feels right.”
I looked at them.
The loudest guy in the room is still allowed to be known.
Falling was never the whole story.
Side by side.
Not because our stories were the same.
Because they had learned how to stand near each other without swallowing the other whole.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good.”
I did not correct her.
At three, I filled out paperwork.
Employment forms were far less romantic than life decisions should be.
Tax information.
Emergency contact.
Start date.
Position title.
Athletic Communications Coordinator
I stared at it.
Coordinator.
Not temporary fellow.
Not returning ghost.
Not girl who left.
A job.
A door.
A place.
When I reached emergency contact, I typed my sister’s name first.
Then paused.
No.
Not Carter.
Too soon.
Too much.
Not because I did not trust him.
Because beginnings deserved air.
I kept my sister.
That felt right.
Good yes.
At four, I went into the arena bowl alone.
No camera.
No bag.
No assignment.
Just me.
The ice was empty.
Fresh.
Bright.
It still looked like a question.
I walked down the steps and stood at the boards.
For three years, I had let the worst version of this place define the whole place.
That made sense.
A room can hurt you so loudly that every other sound feels like a lie.
But this rink had held other things too.
The routine before the fall.
The getting up.
The finish.
My camera work.
Carter’s feature.
Lily’s first steps.
Green’s goals.
Angela’s video.
Championship noise.
A job offer.
A kiss.
Several kisses.
Professional inventory, obviously.
The rink had not changed.
I had.
That sounded too simple.
Maybe it was.
Maybe some truths were allowed to be simple after they had taken enough complicated roads to arrive.
The door opened behind me.
I turned.
Coach Adler stepped into the bowl.
Of course.
“Ellis.”
“Coach.”
“You accepted.”
“I did.”
“Good.”
Praise from Coach Adler should have come with protective eyewear.
“Thank you.”
He stood beside me at the boards.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “Wall will stay through Friday.”
“Patty told me.”
“I approve the permanent panels.”
My throat tightened.
“Both?”
“Both.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
Then looked at the ice.
“Do you skate?”
The question was simple.
Too simple.
I looked down at my boots.
“Not today.”
“Not what I asked.”
I huffed a laugh.
“Rarely.”
“Would you like rink access before public hours?”
My breath caught.
I looked at him.
His expression gave nothing.
The man had offered private ice like he was discussing printer toner.
“I do not need—”
“No,” he said.
Right.
Not the question.
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Good. Talk to facilities. Use my name if they argue.”
“They argue with you?”
“Once.”
That was probably true.
I looked back at the ice.
“Thank you.”
“Falling was never the whole story,” he said.
My eyes burned.
Again.
This job was going to require better hydration.
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t.”
He started to leave.
Then paused.
“And Ellis?”
“Yes?”
“Do not let Vance become your only reason to be brave.”
My spine straightened.
He looked at me.
“And do not pretend he is not one of them.”
Then he left.
No cleanup.
No apology.
Classic.
I stood there alone and let the words settle.
Not my only reason.
One of them.
That was the balance.
That was the way forward.
At six, I texted Carter.
ME: Paperwork submitted. Wall stays through Friday. Two panels may become permanent.
His reply came fast.
CARTER: Which two?
ME: Yours and the getting-up one.
Three dots.
Then nothing.
Long enough that I wondered if I had made it too big.
Then:
CARTER: I am sitting on my kitchen floor.
I laughed once.
Then another message.
CARTER: Good floor. Emotional floor.
I typed:
ME: Medium?
CARTER: Huge. Floor necessary.
My chest softened.
ME: Breathe.
CARTER: Bossy.
ME: Concerned.
CARTER: Good concerned.
I smiled.
Then sent:
ME: Coach offered private rink access before public hours.
Another pause.
CARTER: For skating?
ME: No, for tax preparation.
CARTER: Cruel. Accurate. Good.
Then:
CARTER: Do you want company first time?
I stared at the question.
