Chapter Six #2
The words are quiet.
I go very still.
She continues, “Everyone watching. Everyone waiting to see if I would fall again. Even when nobody was.”
I feel the old hallway around us.
The video.
The laughter.
Me smiling because I was too weak to stop what I started.
My throat tightens.
“I am sorry.”
“I know.”
It is not forgiveness.
But it is less sharp than before.
“I loved it,” she says. “That was the worst part. I did not only lose people. I lost the version of myself that felt strongest on ice.”
A puck slides from my glove and hits the surface.
Neither of us moves.
This is the part where Old Carter would say something like, Well, ice is slippery, terrible place for identity, really.
He is not invited.
“I would like to see that version,” I say.
Maren’s gaze snaps to mine.
Not angry.
Scared.
That is worse.
I add quickly, “Not for me.”
“Then why?”
“Because you said she was strong.”
The rink holds the silence for us.
Maren looks away.
“I have work.”
“Okay.”
She steps back.
Then stops.
“Senior Night includes open alumni skate before the ceremony.”
“I know.”
“I may be expected to film it.”
“Okay.”
“I may have to be on the ice.”
My heart kicks.
Not because of me.
For her.
“With camera or skates?” I ask.
“Maybe both.”
“Okay.”
She looks at me again.
“If I do, do not make it a moment.”
I nod.
“Small.”
“No.”
“Tiny?”
“No.”
“Emotionally invisible?”
“Yes.”
“I can attempt that.”
Her mouth twitches despite herself.
“Attempt harder.”
“Understood.”
She leaves.
I watch her go.
Not too long.
Probably too long.
At three, Coach Adler calls leadership into his office.
Ridgeview film.
Line matchups.
Special teams.
Then, because he likes ruining digestion, he says, “Vance, you are on the senior feature for the Saturday donor preview.”
I stare.
“The what?”
Mason looks at me with sympathy.
Rhett looks like he already knew.
Traitors everywhere.
Coach continues, “Athletic Communications is showing early cuts to major donors and alumni before Senior Night. Your segment is one of them.”
“No.”
Coach’s eyes rise.
I correct.
“Concern.”
“Noted.”
“Do I have to attend?”
“Yes.”
Horrible.
“Do I have to speak?”
“Possibly.”
“Can I fake illness?”
“No.”
“You did not consider.”
“Correct.”
Jace’s mouth twitches.
I hate everyone.
Coach looks at me.
“The piece is honest. That is why they want it.”
I shift.
“Honest can be messy.”
“So can hockey.”
“Coach.”
“Vance.”
He leans forward.
“Do you want to be remembered as the guy who made everyone laugh or the guy who helped them tell the truth?”
Terrible question.
Unfair question.
Maren-level question.
I look down.
“What if I liked being remembered as funny?”
“No one said you cannot be funny.”
That is what Maren said.
There is a conspiracy.
Coach says, “Just stop using it to avoid being known.”
Yup.
Conspiracy confirmed.
Saturday donor preview goes exactly as badly as expected.
Not because the video is bad.
Because it is good.
Too good.
Maren’s cut opens with me making Green laugh during drills, then cuts to old footage of me as a freshman during Grady’s first big Lakeview season, then to me in the interview saying the room is what I do when I do not know what else to offer.
Horrifying.
Effective.
There is practice footage.
Open skate with Lily.
The line about hockey making being useful count.
My voice saying survival is not the same as leadership.
The room is silent when the clip ends.
A donor in a blue blazer wipes under one eye.
I consider transferring.
Too late.
Maren stands at the back with her laptop, face unreadable.
Coach Adler says something about senior leadership and growth.
I hear none of it.
After, people approach.
Good feature.
Strong message.
Impressive maturity.
Words that make me want to peel off my skin politely.
I smile.
Thank them.
Do not joke too much.
Only appropriate amounts.
Mostly.
Finally, I escape to the hallway near the old trophy case.
Bad hallway choice.
Fitting.
Maren finds me there five minutes later.
Of course.
“You left fast,” she says.
“Emotional cardio.”
She gives me a look.
I lean back against the wall.
“It was good.”
“I know.”
“Still humble.”
“Still accurate.”
I laugh once.
Then stop.
“It was hard to watch.”
“I know.”
That one from her sounds different.
Not easy.
Not casual.
She steps beside me, looking at the trophy case instead of my face.
A photo of Hazel and Grady from their championship year sits near the front.
Behind it, a more recent team shot.
I am in the back row.
Grinning.
Of course.
Maren says, “I did not make you look perfect.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Yes.”
“I did not make you look awful either.”
“I noticed.”
She turns her head.
“Did you want me to?”
I think.
Maybe.
Punishment is cleaner than complexity.
“No.”
“Good.”
She faces the trophy case again.
“The piece works because both things are true.”
“What things?”
“You are the guy who makes the room lighter.” Her voice is quiet. “And the guy who has used that to avoid responsibility.”
I swallow.
“Yes.”
“The first part matters too.”
I look at her.
She keeps her eyes forward.
That sentence feels like grace.
Not forgiveness.
Grace.
More dangerous.
“Thank you,” I say.
She nods once.
Then reaches into her camera bag.
Pulls out the puck.
My puck.
The emotionally neutral puck.
She holds it out.
My chest drops.
“Oh.”
Her eyes flick to mine.
“Do not look tragic. I am not returning it.”
I freeze.
“You’re not?”
“No.”
She places it on the ledge inside the trophy case, in front of the old team photo.
Temporary.
Hidden unless you look.
“The case needed a better prop.”
I stare at it.
Black puck.
Tiny scuffs.
Nothing special.
Everything special.
“You’re leaving it there?”
“For now.”
For now.
Best phrase in the world.
Worst phrase.
Same—
No.
I look at her.
She looks back.
The hallway is quiet.
Old ghosts.
New evidence.
I want to kiss her.
That realization hits so fast I have to push off the wall and put distance between us.
Maren notices.
Of course.
Her breath changes.
Barely.
But I know.
She felt it too.
Bad.
Good.
Not now.
Not in this hallway.
Not beside the trophy case where I failed her once.
I put both hands in my pockets.
“Good prop,” I say.
Her mouth curves.
“Acceptable prop.”
“That means good.”
“That means acceptable.”
I smile.
So does she.
Small.
Real.
Then voices approach from the donor room.
The moment breaks.
Probably merciful.
Maren picks up her laptop bag.
“I need to export the file.”
“I need to pretend I did not emotionally combust in front of alumni.”
“Productive.”
“Deeply.”
She starts to walk away.
Then stops.
“Carter.”
“Yes?”
“Tomorrow, I am filming alumni skate.”
My heart kicks.
“Okay.”
“I might wear skates.”
I keep my face still.
Tiny.
Invisible.
Attempt harder.
“Okay,” I say.
Just that.
She watches me.
Testing maybe.
Or hoping.
I do not know.
Then she nods.
“Okay.”
She leaves.
I stand in the hallway, looking at the puck in the trophy case.
Tomorrow, Maren might step back on the ice.
Not for me.
Not because of me.
But with me somewhere in the room.
The old rule says make it funny before it hurts.
The new one says let it matter.
So I do.
I let it matter.
I let it hurt.
I let it be good.
And for once, I do not make a sound.