Chapter Twenty
Carter
The problem with winning a semifinal is that everyone immediately starts talking about the championship.
Deeply rude.
Let a man enjoy one emotional victory.
Maybe two.
Maybe let him stand in a hallway and kiss the woman who cried because a girl somewhere learned falling was not the end of the routine.
But no.
Sports.
Always with the next thing.
By eight the next morning, Coach Adler has us in film room.
No music.
No lingering celebration.
No “great job, boys, enjoy your human feelings.”
Just a whiteboard, game clips, and the word CHAMPIONSHIP written across the top like a threat.
Nolan walks in, sees it, and whispers, “Aggressive font.”
Coach does not turn around.
“It is my handwriting.”
Nolan sits immediately.
Good choice.
Green sits beside me with a smoothie the color of grass and regret.
I look at it.
“Are you drinking a lawn?”
“Spinach. Banana. Protein.”
“Blink twice if Coach made you.”
Green takes a sip and grimaces.
“Nolan made it.”
Worse.
I look at Nolan.
“You are experimenting on freshmen?”
“He needs fuel.”
“He needs survival.”
Green takes another sip.
“I can taste health.”
“That is your body warning you,” I say.
Rhett sits in front of us and turns around.
“Focus.”
“Yes, Dad.”
His eyes narrow.
I sit straighter.
Marriage has made him powerful.
Coach starts film.
The semifinal win appears on screen.
Mason’s goal.
My pass.
My block.
Green’s safe plays.
Nolan’s goal.
The whole room stays quiet in that strange way teams do when they know something mattered but the next thing matters more.
Coach pauses on Soren’s hallway chirp.
Not the words.
Just Carter walking away afterward, caught by a hallway security angle Patty probably should not have access to.
I go still.
Coach looks at the room.
“Ridgeview tried to move us emotionally before they moved us on the scoreboard.”
No one speaks.
He clicks to the next clip.
My pass to Mason.
“They failed because the response stayed inside the game.”
Another clip.
Final block.
“They failed because the hurt did not become the plan.”
That lands.
I stare at the screen.
The hurt did not become the plan.
That is a whole life sentence hiding inside hockey.
Very annoying.
Coach turns off the screen.
“Championship opponent is Eastbridge.”
The room shifts.
Eastbridge.
Fast.
Clean.
Less cruel than Ridgeview.
More dangerous in some ways because they do not need cruelty.
They just play.
Coach writes three words on the board.
SPEED. PATIENCE. TRUST.
“Eastbridge will not bait you the way Ridgeview did,” he says. “They will make you chase. They will make you feel late. They will make you think effort can replace structure.”
He looks at me.
Then at Nolan.
Then at everyone.
“You cannot emotion your way through speed.”
Nolan raises a hand.
Coach stares.
Nolan lowers it.
Smart.
Film becomes systems.
Breakouts.
Forecheck timing.
Neutral-zone reloads.
Hockey.
Thank God.
Hockey I understand.
Mostly.
Hockey hurts in cleaner ways.
After film, Coach keeps leadership back.
Rhett, Mason, Jace, me.
Green is halfway to the door when Coach says, “Green. Stay.”
The freshman freezes.
“Me?”
“No, the other Green.”
“There is no other— yes, Coach.”
He sits.
Terrified.
Adorable.
Coach looks at us.
“This is the final week. Seniors, it is your room. Not because the speeches get dramatic. Because the habits do.”
His eyes hit mine.
“Vance.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“You are not responsible for making this week feel lighter.”
I blink.
That sentence should feel like freedom.
It feels like someone taking away a tool before I know if I have another one.
Coach continues, “You are responsible for making it honest.”
Rude.
Specific.
Correct.
I nod.
“Yes, Coach.”
“Rhett, standards. Mason, details. Jace, pressure reads. Green, learn everything.”
Green swallows.
“Yes, Coach.”
“Nolan,” Coach says, though Nolan is not in the room.
From the hallway, Nolan yells, “Yes?”
“Stop listening at the door.”
A pause.
“Okay.”
No footsteps.
Coach sighs.
“Walk away.”
Footsteps.
Finally.
The room breaks.
Even Jace smiles.
That is how you know the world has changed.
After the meeting, Green catches up beside me.
“Why did he keep me?”
“Because you’re not a baby anymore.”
He looks mildly horrified.
“I am a freshman.”
“Unfortunately, those can become people.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Debatable.”
He holds the smoothie out.
“Want some?”
“No.”
“It has spinach.”
“I respect myself.”
He shrugs and drinks it anyway.
Brave.
Wrong.
At noon, my mother calls.
Not texts.
Calls.
This is either knee news or emotional ambush.
I step into the empty equipment hallway.
“Hi.”
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Is your knee okay?”
“Yes.”
“Pain?”
“Manageable.”