Not Do you need me.
Not I should be there.
Do you want company.
My answer rose slowly.
Honestly.
ME: Yes.
I added before fear could make it smaller:
ME: But I want to skate alone for the first few minutes.
His reply:
CARTER: I can sit in the stands.
Then:
CARTER: Quietly. Heroically. Probably cold.
I smiled.
ME: Tomorrow morning?
CARTER: Tomorrow morning.
At home that night, I took my skates out of the bag.
Placed them by the door.
The blue ribbon still tied to the left hook.
Leadership issues, Carter had once said.
Maybe he had been right.
Maybe the left side had simply waited for me to trust it again.
I slept badly.
Not panic badly.
Anticipation badly.
Different category.
At six the next morning, the rink was empty except for the Zamboni driver finishing the last pass and Carter sitting halfway up the lower bowl with two coffees beside him.
He wore a hoodie and a winter hat.
He looked ridiculous.
He looked perfect.
He did not come down.
Good.
I stood at the boards with my skates in hand.
The ice gleamed.
Fresh.
Unmarked.
No audience.
No camera.
No story to tell anyone.
Just me.
I looked up at Carter.
He lifted one hand.
Small.
Then lowered it.
No moment.
No pressure.
Just presence.
I sat on the bench and tied my skates.
Left first.
Blue ribbon under my fingers.
Right second.
Slow.
Steady.
I stepped onto the ice.
The first glide was easier than the alumni skate.
Not easy.
Easier.
I moved along the boards.
Once around.
Then again.
My knees remembered.
My ankles complained.
My lungs opened.
I pushed away from the wall.
Not far.
Enough.
The ice did not apologize.
It did not need to.
It held.
I skated alone for five minutes.
Maybe six.
Enough time for fear to speak.
Enough time for my body to answer.
Then I looked toward the stands.
Carter was still there.
Silent.
Hands wrapped around a coffee cup.
Watching like witness was a responsibility.
I nodded once.
He stood.
Came down carefully.
Stopped at the gate.
“Invite?” he asked.
I smiled.
“Yes.”
He stepped onto the ice in sneakers.
Immediately slid half an inch and grabbed the boards.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
“I did not bring skates.”
“I see that.”
“I thought emotional support could be land-based.”
“You are on ice.”
“Barely.”
A laugh burst out of me.
It echoed across the empty rink.
His face lit.
Not because he had made me laugh for the room.
Because I had given it.
I skated over slowly.
Stopped in front of him.
“Terrible form.”
“I am retired.”
“From yesterday?”
“Emotionally, years.”
I held out one hand.
He looked at it.
“Are you going to pull me to my death?”
“Possibly.”
“Good.”
He took my hand.
I did not pull.
He stayed by the boards, ridiculous in sneakers, and I stood on blades in front of him.
For once, I was the steadier one on the ice.
That felt important.
Funny.
Perfect.
“You look happy,” he said.
I breathed.
Looked around the empty rink.
Then back at him.
“I am.”
His eyes softened.
“Good yes?”
I smiled.
“Good yes.”
He squeezed my hand once.
Then let me go so I could skate again.
I pushed backward.
One glide.
Then another.
Carter stayed by the boards, smiling like the room had finally shown him a version of me he had only half-remembered and fully hoped was real.
I skated across the center line.
Turned.
Did not fall.
Would have been okay if I did.
That was the difference.
The fall was not the ending.
The kiss was not the ending.
The championship was not the ending.
Even the job was not the ending.
They were all proof of motion.
I came back to Carter breathless and laughing.
He held out one coffee.
“Reward?”
“Bribe?”
“Supportive beverage.”
I took it.
It was warm.
Too sweet.
Exactly right.
We stood by the boards in the empty rink, me on skates, him in sneakers, both of us ridiculous and trying.
The morning light hit the ice.
For once, I did not think about leaving.
I thought about staying.
And it felt like a choice I could trust.