Chapter Fourteen
FINN
I wake at five fourteen with Mara’s knee across my thigh and panic already moving through my chest.
For one disoriented second, I do not know why.
Then memory returns.
She is here.
I wanted her here.
Nothing is wrong.
The alarm system disagrees.
My pulse climbs. The room feels smaller than it did last night. Mara’s weight, the closed door, the unfamiliar fact of another person inside the space I use to recover.
I slide carefully from beneath her and sit on the edge of the bed.
Feet on floor.
Three sounds.
Radiator. Wind. Mara breathing.
The third sound makes it worse.
Responsibility attaches itself to every inhale. What if I wake her? What if she sees? What if she thinks last night caused this? What if I have taken something good and turned it into another crisis she has to manage?
I stand too quickly.
The room tilts.
“Finn?”
Mara’s voice is rough with sleep.
I grip the dresser.
“I am okay.”
She sits up, quilt gathered around her chest.
“Different sentence.”
I close my eyes.
“Panic.”
“Do you want me here?”
The question cuts through noise.
I consider it honestly.
“Yes. But quiet.”
“Okay.”
She does not get out of bed. Does not count. Does not ask for symptoms.
She sits against the headboard and remains.
I breathe.
The panic peaks and falls.
When I can turn without dizziness, I sit beside her.
Mara holds out one hand.
I take it.
“Was it me?” she asks.
“No.”
“Was it sex?”
“No.”
“Truth?”
“Yes.” I force myself to explain. “Waking up and not being alone. Loss of routine. Knowing you might see.”
Her thumb moves across my palm. “I did see.”
“I know.”
“And you survived the devastating humiliation of being human before sunrise.”
I look at her.
She smiles faintly.
“Too soon?”
“No.”
“Good. I have several stronger jokes in reserve.”
I lie back against the headboard.
She rests her head on my shoulder.
“I do not want this to become your job,” I say.
“It will not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I have one. It pays badly and involves microphones.”
“Mara.”
She becomes serious. “We keep asking. You keep seeing Dr. Patel. I keep telling you when I am tired, scared, or need something you cannot give. We do not turn love into surveillance.”
Love.
She says it as a category, not a confession.
My body reacts anyway.
“We are not—”
“I know. I meant relationships generally.”
Thumb to finger.
She notices.
I pull my hand away.
“Coffee,” I say.
“Coward.”
“Yes.”
Downstairs, Jace is asleep inside the pantry.
Mara stops in the kitchen doorway.
“Should we help him?”
“No.”
“Is he alive?”
“Probably.”
Jace opens one eye. “The pantry has excellent acoustics.”
Mara walks past him to the coffee maker. “Did you spend the night waiting to embarrass us?”
“I spent the night at a party. The pantry was a tactical retreat.”
Theo enters wearing running clothes. His gaze moves from Mara in my shirt to me without one.
“Morning,” he says.
Mara lifts a mug. “Captain.”
Theo opens the refrigerator. “Conflict plan updated?”
She points at him. “You have been infected by Lena.”
“Documentation prevents disaster.”
Jace crawls from the pantry. “Disaster creates story.”
Mara looks at me over the rim of her mug.
Something warm and private passes between us.
I understand why Owen became unbearable when Lena joined team breakfasts. He was not showing off happiness. He was trying to protect the ordinary shape of it.
At nine, Mara leaves for Sophie’s. I drive to practice.
Coach Mercer announces that university communications wants to produce a short digital feature on goaltending after my record. I say no before he finishes.
“It is optional,” Coach says.
“Then no.”
Jace whispers, “Strong use of options.”
The communications assistant looks disappointed. “We hoped Mara Bell could host.”
My attention snaps toward her.
Mara did not mention this.
The assistant continues. “The concept is Behind the Mask—the mental and technical demands of goaltending. Nothing personal unless you choose.”
“No.”
Coach dismisses the assistant.
After practice, Mara texts.
MARA: Communications asked whether I would host a goalie feature. I said I would only discuss it after they asked you first.
The tension in my chest loosens.
ME: They asked. I declined.
MARA: Understood. I will decline too.
No argument.
I stare at the message.
ME: It could help your portfolio.
MARA: Not if it costs your boundaries.
The reply should end the discussion.
Instead, discomfort remains.
Her career cannot become smaller because my life is difficult.
At therapy, I tell Dr. Patel.
“She accepted your no,” she says.
“Yes.”
“And you are upset.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she wanted the project.”
“Did she say that?”
“No.”
“Then you are assigning her a sacrifice she did not claim.”
I hate therapy.
“What if she keeps choosing around me?”
“Then you ask. You do not decide her resentment in advance.”
That evening, I call Mara.
“Did you want the feature?” I ask.
A pause.
“Yes.”
Honesty hurts less than guessing.
“Why?”
“Because audio storytelling about the invisible side of sport is exactly the work I want to do. Because goalies are strange. Because you are more interesting than you think.”
“I am not discussing panic publicly.”
“I would never ask without consent.”
“What if it is only hockey?”
Her voice changes. “Are you offering?”
“I am asking what the project could be.”
“We build it together. You set boundaries. Technical preparation, concentration, routines. Maybe other athletes speak about pressure. No diagnosis. No private details. You approve your own quotes for accuracy, not editorial control.”
The idea is uncomfortable.
Not impossible.
“Write a proposal,” I say.
Mara goes quiet.
“Not a yes,” I add.
“An opening.”
“Yes.”
“I can work with an opening.”
I hear her smile.
After the call, I stand beside the old radio and remember her sleeping under my mother’s quilt.
Maybe staying connected is not the same as surrendering space.
Maybe it is learning which doors can remain open.