“Neighbor still checking on you?”
“Yes.”
“Food?”
“Carter.”
“Right.”
She laughs softly.
“I called because I saw the semifinal highlight.”
“Oh.”
“The block at the end.”
“Falling is correct.”
“What?”
“Inside joke.”
“With Maren?”
I close my eyes.
Mothers have illegal instincts.
“Maybe.”
“Good.”
“Everything is good with you.”
“Not everything.” Her voice softens. “But some things are.”
I lean against the wall.
“Championship is Saturday.”
“I know.”
“Are you watching?”
“Of course.”
“I wish you could be here.”
“I know.”
“I understand,” I correct automatically.
She is quiet for a second.
Then says, “I wish I could be there too.”
That one hurts.
Not sharp.
Deep.
“Mom.”
“Do not make it something to fix.”
I close my mouth.
She knows me.
First.
Maybe best.
“I am sad,” she says. “That is allowed.”
I breathe.
“Yes.”
“You can be sad too.”
“I am.”
Good.
There.
Honest.
“It is not fair you have to watch from home.”
“No,” she says. “It is not.”
We sit in that.
Over a phone.
Two states of wanting with no way to solve it.
Then she says, “Now tell me about Eastbridge.”
So I do.
Because sometimes love is systems talk after telling the truth.
At one, I text Maren.
ME: Eastbridge is fast and emotionally inconvenient.
She replies three minutes later.
MAREN: So are you.
I stare at the phone.
That is flirtation.
Maybe.
Probably.
I am not an expert.
ME: I am emotionally medium-paced.
MAREN: Debatable.
ME: Are you working late?
MAREN: Always.
ME: Food?
A pause.
Then:
MAREN: Did your mother put you up to this?
ME: Not directly.
MAREN: That means yes spiritually.
ME: Eat something that is not coffee.
MAREN: Bossy.
ME: Concerned.
Longer pause.
Then:
MAREN: Thank you.
I smile at my phone.
No joke.
No extra.
Just let it be.
ME: You’re welcome.
I lock the screen before I become unbearable.
Practice is hard.
Eastbridge prep demands speed without panic, patience without slowness.
The team struggles at first.
We chase.
We force.
We try to out-skate a team that lives for making opponents overskate.
Coach stops the drill so many times the whistle starts to sound personal.
“Again.”
Again.
Again.
By the fifth rep, Nolan bends over his stick and says, “I am learning hate in new directions.”
“Breathe,” I tell him.
He looks up.
“Do not mentor me while I am suffering.”
“Your suffering is when you need it most.”
“Gross.”
“Accurate.”
Green laughs.
Nolan points at him.
“You drank my spinach smoothie. You lost rights.”
Practice shifts on the seventh rep.
Rhett slows half a beat.
Mason reads it.
Jace rotates.
Green stays patient.
I find the seam without forcing it.
Goal.
Clean.
Coach blows the whistle anyway.
We all groan.
He says, “That. Again.”
Less groaning.
More belief.
Good.
By the end, we are exhausted and better.
Those are often the same thing.
After practice, I find Maren near the capstone wall.
She is filming the updated championship bracket display.
Her hair is in a messy knot.
Pencil behind one ear.
Camera strap around her neck.
She looks tired.
Focused.
Beautiful.
Mine?
No.
Not the word.
Not yet.
Maybe never like that.
Maybe something better.
Chosen.
I approach slowly because she is working.
She finishes the shot before she turns.
“Vance.”
“Ellis.”
“You survived speed and emotional inconvenience.”
“Barely.”
“I saw.”
“Were you filming my suffering?”
“Professionally.”
“Can I request flattering suffering angles?”
“No.”
“Worth trying.”
Her mouth curves.
Then she studies me.
“You okay?”
I think about Mom.
Eastbridge.
Final week.
Coach telling me I am not responsible for making it lighter.
“No.”
She nods.
Not alarmed.
“Good.”
I laugh once.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of no?”
The question surprises me.
Good question.
Maren question.
“Sad no.”
Her face softens.
I keep going before I can turn it into something else.
“My mom cannot come Saturday.”
“Oh, Carter.”
“Her knee is okay. She just cannot make the trip twice in a week.”
“That makes sense.”
“Yes.”
“And it hurts.”
“Yes.”
She steps closer.
Not touching yet.
Asking with distance.
“I am sorry.”
“Thank you.”
I look at the capstone wall.
The photo of me and Mom from Senior Night.
Her hand on my arm.
Me bent toward her.
“She said she is sad and that I can be sad too.”
Maren’s eyes move over my face.
“Smart woman.”
“Annoyingly.”
“Genetic.”
“Did you just call me smart?”
“Do not make it huge.”
“Too late.”
She shakes her head, but she is smiling.
Then she reaches for my hand.
Not big.
Not hidden.
