Chapter Eight
Carter
The problem with watching Maren carry her skates out of the arena is that I almost believe in miracles.
Not big ones.
Not water into wine.
Not Coach Adler smiling during Ridgeview week.
Impossible.
Smaller.
Sharper.
A woman walking out with white skates in one hand and a camera bag in the other, spine straight, face calm, like the ice had given something back instead of taking more.
That kind.
The dangerous kind.
I do not say anything when I see her leave.
This is heroic.
Nobody claps.
Deeply unfair.
Instead, I stand near the tunnel with one glove in my hand and watch her cross the parking lot through the glass doors until she disappears behind the media building.
Then I realize I am standing near the tunnel with one glove in my hand like a man in a sad sports commercial.
I put the glove in my bag.
Normal.
Extremely normal.
“Vance.”
Coach Adler’s voice behind me.
Naturally.
I turn.
“Yes, Coach.”
He looks past me toward the doors.
Then back at my face.
“You got lost?”
“In the hallway?”
“You tell me.”
“No.”
“Good. Film room. Ten minutes.”
“Ridgeview?”
“No, we’re watching figure skating documentaries.”
I stare.
His expression does not change.
I cannot tell if he is joking.
That is terrifying.
“Ridgeview,” he says.
“Right.”
He walks away.
I follow because I value my future.
Also because if I stand still any longer, I may think about Maren’s laugh in the equipment alcove and become useless.
Film room is full when I arrive.
Rhett in front.
Mason beside him.
Jace leaning back with arms folded.
Nolan spinning a pen until Adler looks at him.
The pen stops.
Eli Green sits two rows ahead of me with his notebook open.
Good kid.
Terrible habit.
Learning.
Adler turns off the lights.
Ridgeview fills the screen.
Navy and red.
Fast.
Heavy.
Mean in the way good teams are mean.
Not sloppy.
Not emotional.
Precise.
“They want you angry,” Adler says.
He freezes a clip of Ridgeview’s top forward finishing a hit half a beat late.
Legal.
Barely.
“They want your hands high. They want your mouth open. They want you proving something instead of playing something.”
He looks at Nolan.
Then at me.
Again.
I feel personally targeted by hockey strategy.
Valid.
Adler clicks to another clip.
Ridgeview pressing a player into a mistake behind the net.
“They will test Vance early.”
Fantastic.
My teammates look at me.
I spread my hands.
“What? I am beloved.”
Nolan snorts.
Adler says, “You are predictable when embarrassed.”
The room goes quiet.
Ouch.
Accurate.
I sit back.
“Yes, Coach.”
No joke.
Adler studies me for half a second.
Then continues.
Good.
Painful.
Rhett shifts in his seat.
Mason glances over once.
Jace watches the screen.
Nobody rescues me from the discomfort.
Traitors.
Friends.
Same horrible category.
Adler runs the clip again.
“If they chirp your feature, your media work, your mother, your old mistakes, your new haircut, I do not care. You play the system.”
Nolan turns.
“You got a new haircut?”
I look at him.
“Focus.”
“Just asking.”
Adler says, “Vance.”
I face front.
“System.”
“Yes, Coach.”
The meeting runs forty minutes.
By the end, Ridgeview feels less like an opponent and more like a personality disorder with forecheck pressure.
When the lights come on, Adler points at me.
“Stay.”
Of course.
Everyone else leaves with the subtlety of men escaping a house fire.
Rhett pauses at the door.
I wave him off.
He leaves.
Adler sits on the front table.
Never good.
“You are doing better.”
I blink.
“Was that praise?”
“No.”
“Right.”
“You are doing better,” he repeats, “because you are noticing the moment before you run.”
My throat tightens.
“Okay.”
“That does not mean you will like what happens when you stay.”
“I have noticed.”
“Ridgeview will find the bruise.”
I look at the blank screen.
The reflection of the room stares back.
“They always do.”
Adler’s voice is flat.
“So know it first.”
I glance at him.
He waits.
Wonderful.
Coach Adler has also joined the silence cult.
“The feature,” I say.
“Likely.”
“Maren.”
“Possibly.”
“My mother.”
“Possibly.”
I exhale.
“They will say I’m soft.”
“Are you?”
I look at him.
He does not blink.
“No.”
“Then let them be wrong.”
Easy.
Impossible.
Important.
Adler stands.
“Last season, Vance. You can end as the guy they use or the guy they cannot move.”
I sit with that.
Then nod.
“Understood.”
“Good. Go eat something green.”
I stare.
“Are you and my mother in contact?”
“No.”
“Suspicious.”
“Go.”
I go.
At home, the disaster house is aggressively alive.
Nolan is cooking.
This is bad.
Green is watching him cook.
This is worse.
Something steams on the stove.
Something else smokes.
I enter slowly.
“Do we need emergency services?”
Nolan points a spatula at me.
“Team nutrition.”
Green says, “He found a recipe.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It has spinach,” Nolan says.
“Ah. Coach got to you.”
“Coach got to all of us.”
The pan hisses.
Nolan jumps back.
I put down my bag.
“Move.”
