Chapter Six
Carter
The problem with telling the truth on camera is that cameras keep receipts.
By Saturday morning, I have watched the clip seven times.
This is not vanity.
Vanity would be watching my hair.
I do not watch my hair.
Much.
I watch the part where I say hockey gave me a place where being useful counted.
The first time, I hate it.
The second time, I hate it differently.
By the seventh, I still hate it, but I also recognize the guy on the screen.
This is rude.
Personal growth should come with better lighting.
I am in the kitchen at our disaster house, eating cereal from an actual bowl because Nolan used the mixing bowl and then claimed it was “soaking.”
The bowl is empty in the sink.
No water.
Deeply on brand.
Eli Green sits across from me with his laptop open, watching Ridgeview power-play clips like they personally insulted his family.
“You know,” I say, “if you stare harder, their systems might file a complaint.”
Green does not look up.
“Coach said learn the weak-side rotation.”
“Coach also said sleep.”
“I slept.”
“When?”
“Some.”
“Strong.”
He pauses the clip.
Looks at me.
“Do you ever get less nervous before big games?”
“No.”
That answer escapes before I can make it fun.
Green blinks.
I should add something.
Make it softer.
Instead, I eat cereal.
He waits.
Freshmen are learning terrible habits from Maren Ellis.
I point my spoon at him.
“You get better at knowing which nerves are useful.”
His shoulders lower.
A little.
“How?”
“You stop pretending you are not nervous. Then you ask what the nerves are telling you.”
He considers that like I have handed him a math problem.
“What are yours telling you?”
Great.
Wonderful.
Mentorship has become a trap.
I think about Ridgeview.
Senior season.
Coach Adler.
Maren’s camera.
My mother’s knee.
The last version of me at Lakeview.
“The usual,” I say.
“That you want to win?”
“That I want to matter if I do not.”
Green looks confused.
Same, kid.
Same.
The front door bangs open.
Nolan enters carrying coffee, two grocery bags, and the expression of a man who has already made one bad decision today.
“Good morning, emotionally tense house.”
I look at the bags.
“You bought groceries?”
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Are you dying?”
“No.”
“Are these stolen?”
“No.”
Green stands to check.
Nolan looks offended.
“Wow.”
Green pulls out bananas.
Eggs.
Bread.
Yogurt.
Spinach.
We all stare at the spinach.
Nolan sighs.
“Coach said our house eats like a gas station.”
“He has seen our trash?”
“He has eyes.”
Fair.
Nolan puts the coffee on the counter.
“One for you. One for Green.”
“What about you?”
“I had three.”
“Before eight?”
“Leadership looks different on everyone.”
I take the coffee.
“Do not say leadership.”
“Why?”
“It makes me itch.”
Nolan looks at Green.
“He’s been like this since Media Girl came back.”
Green says, “Maren?”
I stare.
“Everyone knows her name now?”
“She interviewed me for b-roll.”
“She asked me about being a freshman,” Green says.
“How did that go?”
“She waited after questions.”
I close my eyes.
“Silence attack.”
“Yeah.”
“Brutal.”
“I told her Ridgeview scares me.”
Nolan makes a face.
“Why?”
“Because it does.”
Nolan starts to joke.
I look at him.
He stops.
Progress.
Ugly, reluctant progress.
“Fair,” Nolan says.
Green looks surprised.
So does Nolan.
I hide my smile in coffee.
At ten, we have optional skate.
Optional, during Ridgeview week, means mandatory unless you enjoy Coach Adler’s emotional silence.
The arena is busier than usual because Senior Night planning has infected the building.
Banners are going up.
Alumni photos are being checked.
The Wolves logo on the concourse has been polished so hard it looks personally ambitious.
And Maren is everywhere.
Not physically.
Worse.
Visually.
Her shot list taped near the media office.
Her camera bag on a chair near the boards.
Her handwriting on labels for interview clips.
Sharp.
Organized.
Unforgiving.
I see the puck on her desk through the open office door.
My puck.
No.
A puck.
Emotionally neutral.
Absolutely not neutral.
I keep walking.
Growth.
On the ice, we run Ridgeview breakouts.
Adler puts me with Rhett and Jace for one sequence, then shifts me to Green’s line to test pressure reads.
“Vance,” Adler says from the boards, “talk him through it.”
Green stiffens.
I skate beside him.
“Okay,” I say. “Ridgeview is going to make you feel like you have no time.”
“I know.”
“You have more than you think.”
“I do?”
“Not much.”
“That is less comforting.”
“Honest comfort.”
“I hate it.”
“Same.”
We run the drill.
Green panics on the first rep and throws the puck blind.
Turnover.
Adler’s whistle screams.
Green’s face goes white.
Old Carter would have made a joke for the room.
New Carter is apparently trying not to be useless in better ways.
I skate over.
“Again.”
Green shakes his head.
“I saw the pressure and—”
“Again.”
“I messed it up.”
“Yes.”
He looks at me.
I shrug.
