Chapter Four
FINN
At the team house, Jace has placed a whiteboard in the kitchen titled FINN’S EMOTIONAL WEATHER.
Monday is represented by a gray cloud.
Tuesday is a darker gray cloud.
Wednesday has lightning.
Saturday contains a pink heart wearing goalie pads.
I erase the board.
Jace watches from the counter. “Suppression does not change the forecast.”
Theo Park enters carrying groceries and takes in the marker in my hand.
“What did he do?” he asks.
“Art.”
Theo sets the bags down. “Unforgivable.”
This season, Theo wears the C Owen left behind. He treats captaincy the way he treats defense: position first, ego last, no wasted movement. He is the person most likely to notice a problem and least likely to ask about it in front of someone else.
That makes him dangerous.
“Mara’s lesson went well?” he asks while putting vegetables in the refrigerator.
“No.”
Jace points at the erased board. “Heart evidence says otherwise.”
“She cannot skate.”
“She can broadcast,” Theo says.
“That skill does not transfer.”
“Did she fall on you?” Jace asks.
I turn toward him.
His grin widens.
Theo closes the refrigerator. “You are making it obvious.”
“I am going to practice.”
“It is Sunday,” Jace says.
“I know.”
“Coach locked the rink.”
“I have a key.”
Theo folds his arms. “Finn.”
I stop at the doorway.
“Maeve said you declined the counselor appointment.”
Betrayal moves cold through my chest.
“She told you?”
“She said the leadership group should know you may need schedule flexibility. No details.”
“I do not.”
Theo’s expression remains neutral. “Okay.”
The same answer Maeve gave me.
No argument. No order.
I hate how much room it creates.
Jace’s voice loses its joke. “Are you okay?”
The question triggers the automatic sentence.
I am fine.
Mara’s face appears in my mind. You hockey players need a new sentence.
“No,” I say.
Both of them become very still.
I grip the doorframe.
“I am not in danger. I am not injured. I am…not okay.”
Jace climbs down from the counter.
Theo asks, “What do you need?”
The correct answer should exist. Tape. Ice. Space. A video session. Something concrete.
“I do not know.”
Theo nods. “Then we can start there.”
Jace crosses the kitchen and, for once, does not touch me. “I can delete the weather board.”
“You already did,” I say.
“I can delete it emotionally.”
“That means nothing.”
“Good. Normal conversation restored.”
I leave before gratitude becomes visible.
Instead of going to the rink, I drive to the counseling center.
The building is closed on Sunday. I sit in the parking lot for eleven minutes with Dr. Patel’s card between two fingers.
Then I use the online portal and schedule Thursday at three.
The confirmation email feels like evidence in a trial.
I delete it.
Then recover it from the trash.
On Monday night, I listen to Mara’s show from the dark bedroom at the back of the team house.
She does not mention me.
The opening segment covers a student government argument about parking permits. Then she interviews Rowan Hale, captain of the women’s hockey team, about their first home series and the university’s decision to give the men’s team the prime Friday practice slot.
Rowan’s voice is sharp enough to cut glass.
“Apparently our ice becomes less frozen after eight p.m.,” she says.
Mara laughs. “Have you discussed this with men’s captain Theo Park?”
“I have sent three emails.”
“Responses?”
“He uses complete sentences to say nothing.”
Downstairs, Theo shouts, “That is not accurate.”
I turn the volume higher.
Mara asks Rowan what she wants listeners to understand.
“That access is not a favor,” Rowan says. “We train at the same level. We bleed on the same ice. Stop giving us whatever time remains after everyone else is comfortable.”
Theo appears in my doorway.
“She omitted the tournament conflict,” he says.
“You are listening.”
“For accuracy.”
“Of course.”
Mara shifts into listener calls. Someone asks whether the women’s team could beat the men’s team.
Rowan says, “At what? Hockey or answering email?”
Theo walks away.
Interesting.
My phone lights with a message.
MARA: You listening?
I stare at it.
ME: No.
Three dots appear immediately.
MARA: Terrible liar.
ME: Theo is listening.
MARA: Tell him Rowan says hi.
I do not.
MARA: How is your breathing?
The question should irritate me.
It does.
It also loosens something behind my ribs.
ME: Normal.
MARA: Truth?
I look at the closed door, the dark window, the counseling appointment still hidden in my deleted folder.
ME: Better.
Her response takes longer.
MARA: Good. Mine too.
I read the sentence twice.
I had not considered that seeing me panic might have frightened her.
That is the problem with masks. They do not only hide the person wearing them. They hide the effect he has on everyone outside.
The show ends at midnight.
At twelve oh-three, my phone rings.
Mara.
I answer without thinking.
“Why are you calling?”
“Because you answered.”
“That is not a reason.”
“It is at this hour.”
I hear the station door close behind her, then wind across the microphone.
“Are you walking alone?” I ask.
“Across a lit campus with security boxes every fifty feet.”
“That was not my question.”
She sighs. “Tessa is thirty steps behind me carrying a microphone stand like a spear.”
In the distance, Tessa shouts, “I heard that.”
“Good,” I say.
Mara’s footsteps crunch through snow. “You know, anonymous donors do not usually conduct safety audits.”
“I am not an anonymous donor.”
“You donated anonymously.”
“Different grammar.”
She laughs.
The sound fills my room.
I understand, suddenly and completely, why I sent the money.
Not because her voice saved me once.
Because some part of me wanted to make certain it would still be there the next time.
The realization is dangerous.
I grip the phone tighter.
“Finn?”
“Yes.”
“You got quiet.”
“I am always quiet.”
“Not like this.”
She hears too much.
“I have an early lift,” I say.
“Okay.” No pressure. “Goodnight, Callahan.”
“Mara.”
“Yes?”
I should say goodnight.
Instead, I tell the truth.
“I made the appointment.”
The line goes silent.
Then her voice returns, soft and steady.
“I’m glad.”
No praise. No celebration. No claim that I did it for her.
Just room.
I lie back against the pillow.
“Goodnight,” I say.
“Goodnight, Finn.”
She uses my first name like a hand held out in the dark.
After the call ends, I remain in the room long enough to hear the next sentence.