Chapter Twenty-Seven
Maren
The problem with permanent things is that people say the word like it should feel comforting.
It does not.
Permanent sounded suspicious.
Permanent sounded like pressure with better furniture.
Permanent sounded like a thing that could be taken away later and hurt worse because you had trusted it.
Still, on Friday morning, when the facilities team arrived to take down the capstone wall and move two panels to the media hallway, I stood there with a clipboard, a coffee, and the kind of emotion that made me deeply unpleasant to logistics.
Patty stood beside me.
Coach Adler stood behind us.
Carter stood a few feet away with his hands in his hoodie pocket, pretending he was not sentimental about a temporary wall.
He was failing.
Badly.
Nolan had come “for support” and was holding a donut.
Green had come with a small box of tape because he thought moving display panels might require emergency supplies.
Rhett, Mason, and Jace were there too.
So were Hazel, Tessa, Sloane, and Eden.
No one had said group emotional supervision.
No one needed to.
Lakeview had a habit of turning endings into team events.
Facilities removed Hazel and Grady’s panel first.
Then Tessa and Rhett.
Then Sloane and Jace.
Then Eden and Mason.
Each section was photographed, wrapped, labeled, and placed in archive storage.
The room felt strange as each rule disappeared from the wall.
Not erased.
Moved.
That mattered.
I kept telling myself that.
Carter leaned closer.
“You okay?”
I glanced at him.
“Professionally?”
“No.”
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
His mouth curved.
“Good no?”
“Complicated yes.”
“Advanced category.”
“We are expanding.”
His shoulder brushed mine.
Not by accident.
Not for show.
Just there.
Then the facilities manager reached Carter’s panel.
The Last Rule.
The photo of him with his mother.
The quote.
The championship strip.
The Ridgeview pass and Green celebration beneath it.
Carter went very still.
I did not touch him.
Not yet.
Sometimes standing beside someone mattered more than grabbing for proof.
The manager lifted the panel carefully from its temporary mount.
Carter’s breath changed.
Small.
Controlled.
I heard it anyway.
He looked at the empty space it left behind.
I looked at him.
He did not joke.
Good.
Hard.
The manager turned toward us.
“This one goes to the media hallway, correct?”
“Yes,” Patty said.
Her voice was softer than usual.
The manager nodded.
Then he lifted my archive panel.
The photo before the fall.
The fall.
The getting up.
The finish.
Falling was never the whole story.
I felt it leave the wall like a hand lifting from my chest.
Not painful exactly.
Noticeable.
Carter’s fingers touched mine.
Not holding.
Asking.
I turned my hand.
Let him.
He threaded our fingers together.
One squeeze.
Then steady.
Good.
When both panels were carried toward the hallway, everyone followed.
Apparently we were a procession now.
Nolan whispered, “This feels like a tiny parade.”
Jace said, “Do not make it weird.”
Nolan looked at the donut in his hand.
“Too late.”
Green whispered, “Should I carry the tape closer?”
Mason said, “No one needs emergency tape.”
Green frowned.
“People always say that before they need tape.”
Eden nodded solemnly.
“He has a point.”
Mason looked betrayed.
Tessa was crying.
Rhett handed her a napkin without comment.
Hazel slid her hand into Grady’s.
Sloane took one photo and immediately pretended it was for documentation only.
Lakeview women were terrible liars.
The media hallway was narrower than the concourse.
Quieter.
Less grand.
More lived-in.
Staff passed here.
Players passed here.
Student assistants, interns, photographers, coaches, visiting parents looking for the wrong door.
It was not the place people went for big ceremonies.
It was the place they walked through while doing the work.
That felt right.
Facilities mounted Carter’s panel first.
Then mine beside it.
Side by side.
Not merged.
Not one story.
Two records close enough to speak to each other.
The manager stepped back.
“Good?”
Patty looked at me.
Coach Adler looked at Carter.
Carter looked at me.
I looked at the panels.
The loudest guy in the room is still allowed to be known.
Falling was never the whole story.
My throat tightened.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good yes?” Carter asked softly.
I smiled through the ache.
“Good yes.”
Patty clapped once.
“Excellent. Permanent-ish.”
I looked at her.
“I thought we agreed on permanent.”
“It is athletics. Nothing is permanent except budget concerns.”
Coach Adler said, “And bad penalties.”
Nolan raised his donut.
“And friendship.”
Jace stared at him.
Nolan lowered the donut.
“Too much?”
“Yes,” Jace said.
“No,” Green said.
The group laughed.
Good laugh.
Safe laugh.
The kind that did not need a target.
After the panels were set, people drifted away.
Not all at once.
In pairs and conversations.
Hazel hugged me and said, “You look like you stayed.”
That nearly took me out.
Tessa hugged me next and whispered, “Make him cook you something that is not emotionally symbolic.”
Sloane said, “The panel placement is excellent.”
Eden squeezed my hand and said, “You are allowed to keep choosing it even after it starts feeling normal.”
That one stayed.
Finally, Coach Adler stopped in front of us.
He looked at the panels.
Then at me.
“Good work, Ellis.”
“Thank you.”
Then at Carter.
“Good work, Vance.”
Carter swallowed.
“Thank you, Coach.”
Adler nodded once.
“Do not make the hallway weird.”
Then he left.
Carter looked after him.
“Too late.”
“Yes,” I said.
Patty heard and laughed from halfway down the hall.
When we were finally alone, Carter stood beside me, hands back in his hoodie pocket.
The quiet after the group felt bigger.
Not empty.
Just ours.
“I thought it would feel worse,” he said.
“The wall coming down?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It feels...” He searched for the word. “Moved. Not gone.”
I looked at the panels.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“That.”
We stood there a moment.
Then he said, “Your panel looks like it belongs here.”
