Chapter Sixteen
Carter
The problem with the best night of your life is that morning still arrives like a bill.
Rude.
Bright.
Aggressively scheduled.
By nine the next morning, I am in film room with legs that hate me, a throat that still feels tight from Senior Night, and a mouth that keeps remembering Maren in the equipment hallway.
Not helpful.
Very helpful.
No.
Hockey first.
This is what adults do.
Adults sit in team film after winning Senior Night, watch every bad neutral-zone decision in high definition, and do not think about the woman who said she was proud of them before kissing them against a cinderblock wall.
Mostly.
Coach Adler turns off the lights.
The screen fills with my third-period goal.
Naturally, the room perks up.
Nolan whistles.
“Here it comes.”
Coach pauses the clip before the shot.
The room groans.
“Sadist,” Nolan mutters.
Coach does not look at him.
“Vance.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“What do you see?”
I look at the frozen screen.
Rhett on the wall.
Green recovering from the hit.
Mason driving traffic.
Their defenseman cheating high.
Me sliding into the soft space.
“I see Rhett reading pressure early,” I say. “Mason taking both eyes net-front. Their weak-side forward late. Space between circles.”
Coach nods once.
“And?”
I breathe.
I know what he wants.
“The emotional part?”
“The hockey part,” he says. “Which is often the same thing.”
Gross.
Accurate.
I look at the screen again.
“Green got hit. I wanted to make the shift about that.”
“And?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because the play was there.”
Coach lets the silence hold.
I add, “Because he needed a response that helped the team more than one that made me feel better.”
Coach hits play.
The clip runs.
Rhett’s pass.
My shot.
Goal.
Crowd explosion.
He pauses again.
“That,” Coach says, “is the difference.”
No one makes a joke.
Even Nolan.
Especially me.
The difference.
Between revenge and response.
Between noise and leadership.
Between wanting to be seen as loyal and actually doing something loyal.
Terrible.
Useful.
I am becoming allergic to both.
Film continues.
Tournament implications.
Bracket scenarios.
If we win Tuesday, we clinch top-two seeding. If we lose, we need help from a team we hate less than Ridgeview but more than dental pain.
Coach calls this “not ideal.”
Nolan calls it “math violence.”
He is not wrong.
After film, Rhett catches me in the hallway.
“Walk.”
“I love when captains issue commands.”
“Walk.”
We walk.
He has that serious face.
I hate that face.
Not because it is bad.
Because it usually means I need to be a person.
“You and Maren,” he says.
“No.”
“I did not ask a question.”
“You were breathing like one.”
His mouth twitches.
Then settles.
“I’m not telling you what to do.”
“Suspicious opening.”
“I’m saying the next two weeks are heavy.”
“Senior Night is over.”
“Tournament isn’t.”
I look through the glass toward the rink.
Empty now.
Freshly cut ice.
Waiting.
“Yeah.”
“And what happened last night was good?”
I glance at him.
He lifts a hand.
“I do not need details. Tessa would kill me if I asked for details badly.”
“You should fear her.”
“I do.”
“Smart.”
He leans against the wall.
“Was it good?”
I think about Maren laughing against my mouth because shoulder pads are apparently romance hazards.
I think about her saying here.
I think about her being proud of me.
The word lands again.
Proud.
“It was good,” I say.
“Good yes?”
I glare.
“Do not use our language.”
Rhett’s eyebrows lift.
“Our?”
Disaster.
I walk faster.
He follows.
“Oh, that was revealing.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Working on it.”
He laughs once.
Then turns serious again.
“Do not make the tournament a test she has to pass.”
I stop.
He stops too.
That one lands wrong because it lands right.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Maybe not on purpose.”
I look away.
He continues, “Big games make people need weird things. Attention. reassurance. control. If you get scared, do not make her prove she is staying by asking more than she has offered.”
I hate married people.
Deeply.
They learn one emotional lesson and then weaponize it in hallways.
“I understand,” I say.
Rhett nods.
“Good.”
“Banned.”
“No.”