Just her fingers around mine beside the wall in the quiet after practice.
I look down.
Then up.
“Good?” she asks.
“Very good yes.”
Her thumb brushes once over my knuckle.
Tiny.
Medium.
Huge.
I do not know anymore.
“Do you want to be distracted,” she asks, “or do you want to stay sad for a minute?”
That question almost knocks me over.
Because the answer is usually distraction.
Because I am good at that.
Because I have built a life on making hard rooms easier before I know what they need.
I hold her hand.
Look at the photo.
Then say, “Stay sad.”
Her fingers tighten.
“Okay.”
We stand there.
No fixing.
No joke.
No kiss.
Just her hand in mine and the ache of wanting my mother in the arena when she cannot be.
The ache does not disappear.
But it stops echoing so much.
After a minute, I breathe deeper.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I look at her.
“Now distraction?”
Her mouth curves.
“Now distraction.”
“Approved location?”
“For what?”
I give her a look.
She laughs.
Quiet.
Then glances around the empty concourse.
“Here is public.”
“Very.”
“The media office is not approved.”
“Painful policy.”
“The new hallway is far.”
“I am an athlete.”
“You are tired.”
“Emotionally fast, physically questionable.”
She shakes her head, then tugs my hand once.
We walk.
Not to the new hallway.
Not to the media office.
To the darkened lower bowl.
The arena lights are half down, ice glowing faintly.
No one is there.
Maren stops in the aisle between sections.
“This is technically public.”
“Technically empty.”
“Cameras?”
“Not pointed here.”
“You know that?”
“I work here.”
“Strong.”
She turns toward me.
No wall behind her.
No hallway.
Just rows of seats and cold air and the ice beyond.
She lifts one hand to my chest.
I go very still.
Not because I am afraid.
Because I am learning to let good things arrive without grabbing them too fast.
“Carter.”
“Yes?”
“I am going to kiss you because I want to. Not because you are sad.”
That sentence.
God.
That sentence.
“Okay.”
“Good?”
“Good yes.”
She smiles.
Then kisses me.
Soft at first.
Then not as soft.
Her fingers curl in my shirt.
My hands settle at her waist, careful and sure.
She steps closer.
I forget Eastbridge.
Not completely.
Enough.
Her mouth opens under mine for half a breath, and the kiss warms into something that makes my whole body understand the difference between comfort and escape.
This is not hiding.
This is being met.
When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed.
Mine probably are too.
“Distraction?” she asks.
I breathe out.
“Temporarily devastating.”
“Good.”
“Medium-large.”
“Externally?”
“Losing battle.”
She laughs.
I kiss her once more.
Short.
Because ending well is a skill.
Because she has work.
Because I have recovery.
Because wanting can stay alive without eating the whole room.
We walk back up together.
At the concourse, we separate before anyone sees.
Not shame.
Privacy.
Different.
The week moves.
Tuesday: Eastbridge film.
Wednesday: practice improves.
Thursday: media requests double because Lakeview in a championship is apparently good content.
Friday: Coach shortens practice and terrifies us by being calm.
Maren and I find small places.
A coffee exchange near the media table.
A hand squeeze in the empty hallway.
One kiss behind the loading dock door that makes me forget my own name for three seconds and makes her say, “Focus, Vance,” which does not help.
We do not rush.
We do not label.
We do not pretend it is casual.
All three are harder than expected.
Friday night, the team has a quiet dinner at the house.
Nolan burns garlic bread.
Green brings another spinach smoothie, now banned by unanimous vote.
Rhett makes a toast.
Not dramatic.
Just, “To the room.”
Everyone lifts whatever they have.
Water.
Sports drink.
Nolan’s questionable juice.
I lift mine.
The room.
The one I spent years trying to keep loud.
The one that knows me now.
At least more.
After dinner, I step outside.
Cold air.
Clear sky.
Phone in hand.
Mom answers on the second ring.
“Ready?” she asks.
“No.”
“Good.”
I laugh.
“I love you.”
Silence.
Then, softly, “I love you too.”
I do not make a joke.
I let it land.
When I go back inside, my phone buzzes.
Maren.
MAREN: Final video package ready. No more edits unless the building catches fire.
ME: Proud of you.
MAREN: Medium?
ME: Huge internally. Respectful externally.
MAREN: I’ll allow it.
A second message follows.
MAREN: Good luck tomorrow, Carter.
I stare at my name.
Not Vance.
Carter.
ME: Are you saying that as media staff or possible later approved-location person?
Three dots.
Then:
MAREN: Both.
My heart does something loud.
The old rule would make a joke.
The new truth lets it matter.
ME: Then I’ll take both.
I sleep badly.
Of course.
Championship day arrives anyway.
Bright.
Cold.
Waiting.
And for once, I do not need to make the ending smaller before I step into it.