Chapter 14 — Carter
Carter
Carter Hayes had handled it.
Healthy communication.
Clear boundary.
No hitting.
No shouting.
No threatening Mason with physical harm, which honestly deserved its own certificate considering Mason had posted unauthorized footage of the Team Clipboard shirt to his story like a man with no attachment to survival.
Carter should have felt proud.
Instead, he felt like he had swallowed a brick.
He walked toward the arena parking lot with his hands shoved into his hoodie pocket and Lena’s words repeating in his head.
But it still hit exactly where it was supposed to.
Because it was true.
Carter Hayes had a reputation.
One party at a time.
One easy flirtation, one almost-date, one “we’re just having fun,” one dramatic exit before anything got serious.
Nobody asked too much of the funny guy.
Nobody noticed when he used charm like a locked door.
Then Lena Brooks had walked into his life with a clipboard, a fundraiser plan, and the deeply inconvenient ability to see the difference between his jokes and his truth.
Carter stopped near the back entrance.
Coach Harlan stood by the arena doors with a travel mug in one hand and the expression of a man who had seen every bad decision a college athlete could make and was waiting to find out which category this one belonged in.
Carter exhaled. “Hey, Coach.”
“You look like you’re about to pick a fight with a parking meter.”
“Trying not to.”
“Good. Parking meters have poor sportsmanship.”
Almost.
Coach nodded toward the side of the building. “Walk with me.”
Carter followed him along the path that curved around the arena, away from the main student traffic. The air smelled like cut grass, exhaust, and the cold metallic breath that always seemed to cling to the rink.
For a few seconds, Coach said nothing.
Coach Harlan could make silence feel like a disciplinary hearing.
Finally, Carter caved.
“I talked to Mason.”
Coach’s eyebrow lifted. “Do I want to know?”
“Then why do I suspect I already will by dinner?”
“Because Mason has no survival instincts and access to fabric transfers.”
Coach stared at him.
Carter sighed. “He made Team Clipboard shirts.”
Was that a laugh?
That was absolutely almost a laugh.
“Coach.”
Coach cleared his throat. “And Lena didn’t appreciate becoming unofficial merchandise.”
“Imagine that.”
“I told him to delete the story. No more posting about her. No shirts without her permission.”
Coach glanced over. “You handled it.”
“Yeah.”
“So why do you look like that?”
And embarrassed.
And full of feelings that apparently had nowhere else to go except his face.
“She mentioned my reputation,” he said.
Coach kept walking. “And?”
“And she’s not wrong.”
Carter shot him a look.
Coach’s face remained calm.
“You want me to lie?” Coach asked.
“No.”
“Then no. She’s not wrong.”
“Great. Very inspiring.”
“Truth usually isn’t inspiring at first.”
Carter kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. “I’m trying to be different.”
“Doesn’t feel like it matters when everyone remembers who I was.”
Coach stopped walking.
Carter stopped too.
Coach turned toward him fully.
“That’s the part nobody likes about growing up,” he said. “You don’t get to demand instant trust because you finally decided to change.”
Carter’s jaw tightened.
“I’m not demanding it.”
“I know. But you’re wishing for it.”
He wanted Lena to look at him and believe him.
That thought made his stomach turn.
“I don’t want her feeling stupid for liking me,” Carter said quietly.
Coach’s expression shifted.
Softer.
“She doesn’t strike me as stupid.”
“Then don’t treat her like she can’t decide what she sees.”
Carter looked down.
Coach continued, “You’ve got history. Fine. Own it. Don’t drown in it. Don’t make her responsible for fixing how you feel about yourself.”
“I’m not.”
Coach gave him a look.
Carter exhaled. “I’m trying not to.”
A group of freshmen crossed the lot ahead, laughing too loudly about something on someone’s phone. Carter’s shoulders tensed automatically.
Coach noticed.
“People talk,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Especially on campuses. Especially about hockey players. Especially about romance.”
Carter groaned. “Please don’t say romance.”
“What do you call it?”
“None-of-your-business purposes.”
Coach stared.
“Mason asked,” Carter muttered.
Coach’s mouth twitched again. “You’re all exhausting.”
“So I’ve heard.”
They reached the end of the path where the loading area opened toward the back lot. Coach leaned against the railing.
“You care about this girl,” Coach said.
But easy.
“Then keep doing the boring things,” Coach said.
Carter frowned. “The boring things?”
“Follow through. Tell the truth. Show up on ordinary days. Respect boundaries. Don’t perform your feelings for a crowd. Don’t hide them either. That’s how people learn who you are now.”
God, that sounded awful.
And also exactly right.
“I can do boring,” Carter said.
Coach gave him a look.
“Okay,” Carter amended. “I can attempt boring.”
Mason: I deleted the story. I also deleted the draft poll asking if Team Clipboard should be navy or white. Personal growth.
