Chapter Eighteen #2
Then I look at Green.
“You saw the lane?”
He nods.
“Wasn’t there.”
“What’s the play?”
“Wait. Reverse. Eat it if needed.”
“Good.”
His face steadies.
The second period opens better.
We stop fighting the game.
We start accepting ugly.
Westhaven hates that.
With six minutes left in the second, Nolan wins a puck along the wall and feeds Jace.
Shot.
Rebound.
Green crashes.
Goal.
The building explodes.
Green’s second huge goal in a week.
Freshmen are dangerous when watered.
He disappears under the team.
I get there late and tap his helmet.
“Ugly safe.”
He yells, “Pretty alive!”
That is nonsense.
I love it.
Westhaven ties it early in the third.
Of course they do.
Tournament hockey does not allow peace.
With nine minutes left, I take a stick across the gloves.
No call.
My first instinct is outrage.
My second is a joke.
My third is hockey.
Progress is apparently arriving late and sweaty.
I stay in the play.
Rhett finds me low.
I could shoot.
Bad angle.
I hold.
Wait.
Hear Coach yelling something that is probably strategic and possibly illegal.
Then I see Mason slide into space.
Pass.
Goal.
Lakeview leads 2–1.
This time, I do not think about what the room wanted.
I only know what the play needed.
Better.
Much better.
Final minute is chaos.
Westhaven pulls the goalie.
Six attackers.
Bodies everywhere.
Jace blocks a shot and goes down hard.
Gets up.
Of course.
Rhett clears once.
They come back.
Puck loose in the crease.
Green dives.
Nolan screams.
I tie up a stick.
Buzzer.
Lakeview wins.
Quarterfinal done.
The crowd roars.
Not Senior Night roar.
Tournament roar.
Different animal.
I search for Maren before I can stop myself.
Bad habit.
Human habit.
She is on the platform, camera up.
I do not wave.
Do not make it about her.
But she lowers the camera for one second and smiles.
Small.
Proud.
Private.
I feel it anyway.
In the locker room, the win is loud for six minutes.
Then Coach kills us with reality.
“Good. Semifinal Saturday.”
No one needs him to say the opponent.
The scoreboard outside already has it.
Ridgeview won their quarterfinal.
Of course.
Lakeview versus Ridgeview.
Again.
For the semifinal.
The room changes.
Rivalry is one thing.
Elimination is another.
Coach looks around.
“You have earned nothing except the next game.”
Hard.
True.
His eyes find mine.
“Do not drag last week into Saturday. Learn from it. Do not live in it.”
“Yes, Coach.”
I say it before the room can.
Good.
After media availability, after showers, after Green gives the most terrified winning-goal quote in modern athletics, I find Maren near the capstone wall.
Not alone.
Patty is there.
Two student workers.
A family taking photos.
So I stand at a distance.
Waiting.
She sees me.
Finishes her conversation.
Walks over.
“Good game,” she says.
“Ugly game.”
“Good ugly game.”
“I am becoming a connoisseur.”
“You were patient.”
“Painfully.”
“It showed.”
That lands.
Less loud than proud.
Still good.
“Ridgeview,” I say.
“Yes.”
Her face shifts.
We both know what that means.
The bruise.
The chirps.
Soren.
The laugh.
The almost.
The correction.
The pass.
The old version waiting for a door.
“I am not asking you to manage that,” I say.
Maren goes still.
Good.
Right thing.
Maybe.
“I know,” she says.
“I need to say it.”
“Okay.”
“I might look at you.”
“You can look.”
“I might want to come find you after.”
“You can come find me.”
“But I am not making you the reason I stay steady.”
Her eyes soften.
“Good.”
The word feels earned.
Not like a grade.
Like trust.
A family walks past us toward the wall.
We step aside at the same time.
Almost touch.
Do not.
The air notices.
So do we.
Maren says, “I would like to kiss you.”
My brain empties.
Fantastic.
“Now?”
“No.”
“Right.”
“People.”
“Yes.”
“Cameras.”
“Enemies.”
Her mouth curves.
“I meant later.”
“Possible later?”
“Probable later.”
That is better than a trophy.
Do not say that.
“Okay,” I say.
She smiles.
“You are very restrained.”
“I am a changed man.”
“Debatable.”
“Fair.”
We do not kiss that night.
Not because something is wrong.
Because she works late.
Because I have recovery and film.
Because wanting does not need to be fed every time it makes noise.
New information.
The next morning, the arena is all Ridgeview again.
Red on scouting reports.
Red on brackets.
Red in my head if I let it.
I do not.
Mostly.
At practice, Coach runs pressure drills until we hate him.
Then he gathers us.
“Soren will talk,” he says.
No dancing around it.
Good.
“Not just to Vance. To all of you. He will find mothers, girlfriends, injuries, mistakes, fears, whatever he can smell. Do not pretend you are above reacting. Know what gets you before he does.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Useful.
I think of Maren.
My mother.
The feature.
The old clip.
The fall.
The kiss.
The way good things can become pressure if I let fear drive.
What gets me?
People I love turned into leverage.
Being laughed at for caring.
Feeling like the room only wants the easy version.
Okay.
Know it first.
After practice, I go to the capstone wall alone.
My panel.
My mother.
The quote.
The pass.
Green.
Maren’s archive panel beside it.
Maren gets up.
I stand there until my breathing slows.
A text comes in.
Maren.
MAREN: Look left.
I turn.
She stands at the end of the concourse.
Holding two coffees.
Of course.
I walk over.
“You brought coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Is this just coffee?”
“No.”
Her eyes are steady.
“I know.”
She hands me one.
“I wanted to.”
I take it.
No moving it away.
No pretending it is neutral.
“Thank you.”
We stand there with coffee between the wall and the rink.
She looks at me.
“Ridgeview will try to make you feel alone in front of everyone.”
My throat tightens.
“Yes.”
“You are not.”
The sentence hits harder than any chirp will.
I look down at the cup.
Then back at her.
“No.”
I breathe.
“I am not.”
Her smile is small.
Proud.
Careful.
Mine to see.
Not own.
“I still have to choose,” I say.
“Yes.”
“But I am not alone.”
“No.”
The old rule says never let them see it hurts.
The new truth says hurting does not mean standing by yourself.
I can carry that into Saturday.
Not as pressure.
As fact.
Maren lifts her coffee.
“To ugly safe?”
I huff a laugh.
“To pretty alive.”
She groans.
“Green infected you.”
“He is powerful now.”
“We should be afraid.”
“Deeply.”
We drink terrible arena coffee.
It tastes like burnt hope.
It tastes perfect.
Saturday is coming.
Ridgeview is waiting.
The next game could end everything or open the door to the final.
For once, I do not need to make that smaller.
I just need to be ready.
And I am.