Chapter Twenty-One
Maren
The problem with championship day is that everyone calls it once-in-a-lifetime like that is supposed to help.
It does not.
Once-in-a-lifetime things are stressful.
They should be called something more honest.
Once-in-a-lifetime chance to make seventeen mistakes under bright lights.
Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to forget a battery.
Once-in-a-lifetime emotional collapse with concessions.
By noon, Lakeview State arena had become a storm with doors.
Media trucks outside.
Alumni everywhere.
Students already lining up with painted faces and questionable judgment.
The capstone wall had a line.
A line.
People were taking photos beneath the five rules like it was a tourist attraction and not the result of Patty’s clipboard empire and my slow descent into emotionally organized file naming.
I stood in the control booth with three screens open.
Championship intro package.
Senior recap.
Tournament highlight reel.
Emergency backup package labeled USE ONLY IF EVERYTHING FAILS, which felt dramatic but accurate.
Patty came in wearing a headset, two credentials, and the expression of a woman one email away from violence.
“Status.”
“Everything exported. Audio tested. Backup tested. Secondary backup tested.”
“Bless you.”
“That sounded religious.”
“Today, it is.”
She leaned over the monitor.
“Carter package still in rotation?”
“Pregame, not intermission.”
“Good. Too much emotional content before the second period could destabilize donors.”
I looked at her.
“Is that a real concern?”
“No. But it sounds like one.”
Fair.
My phone buzzed.
Carter.
CARTER: Building smells like nachos and destiny.
I smiled before I could stop myself.
Patty noticed.
Of course.
“Vance?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
I texted back.
ME: Destiny should consider better ventilation.
His reply came fast.
CARTER: I will bring this to facilities.
ME: Focus on Eastbridge.
CARTER: Bossy.
ME: Concerned.
Three dots.
Then:
CARTER: Good concerned.
My chest softened.
Ridiculous.
I locked the phone and forced myself back to the monitors.
Work first.
Wanting second.
Maybe not second.
High on the list.
Still not first.
At one thirty, I went down to film arrivals.
Eastbridge had a clean confidence that made my stomach tighten.
No swagger.
No villain smiles.
Just athletes who looked like they had no interest in becoming part of Lakeview’s beautiful ending.
They did not care about Carter’s mother.
Or my getting-up clip.
Or the capstone wall.
Or five rules.
They cared about speed, possession, and ruining the room.
Honestly, rude.
Lakeview arrived fifteen minutes later.
Rhett first, dark hair neat, captain face on.
Mason behind him, jaw set.
Jace quiet and dangerous.
Nolan with too much energy and not enough fear.
Green looking pale but upright.
Carter last.
Hoodie up.
Bag on one shoulder.
Face calm.
Not fake calm.
The new kind.
The kind that had room for nerves inside it.
He saw me near the media table.
Stopped just long enough to give me one small nod.
No smile for the cameras.
No moment for the hallway.
Just us.
There.
Then he walked into the locker room.
Patty appeared beside me.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I sighed.
“Everyone has ruined that word.”
“I improved it.”
“Debatable.”
At three, Angela Vance’s video message arrived.
Carter did not know.
Coach Adler had asked her to record something for the team if Lakeview made the championship. She had sent it that morning, apologizing because her hair was “not camera-ready,” which was absurd because she looked warm and tired and exactly like herself.
I watched it once to check the file.
Then again because I could not help myself.
“Hi, boys,” she said, smiling at the camera. “I know most of you only know me as Carter’s mother, which means I apologize for any speeches he has given, jokes he has made, and vegetables he has avoided.”
I laughed alone in the booth.
Then she grew softer.
“I watched you all this season. Not just Carter. All of you. I watched you become a team that does not leave boys alone in hard moments. That matters more than a scoreboard, even though I very much hope you win the scoreboard too.”
My eyes burned.
No.
Absolutely not.
Professional.
She continued.
“And Carter, sweetheart, if Coach plays this where you can hear it, then I want you to know I am there. Not in the seat we wanted. But I am there. I have always been there. You do not have to earn me by winning. You already have me.”
I stopped breathing.
Oh.
That was going to destroy him.
In a good way.
Possibly.
Coach Adler appeared behind me.
“File good?”
I jumped.
“Do you wear silent shoes on purpose?”
“Yes.”
I turned back to the screen.
“The file is good.”
“Play it after warmups.”
“Before the intro?”
“In the locker room only.”
I nodded.
“Does Carter know?”
“No.”
“Are you trying to emotionally wreck him before a championship?”
Coach looked at the screen, where Angela’s face was paused mid-smile.
“I am trying to make sure he does not think the game has to carry what people already gave him.”
That was...
Very Coach Adler.
Very good.
Very mean.
I nodded.
“I’ll have it ready.”
At four, I slipped into the lower bowl for warmups.