Mason: Also I am sorry. Actually sorry. Not joke sorry. Tell Lena too but only if it doesn’t make things worse.
Carter: Thank you. No more posts. No more shirts. No using her as content.
A second later:
Mason: Can I still silently support love and logistics?
Carter looked at Coach.
Mason: Huge day for restraint.
Carter locked his phone.
Coach sipped his coffee. “Mason?”
Carter rolled his eyes. “You done emotionally coaching me?”
“For now.”
“Great.”
“Go see your father.”
Carter hated how many adults in his life had gotten good at waiting him out.
“Do you think people can really change how they’re seen?” Carter asked.
Coach studied him.
“Not all at once,” he said. “Not by everyone. And not by announcement.” His voice steadied. “But yes. If they change how they live.”
That was not the answer he wanted.
It was probably the answer he needed.
“Thanks, Coach.”
“Don’t make me regret being helpful.”
“I’ll try.”
Coach gave him a pointed look.
Carter sighed. “I won’t.”
That alone made the world feel less tilted.
Michael Hayes had been discharged with instructions, follow-up appointments, medication adjustments, and a firm warning from Anne that he was not to interpret “resume normal activity” as “reorganize the garage immediately.”
He was currently in the recliner wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt that said Ridgeview Hockey Dad, looking deeply offended by the existence of rest.
Anne opened the front door before Carter could knock.
She noticed.
Of course she did.
When she pulled away, she touched his cheek. “You okay?”
Her smile wobbled.
“Good answer.”
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
From the living room, his dad called, “If that’s Carter, tell him I’m being held hostage by a woman with soup.”
Anne closed her eyes. “He’s been home forty minutes.”
Carter smiled. “Sounds stable.”
“He is stable enough to complain. That’s our current blessing.”
His father sat beneath a blanket he was clearly pretending not to use. His color was better than it had been in the hospital, though tiredness still pulled at his face.
Not with panic this time.
With gratitude so sharp it hurt.
Michael looked him over. “You look terrible.”
Carter laughed. “Nice to see you too.”
“Some.”
“Eating?”
“Lena made sure.”
Michael’s expression brightened immediately. “Ah. The sensible one.”
“Do not start.”
“I simply said she was sensible.”
“You said it like you’re planning something.”
Michael looked at Anne. “Did I say it with a plan?”
Anne settled on the couch with a bowl of soup. “You always say things with a plan.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t praise.”
“I choose to receive it as such.”
Carter sank into the armchair across from them. “This is where I get it, isn’t it?”
“Your charm?” Michael asked.
A hockey game muted on the television even though no one was watching.
His whole body reacted before his brain could stop him.
“You okay?”
Michael looked over. “Yes.”
“No.”
“Dad.”
“Carter.”
Anne’s voice stayed gentle. “He’s okay. Just tired.”
Carter leaned back, forcing himself to unclench his hands.
Too closely.
Carter looked away.
“Don’t do that,” Michael said.
Carter’s eyes returned to him. “Do what?”
“Pretend you’re not scared because you think it makes me feel better.”
Anne’s expression softened.
Carter stared at his dad.
Michael’s voice quieted. “It doesn’t.”
He wanted to say something about hospital gowns or soup prisons or the fact that Michael had flirted with nurses for toast.
Instead, he said, “I don’t like seeing you like this.”
Michael nodded. “I don’t like being seen like this.”
“But I’m here,” Michael said. “I’m following instructions. Mostly.”
Anne cleared her throat.
Michael amended, “Under supervision.”
“Better,” Anne said.
Carter rubbed both hands over his face. “I thought when Mom called…”
The sentence wouldn’t finish.
His dad leaned forward slightly, serious now. “I know.”
Carter’s throat burned.
“I’m not ready,” he admitted.
“For what?”
“For you not to be here.”
Anne looked down at her soup.
Michael’s eyes shone, though he blinked it away quickly.
“Well,” his father said roughly, “I’m not planning on going anywhere yet.”
“Good.”
“And if I do, your mother will drag me back by the ear.”
Anne nodded. “Accurate.”
Carter laughed again, but it came out uneven.
Michael held his gaze.
“You came fast,” he said.
“Lena drove.”
“I know.”
“I was a mess.”
“I know that too.”
Carter frowned. “Mom tell you?”
Michael tapped his chest lightly. “I’m your father.”
That hit harder than expected.
Carter looked down.
“She’s good for you,” Michael said.
Something quieter.
Carter rubbed his thumb over the seam of his hoodie pocket. “Yeah.”
“You scared of that?”
Like Lena.
Like everyone had decided Carter Hayes was no longer allowed to survive on deflection.
“Yes,” he said.
Michael nodded.
“Good.”
Carter blinked. “Good?”
“Means it matters.”
“That’s not comforting.”