My chest softened.
“So does yours.”
He made a face.
“Mine looks emotionally aggressive.”
“It is emotionally accurate.”
“Same problem.”
I smiled.
He smiled back.
Then the smile faded into something gentler.
“I have camp dates,” he said.
There it was.
The future, arriving with a schedule.
“When?”
“Two weeks from Monday.”
“Michigan?”
“Yes. Fourteen days.”
“Good.”
He looked at me.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
His mouth curved.
“Good no?”
“Scared yes.”
His expression softened.
“Same.”
I turned toward him.
“Are you excited?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“And scared.”
“Also good.”
“And already worried about what happens after.”
“That makes sense.”
“And trying not to ask you to solve that.”
My heart ached.
“I know.”
“I understand,” he corrected softly.
I took a step closer.
The hallway was technically public.
It was also ours now in a strange official way.
“I am proud of you,” I said.
His face changed the way it always did when that word found him.
Less like praise.
More like permission.
“Medium?” he asked.
“Huge.”
His breath caught.
I smiled.
“Externally respectful.”
He laughed softly.
Then looked at me for a long moment.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“Carter.”
He tucked both hands deeper into his hoodie pocket like that could contain whatever was trying to escape.
“I am trying to decide if now is the right room.”
My pulse changed.
I knew.
Not exactly.
But enough.
“The right room for what?”
He looked at the panels.
Then back at me.
“For saying something that is true, and not making you responsible for carrying it before you are ready.”
Oh.
The hallway tilted slightly.
Not badly.
Just enough to remind me I had a body.
“Okay,” I said.
Good answer.
Maybe.
Carter breathed once.
“I love you.”
The words were quiet.
No performance.
No grand speech.
No attempt to make them impossible to refuse.
Just four words standing between our two permanent panels.
The old instinct in me braced.
For pressure.
For expectation.
For the room turning toward me and deciding what my answer should be.
But Carter did not move closer.
Did not reach for me.
Did not explain why I should say it back.
He only stood there, steady and scared, letting the truth be his without making it a trap.
My eyes burned.
“Carter.”
“You do not have to say anything back right now.”
“I know.”
He almost smiled.
“I understand that you know.”
A laugh escaped me.
Watery.
Ridiculous.
He smiled too.
Then the quiet returned.
I looked at his panel.
Known.
I looked at mine.
The finish.
Then I looked at him.
“I love you too.”
His face broke open.
Not huge.
No.
Yes, huge.
There was no scale for it.
He looked like joy had found the bruise and decided to stay there gently.
“Good yes?” he whispered.
I stepped closer.
“Very good yes.”
He touched my face with the careful hand that had become a language.
I leaned into it.
This kiss was different.
Not because it was deeper.
Not because it was more public.
Because it had words under it now.
Love did not erase the fall.
It did not erase the hallway.
It did not erase camp or fear or distance or the fact that both of us still had work to do separately.
It did not need to.
That was why I trusted it.
When we separated, Carter rested his forehead against mine.
“Internally,” he whispered, “I am being very dramatic.”
I laughed.
“How dramatic?”
“Fireworks. Trophy ceremony. Nolan crying.”
“So normal championship levels.”
“Exactly.”
“Externally?”
“Respectful.”
I kissed him once more.
“Trying.”
We left the media hallway after that.
Not because the moment was over.
Because work existed.
Because camp existed.
Because the job existed.
Because love, apparently, did not pause the rest of life.
It walked with it.
Over the next week, I learned my new job.
Patty trained me by handing me twelve tasks and saying, “Ask questions before the fire starts.”
Coach Adler approved three media policies and rejected one slogan by writing only No in the margin.
Green came by twice to ask if alumni could submit photos for the digital archive.
Nolan submitted seven photos of the rubber duck.
I rejected six.
Carter cooked dinner twice.
The first time, too much garlic.
The second time, actually good.
We took morning rink time three more times.
Sometimes I skated alone.
Sometimes Carter sat in the stands.
Once, he brought skates and immediately remembered why retired hockey players should not act smug around former figure skaters.
I did not laugh too hard.
That was a lie.
I laughed very hard.
He loved it.
Camp approached.
We did not pretend it was nothing.
We also did not turn it into a tragedy.
Two weeks was not forever.
But it was our first distance.
Our first after outside the glow of championship and walls and shared hallways.
The night before he left, we walked the lake path again.
No team.
No cameras.
No big speech planned.
Probably.
Carter held my hand loosely, thumb brushing once every few steps.
“You nervous?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“About camp?”
“Yes.”
“About us?”
He looked over.
“Yes.”
Good answer.
Honest.
I squeezed his hand.
“Me too.”
His shoulders lowered.
“I am not worried about wanting this,” he said. “I am worried about wanting it badly and getting weird.”
I smiled.
“You will get weird.”
“Comforting.”
“You will text too much once.”
“Only once?”
“Probably twice.”
“Fair.”
“And I will pretend to be less worried than I am.”
“Also fair.”
“So we tell the truth when it happens.”
He looked at me.
“That sounds too simple.”
“It will be irritatingly difficult.”
“Good.”
The lake moved beside us.
Quiet.
Steady.
No scoreboard.
No final buzzer.
Just water and dusk and a future that did not come with guarantees.
Carter stopped near the bench where he had first said he wanted me in whatever came next.
“I love you,” he said again.
Still careful.
Less scared.
“I love you too,” I said.
Still new.
Less scary.
He smiled.
Real.
Known.
Mine to see.
Not own.
Chosen.
We sat on the bench until the light faded.
My head on his shoulder.
His cheek against my hair.
No one trying to be useful.
No one trying to prove they could stay.
Just staying.
For now.
For real.
And that, I was learning, was more than enough to build on.