Chapter Eighteen
FINN
My parents arrive at Harbor Ice carrying a quilt, three jars of soup, and information I did not request.
“The Seattle Comets called,” Dad says before the national anthem.
I stare at him.
We are standing in the family corridor beneath the seats. Mom is hugging Mara, whom she met forty seconds ago. Mara looks surprised but not unhappy.
“What?” I ask.
Dad lowers his voice. “Regional scout. Asked whether you have an agent.”
“I do not.”
“I told him that.”
“Why did he call you?”
“Your junior registration still lists the store number.”
“That was five years ago.”
“He said they have been watching.”
The professional future I have kept abstract becomes a door opening without warning.
My chest tightens.
Dad sees it. “Bad time?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
He means it.
I press both feet into the concrete and hear three sounds: crowd, ventilation, Mara laughing softly at something Mom says.
The third sound holds.
“After the game,” I say.
Dad nods.
Mom releases Mara and reaches for me.
I let her hug me.
For years, I avoided long contact before games because it made departure feel possible. Tonight, I remain until she lets go.
“You look tired,” she says.
“I am.”
“Truth. Good.”
Mara smiles.
I point toward the media stairs. “You should go.”
“Yes, goalie.”
She squeezes my hand before leaving.
Mom watches her walk away.
“I like her.”
“You spoke for forty seconds.”
“She wore red boots to an ice rink.”
“That is your criterion?”
“Confidence.”
Dad says, “Poor traction.”
They are both right.
The Comets scout sits six rows behind the bench.
I know because Jace tells me during warmups.
“He has a clipboard,” Jace says.
“Many people own clipboards.”
“He has a Comets pin.”
“Focus.”
“I am focused on your future wealth.”
Theo skates between us. “Bennett.”
“Leaving.”
The game is against North Ridge.
The corridor where Mara first saw me panic belongs to their arena, not ours, but the name itself carries memory. My body begins preparing for danger before the puck drops.
First period: twelve saves.
Second: nine.
At intermission, my hands shake while I retape my stick.
Maeve sits beside me without speaking.
“Five,” I say.
“Symptoms or number of things?”
“Symptoms. Five.”
“What do you need?”
“Quiet.”
She clears the small treatment room and turns off the fluorescent light. I sit in the dark with the door open.
No one lies for me. No one tells Coach it is equipment.
Theo enters after three minutes.
“Can you play?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Should you?”
The question is harder.
I assess honestly. Breathing stable. Vision clear. Hands still. Panic receding.
“Yes.”
“If that changes?”
“I tell you.”
He taps the doorframe once and leaves.
I play the third.
North Ridge scores with four minutes left. Tie game.
Overtime begins at four-on-four under conference rules. Every possession becomes space and speed. With thirty seconds remaining, their winger breaks alone.
I move to the top of the crease.
Hands. Hips. Puck.
He dekes forehand.
I hold the edge.
Backhand.
I extend the pad.
The puck hits leather and slides wide.
Horn.
The game goes to a shootout.
I hate shootouts. Goalies become spectacle. One shooter, one save, everyone waiting for failure in its most visible form.
The first North Ridge player scores.
Jace answers.
Second shooter misses high.
Theo scores five-hole.
Third shooter skates toward me.
The arena noise becomes a tunnel.
Feet.
Three sounds.
Blades. Breath. Mara’s voice in memory: Stay in the room long enough to hear the next sentence.
The shooter releases.
I catch the puck.
Game.
My teammates cross the ice in a wave.
Jace hits me first. Theo follows. The pile grows.
I cannot breathe because six men are on top of me, which is a separate medical issue.
When they finally move, I look toward the radio booth.
Mara stands behind the glass.
She does not raise both arms or point to herself.
She touches two fingers to her heart, then opens her hand.
Room.
I answer with my blocker against my chest.
After media, the Comets scout waits outside the locker room.
“Finn Callahan?”
“Yes.”
“Eric Nolan. Seattle.”
We shake hands.
He asks about my plans after graduation. I tell him I do not have an agent and have not committed to a professional route. He says the organization is considering development-camp invitations.
Then his gaze moves toward the training room.
“You left the bench at intermission?”
My body goes cold.
“Medical check,” I say.
“What kind?”
The old instinct says lie.
Stomach. Equipment. Headache.
Dr. Patel’s voice: You decide what is private. Privacy is not dishonesty.
“I had symptoms that required evaluation,” I say. “I was cleared and returned.”
“What symptoms?”
“Private medical information.”
His expression reveals nothing.
“Understood.”
Maybe I have damaged the opportunity.
Maybe I have protected myself.
Both can be true.
At the diner, my parents, Mara, and I occupy one booth. Dad asks Mara how radio signals work. Mara provides a ten-minute explanation involving waves, modulation, and a metaphor about gossip.
Mom watches me.
“You told them no?” she asks quietly.
“To details.”
“Good.”
“What if it costs me?”
“What if hiding costs more?”
Mara hears. She does not answer for me.
I reach beneath the table and take her hand.
The future remains uncertain.
For once, uncertainty is not the same as danger.