“I can cook.”
“You are threatening spinach.”
“It started it.”
I take the spatula.
He lets me.
Growth.
Also fear.
I finish the eggs because my mother raised me to survive and because apparently I am the house adult now.
Terrible.
We eat at the small kitchen table.
Eggs.
Toast.
Spinach that has given up but remains technically green.
Nolan takes one bite.
“Disgusting.”
“You cooked it.”
“Still.”
Green eats like the food may improve him.
Freshmen are adorable and alarming.
Nolan points his fork at me.
“Media Girl was on skates today.”
I stop chewing.
Green looks up.
“She was?”
Nolan nods.
“Alumni skate. She looked good.”
I give him a look.
“Careful.”
He lifts both hands.
“I mean skating. Not— I mean, she’s obviously—”
“Nolan.”
“Stopping.”
Good.
Green says, “She used to skate?”
“Yes.”
Nolan looks at me.
“You knew her then?”
I take a drink of water.
“Yes.”
He waits.
Green waits.
The house has become unbearable.
“I hurt her then,” I say.
The room quiets.
Nolan’s face changes.
Not gossip now.
Understanding.
“Like Sadie?” he asks.
Different.
Same.
“No. Not like Sadie. But real.”
Nolan looks down at his plate.
“That sucks.”
“Yes.”
“Are you fixing it?”
“No.”
He looks up.
I set down my fork.
“I am not fixing her. I am trying to stop being the guy who made it worse.”
Green nods slowly.
Nolan says, “That sounds like something Coach would say.”
“Devastating.”
“Yeah.”
We keep eating.
Quietly.
Then Nolan says, “Spinach is still trash.”
“Correct,” I say.
Peace restored.
At seven, I get a text from Rhett.
RHETT: Tessa wants everyone at the senior-night planning thing tomorrow. Mandatory couples/found-family nonsense.
I type back.
ME: I am single and therefore immune.
RHETT: She said especially you.
Of course she did.
ME: What is it?
RHETT: Dinner. Banner sorting. Memory wall. She says you have to bring “Carter energy.”
I stare at the words.
Carter energy.
Once, that would have been easy.
Be loud.
Be funny.
Make the room lighter.
Now it feels like a job description I may not fully understand anymore.
ME: What kind?
Rhett does not answer right away.
Then:
RHETT: The real kind.
I hate married people.
At eight, I open my laptop.
Not to watch my feature again.
Obviously.
To review Ridgeview film.
Professionally.
I watch three clips.
Then open the feature file.
Idiot.
Maren sent the updated cut to the approved folder for internal review.
I click.
The piece starts with laughter.
Mine.
Open skate.
Practice.
Locker room.
Little kids.
Then the sound dips.
My interview.
“If I can make them laugh, then I don’t have to know how scared they are. Or how scared I am.”
I pause.
Walk away.
Return.
Press play.
Maren has cut in old footage from freshman year.
Me behind Hazel and Grady.
A quick shot of Tessa and Rhett at the fundraiser.
Sloane and Jace in the stands after a game.
Eden and Mason at the senior event.
Not too much.
Just enough to make the series feel like a living room everyone wandered through on the way to becoming less stupid.
Then me.
Now.
Helping Green.
Lily on skates.
The line about survival and leadership.
The final shot is from today.
I did not know she filmed it.
Green making the pass after two mistakes.
Me tapping his helmet.
No joke.
No performance.
Just a nod.
The clip ends on my voice.
“I am trying to learn the difference before I leave Lakeview.”
Black screen.
I stare.
Then put both hands over my face.
Terrible.
Excellent.
Unfairly good.
My phone rings.
Maren.
No.
Unknown caller.
I almost throw the laptop.
It is my mother.
I answer too fast.
“Hello.”
“Why do you sound like you just got caught?”
“No reason.”
“What did you do?”
“Watched myself become inspirational.”
“Oh no.”
“Exactly.”
She laughs.
Good.
Then coughs.
I sit up.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“That sounded bad.”
“It was a cough.”
“You are post-surgery.”
“My knee is not connected to my throat.”
“Bodies are suspicious.”
“Carter.”
I breathe.
“Sorry.”
A pause.
Soft.
“I am okay,” she says. “Good okay.”
I trust her.
I do not fully trust the distance.
“Okay.”
“Ridgeview this weekend?”
“Yes.”
“Big game?”
“Very.”
“You nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“That is everyone’s favorite word lately.”
“Because nerves mean you care.”
“I care too much.”
“No,” she says. “You hide too much.”
Direct hit.
Mother wins faceoff.
I lean back.
“Do you think I’m funny?”
She pauses.
Suspicious.
“Of course.”
“Do you think I use it badly?”
“Yes.”
Immediate.
Wow.
“I gave birth to you. I get to be honest.”
“That was fast.”
“You were funny before you were careful. I miss that sometimes.”
The words quiet me.
Funny before careful.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you used to laugh because you were happy,” she says. “Then you started laughing to make sure everyone else was.”
My throat tightens.
Across the room, the laptop sits open on my frozen face.
Helpful.
Horrifying.