We reach the locker room.
Before he goes in, he bumps my shoulder.
“She looked happy last night.”
I freeze.
He does not make me respond.
Good friend.
Terrible captain.
Inside, the team is alive with post-Senior-Night exhaustion.
Green is sitting with a printed photo of his goal celebration.
Nolan is eating a muffin the size of a puck bag.
Mason is texting Eden with a face that should be illegal in team spaces.
Jace is taping his stick like the tape has wronged him.
Normal.
Home.
For now.
That thought hits harder than it should.
For now.
The season has edges now.
Dates.
Brackets.
Lasts.
Last Senior Night already behind me.
Last regular-season week.
Last home stretch.
Last rule.
I sit at my stall and take out my phone.
A message from Maren waits.
MAREN: Your mother left me a voicemail thanking me again. She is very persuasive.
I smile.
ME: That is one word for it.
MAREN: She also told me to eat breakfast.
ME: She has adopted you. Sorry.
Three dots.
Then nothing.
Then:
MAREN: I did eat breakfast.
I stare at the screen like an idiot.
Adopted you might have been too much.
Probably too much.
I type and delete three responses.
Then:
ME: Good. She’ll ask for proof next.
Maren replies:
MAREN: I am not sending your mother a bagel selfie.
I grin.
ME: Her loss.
MAREN: Yours too?
My heart stops.
Starts.
Betrays the team.
I look around the locker room like anyone can see my phone glowing with flirtation.
Nolan immediately squints.
I turn away.
ME: Deeply.
Send.
I should regret it.
I do not.
Her reply takes a full minute.
Longest minute in sports history.
MAREN: Focus on hockey, Vance.
I smile.
ME: Yes, ma’am.
MAREN: Do not make that weird.
ME: Too late internally.
A final reply:
MAREN: Small.
I read it twice.
Then lock my phone like an adult.
Mostly.
At two, I go grocery shopping.
This is not a euphemism.
This is growth.
Also my mother asked if I had “real food” in the house, and my hesitation told on me.
Nolan comes because he claims I cannot be trusted with produce.
Green comes because he has a coupon app.
Somehow, this becomes a team outing with three hockey players standing in front of spinach like it is an opponent’s power play.
“Why are there so many leaves?” Nolan asks.
“Nature has depth,” Green says.
I look at him.
“Do not become poetic in the vegetable aisle.”
He holds up kale.
“This looks like it hurts.”
“It does,” I say.
An older woman nearby laughs.
Nolan bows.
I point at him.
“Do not flirt with civilians near cabbage.”
“Cabbage brings out my charm.”
“Nothing brings out your charm.”
Green scans a coupon.
We buy chicken, rice, eggs, fruit, and three green things Coach Adler would grudgingly approve.
On the way out, Nolan nudges me.
“Media Girl coming over?”
“No.”
“Maren,” he corrects himself quickly.
“Also no.”
“You smiled at your phone.”
“Many people smile at phones.”
“Not like you found religion.”
Green says, “He did look very uplifted.”
“Et tu, freshman?”
Green frowns.
“I do not know what that means.”
“Good. Stay pure.”
Nolan loads groceries into the trunk.
“She good for you?”
The question is casual.
Too casual.
I close the trunk slowly.
“She is not medicine.”
Nolan lifts both hands.
“I know.”
I look across the parking lot.
Cold air.
Gray sky.
Tournament week coming.
“She makes it harder to lie to myself,” I say.
Green nods solemnly.
Nolan looks at me.
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“And you like that?”
I think about Maren’s hand on my shoulder pads.
Her laugh.
Her anger.
Her list copy.
Her saying medium.
“Yes.”
Nolan grins.
“Gross.”
Peace restored.
That evening, I cook.
Actually cook.
Chicken.
Rice.
Broccoli.
Nolan calls the broccoli tiny trees and gets banned from the stove.
Green eats two plates and claims it is because he needs tournament fuel.
Fine.
I text my mother photographic evidence.
She replies:
MOM: Who cooked this?
Rude.