The arena was filling fast.
Noise layered on noise.
Students chanting.
Band testing.
Skates cutting ice.
Pucks hitting glass.
Carter moved through warmups like he belonged fully inside his own body.
That was the only way I could describe it.
Not loose.
Not tight.
Present.
He missed one shot and did not bow.
Made the next and did not celebrate.
Then Nolan said something that made him laugh.
Real.
Easy.
Happy.
Good.
He looked up once.
Found me.
I did not wave.
I mouthed, “Good?”
His mouth curved.
He nodded.
Good yes.
I smiled.
Then remembered I was holding a camera and probably looked like an idiot.
Fine.
Maybe championship day allowed some idiocy.
After warmups, the team disappeared into the locker room.
Coach gave me the signal.
I sent Angela’s video to the team-room screen.
Then I stood outside the closed door with my headset on and pretended not to listen.
Impossible.
The room went quiet almost immediately.
Angela’s voice carried faintly.
Soft.
Warm.
Then laughter from inside at the vegetable line.
Then silence.
Long.
Heavy.
The kind that meant the message had found its target.
I stared at the hallway floor.
Rubber mat.
Scuff marks.
Tape scraps.
Hockey buildings collected evidence of everyone trying.
A minute later, the door opened.
Rhett came out first.
His eyes were suspiciously bright.
Mason looked down.
Jace cleared his throat like he was angry at moisture.
Nolan walked out crying openly and pointing at everyone.
“If anyone says anything, I am emotionally fighting you.”
Green looked wrecked.
Then Carter.
He stopped when he saw me.
His face was calm and not calm at all.
Eyes bright.
Mouth steady.
Known.
Loved.
Trying not to shake with it.
I wanted to go to him.
I did not.
Not here.
Not before the game.
He walked over anyway.
Stopped one careful foot away.
“She knew?” he asked.
“Coach asked her.”
His breath left.
“That was rude.”
“Yes.”
“Good rude.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the locker room.
Then back at me.
“She said I don’t have to earn her by winning.”
“I heard.”
“I think I believed her.”
My throat tightened.
“Good.”
He gave me a look through damp eyes.
I corrected.
“Very good yes.”
His smile broke.
Small.
Real.
Then Coach called, “Vance.”
Carter nodded.
Back to game.
Before he turned, I said, “You do not have to earn tonight either.”
He went still.
“Not the team. Not the room. Not me.”
The hallway noise faded.
His eyes held mine.
“I still want to win,” he said.
“I know.”
“I understand,” he corrected, almost smiling.
“And you can want that without making winning the price of being loved.”
His face changed.
That sentence was not mine alone.
It was Angela’s.
Coach’s.
Maybe Maren’s too.
Maybe all of ours now.
He nodded once.
Deep.
“I’ll try.”
“Good.”
No correction needed.
He left for the tunnel.
I stood there until Patty’s voice barked into my headset.
“Maren, intro in two.”
Right.
Championship.
Work.
Functioning.
Barely.
The intro package played perfectly.
Thank God.
The arena went dark.
Music hit.
Lakeview highlights flashed across the big screen.
Rhett.
Mason.
Jace.
Nolan.
Green.
Carter.
The capstone wall.
The five rules.
The quote.
The getting-up clip, only one second, not the fall alone.
Then the final title:
LAKEVIEW STATE WOLVES — CHAMPIONSHIP NIGHT
The building erupted.
The team took the ice.
I felt the sound in my bones.
Puck drop.
The first period was too fast.
Eastbridge did exactly what scouting said they would do.
They moved like water.
Clean passes.
Fast exits.
No wasted hits.
No drama.
Just speed making Lakeview look half a step late.
Five minutes in, Eastbridge scored.
A clean rush.
Backdoor tap-in.
The arena groaned.
Carter’s line came over the boards next.
My camera found him.
He did not look rattled.
Good.
He won a puck along the wall, chipped deep, took contact, got up fast.
No hero play.
No panic.
Lakeview settled.
A little.
The period ended 1–0 Eastbridge.
In the tunnel, the players looked angry.
Not broken.
Coach Adler’s voice inside the room was low enough I could not hear, which was somehow scarier than yelling.
Second period.
Lakeview adjusted.
Rhett slowed the game down.
Mason started winning ugly battles below the circles.
Jace blocked one shot so hard the crowd gasped.
Nolan drew a penalty by being annoying in a legally useful way.
On the power play, Carter took the puck near the half wall.
Eastbridge expected the pass.
Everyone did.
He shot.
Not loud choice.
Right choice.
Top corner.
Tie game.
The arena exploded.
Carter’s celebration was pure joy.
Not performance.
He slammed into Rhett, then Nolan, then pointed up toward the camera booth without looking directly at me.
Subtle?
No.
Did I care?