Chapter Nine #2
Fast.
A joke.
The bench laughed.
Coach Adler did not.
Neither did I.
On the next shift, Carter tried a fancy pass through traffic instead of the simple reverse.
Turnover.
Ridgeview nearly scored.
Adler benched him for one rotation.
Carter sat.
Helmet on.
Eyes forward.
Mouth tight.
No smile now.
Finally.
Good.
Terrible.
I filmed none of that.
Some things were not mine to collect.
Third period.
Lakeview down one.
Ridgeview louder now.
Soren still talking.
Carter’s line jumped over the boards with eight minutes left.
The play developed fast.
Rhett carried deep.
Mason drove the slot.
Carter trailed.
Green, somehow on the ice for the biggest shift of his life, held the blue line under pressure.
The puck came loose.
Carter had a shot.
Good angle.
Not perfect.
A year ago, maybe he takes it because the room wants the hero.
This time, he held one beat.
One.
Enough.
Soren committed to the block.
Carter slid the puck across to Green.
Freshman.
Open net.
Green scored.
The arena exploded.
I almost dropped the camera.
Lakeview players slammed into Green at the boards.
Carter got there first.
Not celebrating himself.
Laughing now.
Real.
Huge.
Green looked like he might cry.
Or vomit.
Same family.
No.
I had been infected.
Overtime came because of course it did.
Rivalry games were emotionally irresponsible.
Five minutes.
Three-on-three.
The arena stood.
No one breathed.
Carter started the second shift of overtime with Rhett and Jace.
Soren on the ice for Ridgeview.
Of course.
Soren tried him again after the faceoff.
I saw his mouth move.
Could not hear.
Carter’s jaw tightened.
Then relaxed.
No smile.
No laugh.
No answer.
He skated.
Play moved fast.
Ridgeview two-on-one.
Jace broke it up.
Rhett collected.
Carter accelerated through neutral ice.
Fast.
Clean.
Wanting visible.
Rhett passed.
Carter caught it in stride.
For one second, he had the shot.
The crowd rose before he even released.
Then he passed.
Back to Rhett.
Better angle.
Rhett scored.
Lakeview won.
The arena came apart.
Sound everywhere.
Towels.
Bodies.
Gloves.
Carter slammed into Rhett and nearly took them both down.
This laugh was not armor.
I knew the difference now.
So did he.
Through the camera, I caught his face as the team surrounded him.
Joy.
Relief.
Pain.
All of it visible.
No exit.
Good.
Very good.
After the game, the hallway was chaos again.
Good chaos.
Winning chaos.
Coach Adler looked almost pleased, which on his face resembled mild indigestion.
I got reaction shots.
Rhett with Tessa.
Mason with Eden.
Jace with Sloane.
Hazel and Grady near the alumni wall, clapping like proud founders of an emotional hockey cult.
Green being hugged too hard by Nolan.
Carter nowhere.
I found him near the old trophy case.
Of course.
Helmet off.
Hair damp.
Still in half gear.
He was staring at the puck I had placed there.
The emotionally neutral puck.
The very non-neutral one.
I stopped a few feet away.
“You won.”
He did not turn.
“We won.”
“Good correction.”
“Trying.”
His voice was rough.
The adrenaline had drained.
What was left looked fragile.
I stepped beside him.
Not too close.
“Ridgeview found the bruise.”
“Yes.”
“You laughed.”
“Yes.”
I waited.
He looked down.
“I hated it as soon as I did it.”
“But you did it.”
“Yes.”
No defense.
Good.
“I did not take the penalty,” he said.
“No.”
“I did use the joke.”
“Yes.”
“And then I played like an adult.”
I looked at him.
He looked back.
Not asking me to approve.
Not exactly.
Maybe asking me to see all of it.
I did.
“Yes,” I said. “You did.”
His shoulders lowered.
Barely.
“Good.”
“The pass to Green was beautiful.”
A real smile flickered.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“Praise.”
“Do not become dependent.”
“Too late.”
I almost smiled.
Then remembered Soren.
His mother.
The feature.
The laugh.
My smile faded.
Carter saw.
“I know,” he said.
I lifted an eyebrow.
He corrected.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the rink doors, where the team was still celebrating.
“I did not get moved by the hit. Or the chirps about the feature. But when he said that about my mom—” His jaw tightened. “I went straight to the version of me that could make it not matter.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
Good answer.
Painful answer.
“What would have worked?” I asked.
He gave me a tired look.
“Nothing in the moment.”
Honest.
“Later?”
“Calling my mom.”
“Good.”
“Eating something green.”
“Also good.”
He huffed a laugh.
Small.
Real.
Then he said, “And maybe telling someone that it hit.”
The hallway went quiet.
I did not look away.
“It hit,” he said.
There.
Not a performance.
Not a joke.
The thing itself.
I nodded once.
“I believe you.”
His eyes changed.
That sentence mattered.
Too much.
To both of us.
The celebration noise surged from down the hall.
Carter looked toward it.
“You should go,” I said.
“I know.”
He did not move.
I did not tell him again.
After a moment, he said, “I wanted to kiss you tonight.”
The air left my lungs.
“Carter.”
“I am not asking.”
Good.
Terrible.
“I just needed to say it before I turned it into six jokes and a migraine.”
My pulse was suddenly everywhere.
“Why?”
His eyes met mine.
“Because tonight I wanted to celebrate with you first.”
Oh.
No.
Dangerous.
Beautiful.
Not yet.
I looked at the trophy case because looking at him directly felt like agreeing to something my fear had not reviewed.
“That is not small.”
“No.”
“It is not easy.”
“No.”
“It is not fair.”
He nodded.
“No.”
I looked back at him.
“Do you still want it if it is not easy?”
His answer came immediately.
“Yes.”
That hit harder than it should have.
I swallowed.
“Go celebrate with your team.”
His face flickered.
Not rejection.
Not acceptance.
Instruction.
He nodded.
“Okay.”
He walked away.
No joke.
No reach.
No making me soften the moment for him.
I watched him go.
Then I touched the glass of the trophy case with two fingers, right in front of the puck.
Lakeview had won.
Carter had cracked and corrected.
I had wanted to kiss him too.
That was the worst part.
No.
Not worst.
The most honest.
And honesty, I was learning, rarely arrived gently.