“Falling is correct.”
His eyebrows pull together.
“What?”
“Long story. Again.”
Second rep.
He holds half a beat longer.
Still turnover.
Better turnover.
Third rep.
He finds me on the weak side.
I score.
The room erupts because hockey players have no emotional moderation.
I tap Green’s helmet.
“Useful nerves.”
He exhales.
Smiles.
Good.
Across the ice, Maren stands at the boards, camera lifted.
She got it.
Of course she got it.
After skate, I stay late for shooting.
Not because Maren is still there.
Because Ridgeview’s goalie cheats glove side when screened.
Also because Maren is still there.
Both can be true.
I am collecting pucks near the slot when she walks down to the bench.
She wears a black Lakeview staff jacket today, hair pulled into a low ponytail, camera hanging from her neck.
Professional.
Composed.
Holding my entire day hostage by existing.
“Good work with Green,” she says.
I shoot a puck into the empty net.
“Was that praise?”
“Do not make it weird.”
“Too late internally.”
She almost smiles.
Progress should have a scoreboard.
I skate closer to the boards.
Not too close.
Still separated by glass and rink edge.
Very metaphorical.
Disgusting.
“He needed to know messing up was survivable,” I say.
Her expression shifts.
“Yes.”
I rest my stick across my gloves.
“How is the feature?”
“Good.”
“That was fast.”
“You gave me good material.”
“Terrifying.”
“It is.”
She looks toward center ice.
I wait.
Because apparently I can do that now.
Sometimes.
She says, “Hazel and Grady interviewed yesterday.”
“I heard. Grady still has that calm thing that makes everyone else look unstable?”
“Yes.”
“Rude of him.”
“Deeply.”
Her mouth curves.
Actual small smile.
I try not to stare.
Fail privately.
“She said something useful,” Maren says.
“Hazel?”
“Yes.”
“Sounds likely.”
“She said not to forgive someone because he is sorry.”
My stomach tightens.
There it is.
No warmup.
No whistle.
Straight into contact.
I nod.
“She is right.”
Maren watches me.
“You really think so?”
“Yes.”
“No argument?”
“No.”
“No charming rebuttal?”
“No.”
She looks almost annoyed.
Fair.
I have ruined a perfectly good fight.
“I am sorry,” I say, “but I am trying to become less convenient to argue with.”
“That is inconvenient.”
“Deeply.”
The almost-smile comes back.
Then leaves.
“She also said I should only forgive you if being near you does not require me to abandon the girl you hurt.”
That lands so hard I nearly shift on my skates.
I grip my stick.
“That is...” I stop.
Smart?
Good?
Devastating?
“Yes,” I say finally.
Maren’s eyes narrow slightly, like she expected more.
I give her more.
“I do not want you to abandon her.”
Her expression changes.
I keep going before I can get cowardly.
“I do not want you to make her smaller so this is easier for me.”
The rink is quiet around us.
Maintenance hum.
Distant voices.
Blade marks in ice.
Maren’s hand tightens around the camera strap.
“And what if she hates you?” she asks.
“Then she is right.”
Her breath catches.
Small.
I almost wish I had not seen it.
Almost.
I continue, carefully, “And if you hate me now too, that is also allowed.”
“I do not hate you.”
Bad.
Good.
Worse.
I look down at the puck near my skate.
“No?”
“No.”
Her voice is quieter.
“I am angry.”
“Yes.”
“And careful.”
“Yes.”
“And I do not trust you with soft things.”
That one hurts.
Earned.
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I am trying to say it only when I mean it.”
She studies me.
Then nods once.
“Good.”
It feels like winning half a faceoff.
Not a goal.
Still momentum.
I lift one puck on my stick and catch it.
“Can I ask something?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
I smile.
Not big.
Just enough.
“Growth?”
“Suspicious.”
“You said no. I respected it.”
“I noticed.”
She looks at the puck balanced on my blade.
“What was the question?”
“No.”
Now she almost laughs.
Almost.
“Carter.”
“Respecting boundaries.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“A little.”
The smile appears.
Brief.
Real.
Mine to remember.
Not own.
“Ask,” she says.
I let the puck drop to the ice.
“Did you miss skating?”
The smile vanishes.
I regret it immediately.
Not because the question is wrong.
Because it is right in the dangerous way.
Maren looks past me toward the empty rink.
“Yes.”
The answer is simple.
No armor.
My chest tightens.
“Do you still?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever—”
“Skate?”
“Yeah.”
Her jaw shifts.
“No.”
No explanation.
I want to ask why.
I know why.
Still, maybe not all of it.
Instead, I nod.
“Okay.”
She looks back at me.
“You are not going to push?”
“I want to.”
Her eyes sharpen.
“But?”
“But wanting to know does not mean I am owed the answer.”
That sentence sounds like it came from a man who has been repeatedly hit by women with emotional clarity.
Because it did.
Maren’s expression softens.
Not much.
Enough.
“I stopped because every rink felt like that hallway,” she says.