Chapter Five
Maren
The puck was in my camera bag.
This was a problem.
Not because pucks were dangerous.
Though they were.
Emotionally, apparently.
Physically, obviously.
The problem was that I could feel it there.
A small, heavy circle at the bottom of the bag, tucked beside extra batteries and a lens cloth, acting like it had a legal right to exist in my life.
It did not.
It was just a puck.
An emotionally neutral puck.
Which was not a real thing.
Carter knew that.
I knew that.
The puck, unfortunately, did not care.
By Friday morning, I had taken it out of the bag twice.
The first time, I put it on my desk.
Too visible.
The second time, I put it in a drawer.
Too dramatic.
Now it was back in the bag because I was a professional and professionals carried unsolicited hockey objects with dignity.
Maybe.
I arrived at the arena before practice with coffee, my laptop, and an edited clip of Carter helping Lily at the open skate.
Not that I had watched it twelve times.
Professionally.
The footage was good.
Too good.
Carter crouched beside the little girl, face open in a way he rarely let adults see. No grin as cover. No performance. No trying to make the room laugh.
Just patience.
Kindness.
The kind of gentleness that made me angrier than it should have.
Because he had always had that in him.
That was the knife.
He had always known how to be careful.
Just not when it cost him.
I set up in the media room and opened the timeline.
Carter’s senior feature now had structure.
Opening: easy smile, loudest laugh, team energy.Middle: last season pressure, Ridgeview rivalry, fear of not knowing who to be after hockey.Turn: humor as armor.Capstone: open skate moment with Lily.
Missing piece: what hockey had given him besides applause.
Also missing: whether I could edit his face for hours without losing my mind.
Unclear.
At eight fifteen, Hazel and Grady walked into the media office.
Together.
Hand in hand.
Like a finale obligation with excellent timing.
I recognized them immediately from Book One materials and the old archive folder.
Hazel had warm eyes, a neat ponytail, and the peaceful alertness of someone who had learned how to be brave without needing everyone to clap for it.
Grady looked broader than his old photos. Calmer too. The kind of man who still noticed every exit but no longer looked like he planned to use one.
“Hi,” Hazel said. “You must be Maren.”
“Yes.” I stood too quickly and nearly hit my knee on the desk. “Maren Ellis.”
Grady shook my hand.
“Grady.”
“Hazel,” she said, even though I knew.
“I know. Sorry. I mean, I know from the series archive. Not in a strange way. Professional archive.”
Hazel smiled.
“Good. I was hoping the professional archive was involved.”
Grady looked at the camera setup.
“Senior Night video?”
“Part of it. And the feature package.”
“Carter’s?” Hazel asked.
I paused.
Too long.
Hazel’s expression changed.
Not nosy.
Worse.
Kind.
“Yes,” I said.
Grady glanced at Hazel.
A whole conversation passed between them without words.
Apparently all Lakeview couples developed telepathy.
Disturbing.
Hazel stepped closer to the desk.
“We’re here early for alumni events. Athletic Communications asked us to record a short reflection about the first championship run.”
“Right. Yes. I have you on the schedule for nine.”
“We can wait.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m ready.”
I was not.
But I could become ready faster than I could stand there being perceived.
I set them up in the two interview chairs.
It was easier than interviewing Carter.
Most things were.
Hazel and Grady were warm on camera. Natural. Funny in a quiet way. They talked about Lakeview before the national attention, before the packed student section, before the “rules” became something everyone joked about in captions and alumni newsletters.
“What made that first year matter?” I asked.
Hazel looked at Grady.
Then back at me.
“It was the first time I understood that rules can protect you for a while,” she said. “But eventually they can start keeping out the good things too.”
Great.
Wonderful.
Apparently the entire series had decided to become thematically articulate.
Grady smiled faintly.
“She had a rule about not needing anyone.”
Hazel bumped his knee with hers.
“You had a rule about not letting anyone close enough to expect anything.”
“True.”
“And?” I asked.
Grady’s gaze softened.
“And then we got tired of being safe alone.”
I wrote that down.
Not for Carter.
For myself.
Annoying.
After the interview, Hazel lingered while Grady took a call in the hallway.
She looked at the paused footage on my laptop.
Carter with Lily.
“Good shot,” she said.
“Yes.”
“He looks like himself there.”
My fingers stilled on the trackpad.
“What does that mean?”
Hazel considered.
“Carter makes the room lighter. That’s real. But sometimes he makes himself disappear inside it.”
I looked at her.
“You know him well?”
“Not as well as Rhett or Mason. But enough.” She smiled gently. “He was a freshman when Grady and I were figuring everything out. He was always around. Always joking. Always useful.”
