Chapter Thirty-Two
FINN
The national semifinal is the first game my mother attends after telling me about her panic attacks.
She sits beside Dad in the family section wearing a green scarf and holding an emergency plan in her purse. She showed it to me at breakfast: medication prescribed by her doctor, water, grounding card, exit map.
“I am not asking you to watch me,” she said.
“I know.”
“I may leave.”
“I know.”
“That does not mean I am not proud.”
“I know.”
She smiled. “You are very repetitive.”
Now, during warmups, I look toward the section once.
Mom presses her feet to the concrete and gives me a thumbs-up.
Mara sits several rows away with Tessa, off duty after the fellowship announcement. She wears silver boots.
The originals.
Ridiculous. Excellent.
We play Desert State, a team built on speed and patience. They do not shoot often. They wait for mistakes.
The first period ends zero–zero.
In the second, Theo takes a high-sticking penalty. Desert State scores on the power play.
I reset.
No panic.
Late in the period, Jace ties it.
The third becomes a contest of exhaustion. Every shift lasts too long. Every rebound is contested. With one minute left, Desert State breaks through the neutral zone.
Their captain shoots low glove.
I stop it.
Rebound.
Another player reaches the puck.
I push right.
The shot hits my mask.
Sound explodes inside my skull.
Whistle.
I remain on my knees.
Maeve watches from the bench. The official asks whether I am okay.
My ears ring. Vision clear. No dizziness. Panic rising behind the impact.
I raise my glove.
“Evaluation,” I say.
The official opens the gate.
For one second, the old fear screams that leaving with fifty-eight seconds remaining will define me.
Then I remember Ellis’s shutout. The conference final. The press room.
Accurate information.
I skate out.
Maeve completes a concussion screen. No immediate signs. Symptoms from panic, not head injury, but protocol requires time.
Ellis enters with fifty-eight seconds left in a tied national semifinal.
He stops two shots.
Overtime begins without me.
I sit in the medical room while Maeve repeats tests. The crowd reacts through the wall. Each sound becomes an imagined ending.
“Can I return?” I ask.
“Not until the observation window ends.”
“How long?”
“Ten more minutes.”
The game could end in ten seconds.
I press my feet into the floor.
“What do you hear?” Maeve asks.
“Crowd. Ventilation. Ellis’s stick on the pipes.”
She nods.
At six minutes of overtime, Stoneharbor scores.
The roar reaches us before the goal horn.
I close my eyes.
Relief and grief arrive together. We won. I was not there. Ellis finished. Jace scored. My last play may have been a puck to the mask.
Maeve completes the protocol. I am cleared from immediate concussion concern but will require follow-up before the final.
When I enter the locker room, the team erupts.
Jace throws both arms around me.
“You started the save,” he says.
“Ellis finished.”
“Both,” Theo says.
Ellis stands near his stall, still wearing half his gear.
I cross the room and hug him.
No hesitation this time.
At the hotel, Mom is waiting near the elevators.
She left the arena after my mask impact because panic symptoms began. Dad went with her. They watched overtime on a lobby television.
“I am sorry,” she says.
“For what?”
“Leaving.”
“You used the plan.”
Her eyes fill.
“So did you.”
Mara approaches slowly, giving us the choice.
Mom opens one arm.
Mara joins the hug.
Dad stands beside us and looks deeply uncomfortable with public emotion.
“This is a fire-code problem,” he says.
Mara laughs into my shoulder.
The championship is in two days.
I may not be cleared.
For the first time, I understand that readiness is not the same as entitlement. The team can win without me. I can matter without being indispensable.
Mara takes my hand.
“Next thing?” she asks.
“Follow-up evaluation.”
“And after?”
“Breakfast.”
“Excellent.”
The future does not vanish when plans change.
It waits for accurate information.