Chapter Twelve #2
“More good ones?”
Hazel kneels beside her.
“I would think so.”
I see the thought move through Maren.
The possibility.
That the record was not only the worst moment.
That the room had also held proof of her strength.
That nobody gave it to her.
That maybe she never looked.
Pain moves through her face.
Then control.
She stands.
“I need a minute.”
Everyone hears.
No one stops her.
She walks toward the side corridor, photo in hand.
I start to stand.
Tessa’s voice stops me.
“Carter.”
I look at her.
She shakes her head.
Not yet.
Right.
Of course.
Do not make it about me.
Do not chase to make myself feel better.
Do not turn her discovery into my redemption.
I sit back down.
It is one of the hardest things I have done all week.
Which is embarrassing.
And true.
Maren returns eight minutes later.
Her eyes are not red.
Her face is calm.
Too calm maybe.
She places the photo in a folder labeled SKATING ARCHIVE — MAREN REVIEW.
Not trash.
Not hidden.
Review.
Good.
She does not look at me at first.
Then she does.
“Thank you for not following.”
My chest tightens.
“I wanted to.”
“I know.”
“Badly.”
“I know.”
“I am becoming heroic.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
I wince.
“Too soon?”
“Too soon.”
“Sorry.”
But her mouth curves.
Tiny.
Good.
We finish sorting.
The capstone wall starts taking shape.
Five rules.
Five couples.
One team.
Photos of Hazel and Grady’s beginning.
Tessa and Rhett’s fundraiser.
Sloane and Jace’s rivalry-game kiss-adjacent almost-handhold, apparently.
Eden and Mason with the roommate-era vase in the background because of course.
And at the end, a blank space for Carter.
The Last Rule.
No photo chosen yet.
Patty wants the Ridgeview pass.
Coach wants the Green mentorship moment.
Tessa wants something “less emotionally evasive,” whatever that means.
Maren says nothing.
I do not ask.
At seven, the group breaks for pizza in the donor lounge.
Everyone piles in.
All prior couples plus current players plus staff.
A finale room.
That is what Patty calls it.
The kind of room the series has earned.
I sit at the end of the table because it is safest.
Maren sits three chairs away.
Not beside me.
Not across.
Near enough that I know where she is.
Far enough that I do not make a fool of myself with a paper plate.
Hazel and Grady talk with Green about old championship pressure.
Tessa bullies Rhett into eating salad.
Sloane and Jace quietly demolish breadsticks.
Eden and Mason argue about whether a centerpiece is structurally necessary.
Nolan watches them and says, “Is this what love does to people?”
“Yes,” I say.
Mason says, “Unfortunately.”
Eden says, “Usefully.”
Tessa says, “Eventually.”
Maren says, “Selectively.”
Everyone looks at her.
She looks at her pizza like she said nothing interesting.
My heart does something stupid.
Nolan points between us.
“Are you two—”
Rhett says, “No.”
Tessa says, “Do not.”
Eden says, “Absolutely not.”
Jace says, “Choose life.”
Nolan holds up both hands.
“Retracted.”
Maren’s mouth twitches.
I look at Nolan.
“Thank you for your sacrifice.”
He nods solemnly.
“Felt the room.”
Coach Adler, entering behind us, says, “That would be a first.”
The whole table loses it.
Even Maren laughs.
Not huge.
Enough.
I look at her.
She looks back.
For once, I do not make a joke.
I let the laugh be hers.
At nine, cleanup ends.
People leave in pairs.
Of course.
Hazel with Grady.
Tessa with Rhett.
Sloane with Jace.
Eden with Mason.
Nolan with three leftover slices and questionable dignity.
Green with a folder of old photos he volunteered to scan because he is a good citizen and possibly an old man.
Maren and I remain in the concourse.
Not planned.
Probably planned by the universe, which has become nosy.
The capstone wall is half-finished.
Photos taped temporarily.
Labels printed.
The blank space at the end waits.
Maren stands in front of it.
I stand a few feet away.
“What photo should go there?” I ask.
She looks at the blank space.
“I do not know yet.”
“What are the options?”
“Ridgeview pass. Green goal. Open skate. Interview still.”
“Which is best?”
“For the story?”
“Yes.”
“The one where you are not performing for the camera.”
“That narrows it depressingly.”
“It does not.”
I look at her.
She looks back.
Quiet.
Then she says, “There are more than you think.”
That lands.
Soft.
Deep.
I swallow.
“Do you want help finding more skating photos?” I ask.
Her eyes move to the folder she set on the table.
The good photo inside.
“I do not know.”
“Okay.”
A pause.
Then she says, “Yes.”
I stay very still.
“Now?”
“No. Tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Not because I need you.”
“I understand.”
“Because you were there.”
That hits differently.
Not guilt.
Not exactly.
Witness.
A second chance to witness correctly.
“Yes,” I say.
“I was.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
Just for half a second.
Mine follows hers.
The concourse goes silent around us.
I remember the media room.
Her cheek under my hand.
I remember the hallway after Ridgeview.
Wanting to kiss her and not asking.
I remember the old hallway too.
That matters.
All of it matters.
I do not move closer.
Maren inhales.
Then says, “Not here.”
My pulse jumps.
Not no.
Not here.
I nod.
“Okay.”
Her eyes stay on mine.
“Do not make that huge.”
I almost smile.
“Small.”
“Tiny.”
“Tiny.”
She steps back.
Picks up her bag.
I pick up the archive folder because she lets me.
We walk toward the media office together.
Not touching.
Not pretending.
At the office door, she takes the folder from me.
Our fingers brush.
Barely.
Still enough.
“Tomorrow,” she says.
“Tomorrow.”
She goes inside.
I stand in the hallway for one second.
Then two.
Then I leave before I become a ghost.
Outside, the night is cold.
Ridgeview is behind us.
Senior Night ahead.
The last rule still waiting for its wall.
Maren said not here.
Which means somewhere.
Maybe.
Not promise.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But I am learning that not yet is not the same as never.
And tiny things can still change the room.