Chapter Thirty-One
MARA
The fellowship offers me Chicago during the national tournament quarterfinal.
I am in a hotel elevator with Tessa when the email arrives.
The doors close on the seventh floor.
I read the first line.
We are delighted to offer you a twelve-month placement with WCPR Chicago’s Narrative Desk…
I scream.
Tessa screams because I scream.
The elevator stops between floors.
For one terrible second, neither of us moves.
Then Tessa looks at the control panel. “Did your career break the elevator?”
I press the emergency button.
Security answers. The car will reset in a few minutes.
I should call Finn.
He is at team dinner preparing for the quarterfinal. He cannot fix the elevator. He should not have to manage my good news or my temporary enclosure before a game.
I text:
ME: FELLOWSHIP. CHICAGO. YES. I AM ALSO STUCK IN AN ELEVATOR BUT THIS IS NOT AN EMERGENCY. SECURITY IS HELPING. DO NOT LEAVE DINNER.
His reply arrives in twelve seconds.
FINN: Congratulations. Proud of you. Do you want me on the phone?
The question.
ME: Yes. Stay at dinner. Call.
He does.
I put him on speaker.
“You got Chicago,” he says.
“I got Chicago.”
Tessa is crying.
“I am not crying,” she says.
“You are audible,” Finn replies.
The elevator jerks.
My breath catches.
Finn’s voice remains steady. “Feet.”
I press my boots to the floor.
“Three sounds,” he says.
“Fan. Tessa sniffling. Your voice.”
Tessa says, “I am producing emotion.”
The car moves.
When the doors open, I step into the lobby and laugh until I cry.
Finn stays on the line.
“What does Chicago mean?” he asks when I can speak.
“One-year fellowship. July start. Full salary. Health insurance. Narrative desk.”
“Everything you wanted.”
“Yes.”
Fear enters behind joy.
“And Seattle?” I ask.
“Camp only. No contract.”
“Could become one.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Tessa touches my arm and walks toward the lobby coffee shop, giving us privacy.
“We said careers are separate decisions,” Finn says.
“I am accepting.”
“Good.”
No hesitation.
“What if Seattle offers?”
“I go to camp. If they offer, I evaluate it.”
“And us?”
“We make a plan after we have facts.”
I close my eyes.
“Are you scared?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
“Does that change your answer?”
“No.”
“Mine either.”
The next thing.
We choose it separately and together.
At the arena, I am not assigned to hockey coverage, but the fellowship allows me to observe Tessa’s production. I sit beside her in the booth during warmups.
Finn looks up.
I hold one hand to my ear like a phone, then point west.
Chicago.
His face changes.
Even behind the mask, I see pride.
The quarterfinal is against Maine Harbor, a fast team with a brutal forecheck. Stoneharbor falls behind two–zero in the first.
Finn remains steady.
Jace scores in the second. Rowan and half the women’s team are in the student section behind the net, leading chants loud enough to register on our audio meters.
Theo ties the game with six minutes left.
Overtime.
National tournament overtime continues until someone scores. No shootout. Every mistake can end a season.
At eleven minutes, Finn stops a breakaway.
At sixteen, he freezes a rebound beneath three players.
At twenty-three, Jace takes a penalty.
Stoneharbor kills it.
At thirty-one minutes of overtime, Theo blocks a shot, sends the puck up the wall, and Jace scores on a two-on-one.
The game ends.
Tessa’s call cracks with emotion.
I watch Finn drop to his knees—not panic, not collapse, but release. His teammates bury him.
Afterward, he finds me in the hotel lobby at two in the morning.
He still wears his suit. A bruise darkens one cheek.
“Chicago,” he says.
“National semifinal,” I answer.
We meet in the middle.
He lifts me off the floor.
People cheer because hockey teams have no boundaries and hotel lobbies have poor acoustics.
Finn sets me down.
“I am proud of you,” he says.
“I am proud of you.”
“Your thing is bigger.”
“Do not compare joy.”
He kisses me in front of everyone.
Jace shouts, “CONFLICT PLAN!”
Tessa shouts back, “PUBLIC LOBBY EXEMPTION!”
Theo walks past them with Rowan at his side.
They are arguing about a blocked shot.
Mara from two months ago would have assigned them a future.
I have enough present to hold.