ME: Your only son.
MOM: Proud of you.
That word again.
I sit with it.
It hurts less this time.
Still hurts.
Good.
After dinner, I open the notebook.
Things I want to stop earning
The first line remains there.
Love.
Staring at me.
A tiny emotional crime.
I add another line.
Rest.
Then:
Care.
Then:
A place in the room.
I stare at that one longest.
Because Lakeview gave me a room.
Hockey gave me a room.
My mother tried to give me one before I knew how to stay in it.
Maren used to be a room too.
Not a place to hide.
A place where I was seen.
And I made that unsafe for her.
I flip to a new page.
Things I want to give without turning them into proof
This is getting out of hand.
I am becoming a notebook man.
Still, I write.
Patience.
The truth.
Space.
The extra pass.
That one makes me laugh.
I close the notebook.
Then my phone buzzes.
Maren.
MAREN: I found one more archive still. Sending because it changes the wall slightly.
A photo comes through.
It is from Senior Night.
Not the old archive.
Me on the ice with my mother.
Her hand on my arm.
My head bent toward her.
I am smiling.
Not for the crowd.
For her.
The quote below the mockup has shifted.
The loudest guy in the room is still allowed to be known.
The photo fits.
Better than the Ridgeview pass.
No.
Different.
I call Maren before thinking.
She answers after two rings.
“Problem?”
“No.”
“Your voice says problem.”
“My voice is dramatic.”
“True.”
I look at the image.
“You changed the panel.”
“I am considering it.”
“Why?”
“The pass is hockey. Strong. Clean. The Green moment is leadership. But this one...” She pauses. “This one is the line.”
My throat tightens.
My mother’s hand on my arm.
Me bent toward her.
Known before useful.
Loved before performance.
I sit down at the kitchen table.
Nolan and Green are in the living room yelling at a game.
Distant.
Not here.
“This one is better,” I say.
“You are sure?”
“No.”
A soft breath.
Then her voice, gentler.
“But?”
“But yes.”
“Okay.”
Silence.
Not awkward.
Just full.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“Seeing the right thing.”
She does not answer immediately.
Then, “I think you helped me remember how.”
That lands hard.
Because of the archive.
The skating wall.
The good photos.
The getting up.
“Maren.”
“I mean it professionally and personally, which is irritating.”
I laugh softly.
“Deeply.”
“I am hanging up before this becomes huge.”
“Medium?”
“Small-medium.”
“Progress.”
“Goodnight, Carter.”
“Goodnight, Maren.”
She hangs up.
I hold the phone for a second after.
Then send the photo to my mother.
No words.
Her reply comes later.
MOM: That one. Tell Maren she got it right.
I look at the message.
Then the photo.
Then the notebook.
Love.
Rest.
Care.
A place in the room.
Maybe this is what being known feels like at first.
Not comfortable.
Not easy.
Just less lonely than hiding.
The next morning, Coach Adler posts tournament prep groups.
My name is under leadership meetings, power-play adjustment, and freshman support.
Useful.
But not in the old way.
Maybe.
I hope.
Practice is sharp.
Hard.
Hopeful.
The team moves like Senior Night did not drain us.
Like it filled something.
Green looks more confident.
Nolan chirps less stupidly.
Rhett smiles more.
Mason plays like a man trying to finish something well.
Jace blocks two shots in practice and looks offended when anyone praises him.
And me?
I skate.
I talk.
I laugh.
Sometimes because the room needs air.
Sometimes because I am happy.
I am learning the difference.
After practice, I pass the capstone wall.
My section is updated.
The Senior Night photo with my mother sits under the quote.
The Ridgeview pass and Green goal are smaller beneath it.
All three parts.
Known.
Leadership.
The right play.
I stand there for a long time.
Maren appears beside me.
I do not know how long she has been there.
Long enough.
Always.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod.
“Good yes.”
Her shoulder brushes mine.
Barely.
On purpose.
The entire arena disappears for one second.
“Good,” she says.
And this time, it sounds like the beginning of something we do not have to rush to name.