Useful.
There it was again.
“Useful can be good,” I said.
“It can.” Hazel’s voice stayed soft. “It can also become a place to hide.”
I closed the laptop halfway.
“Everyone here talks like this?”
“Like what?”
“Emotionally targeted.”
Hazel laughed.
“Lakeview does that to people eventually.”
“That should be on the admissions brochure.”
“It would scare off applicants.”
“Appropriate.”
Her smile faded into something kinder.
“Carter hurt you.”
Not a question.
My throat tightened.
I looked toward the hallway.
Grady was still on the phone.
“He did.”
Hazel nodded.
No demand.
No defense.
Good.
“He hurt me when we were young,” I said. “And I left. And now he is acting like he remembers what happened.”
“Does he?”
“Yes.” I hated the answer. “Maybe.”
Hazel was quiet for a second.
“Remembering is not repair.”
I looked at her.
She lifted one shoulder.
“Ask me how I know.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
“No one is asking me to forgive him,” I said.
“Good.”
“I mean it. Nobody has.”
“That says something.”
“It does?”
“Yes. It means they know he did something real.”
That landed.
I had not realized I needed that until she said it.
Three years ago, everyone had laughed.
Or looked away.
Or let the room decide I was too sensitive because Carter had made it easier.
This time, nobody was asking me to make it small.
Hazel touched the back of one chair.
“Can I give advice I have absolutely not earned the right to give?”
“No.”
She smiled.
“Fair. I’ll make it short.”
“That is not respecting the no.”
“Correct.” Her smile softened. “Do not forgive him because he is sorry. Forgive him only if being near him does not require you to abandon the girl he hurt.”
My chest went tight.
There it was.
The exact thing.
The door and the lock and the whole miserable hallway.
I looked down at the laptop.
Carter’s paused face.
No grin.
No mask.
Just him.
“I do not know if I can be near him without becoming her again.”
Hazel’s voice was quiet.
“Then that is the story.”
Before I could answer, Grady came back.
Hazel stepped away like she had not just reached into my chest and rearranged furniture.
Lakeview women were dangerous.
All of them.
At ten, practice started.
I filmed from the platform.
The team looked sharp.
Ridgeview week had tightened everything. Passes snapped cleaner. Skates dug harder. Even the chirping had less waste.
Carter was focused.
Mostly.
He still made the room breathe.
A tap on Green’s helmet before a drill.
A quiet word to Nolan after Adler corrected his gap control.
A ridiculous bow after Rhett threaded a perfect pass that made half the bench groan.
But he did not use jokes to dodge correction.
Not today.
When Adler barked his name after a missed defensive assignment, Carter nodded.
No grin.
No bow.
No deflection.
He took the correction.
Fixed the mistake on the next rep.
I hated how attractive accountability was.
Very inconvenient development.
Halfway through practice, Ridgeview footage went up on the overhead monitor.
Adler froze the clip on their top line.
“This is what they do,” he said. “They crowd the slot, drag you wide, then force you into a low-percentage angle.”
He pointed with his marker.
“Vance, what do you see?”
Carter skated closer, breathing hard, helmet pushed up.
He looked at the screen.
“Left defenseman cheats high after contact.”
Adler nodded.
“And?”
“He wants the forward to panic pass behind the net.”
“And?”
Carter’s eyes narrowed.
“If we reverse too early, he eats it. If we hold one beat and hit the weak side, he’s late.”
Adler’s face gave nothing.
“Good.”
Carter’s shoulders did not move.
But I saw it.
The small internal relief.
He cared.
So much.
Maybe that was the thing everyone missed because he wrapped it in noise.
Carter Vance cared like a man trying not to get caught caring.
After practice, I was packing up when my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
For half a second, my body reacted like it was 2023 and old humiliation had found a new delivery system.
Then I saw the preview.
Hi Maren, this is Leah from Lakeview Figure Skating Alumni—
I stared at it.
Not Carter.
Not old teammates.
Not the video.
Just Leah from skating alumni.
Still, my hand shook.
Ridiculous.
I opened the message.
They wanted me to attend the Senior Night alumni reception. Figure skating alumni had been invited because Lakeview was honoring all ice programs during the capstone weekend.
Of course.
Because apparently the universe had looked at my open wound and said, Could use a spotlight.
I placed the phone facedown.
Breathed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
“You okay?”
Carter’s voice.
I closed my eyes.
Naturally.
I turned.
He stood a few feet away in joggers and a Lakeview hoodie, hair wet, gear bag over one shoulder.
Not too close.
Learning.
“Yes.”
His eyes went to my phone.
Then back to my face.