Chapter Twenty-Two
Carter
The problem with winning a championship is that nobody tells you what to do with your hands afterward.
Hold the trophy.
Hold your helmet.
Hold your gloves.
Hold your entire life together while the girl you love kisses you in front of a capstone wall and your team screams somewhere behind you like civilization has failed.
Normal options.
Limited guidance.
Maren steps back first.
Not far.
Just enough to breathe.
Her cheeks are flushed.
Her eyes are bright.
Her mouth is mine.
No.
Not mine.
Chosen.
Better word.
More terrifying.
I stare at her like an idiot.
She lifts one eyebrow.
“Vance.”
“Yes.”
“You won a championship.”
“I noticed.”
“Your team is yelling for you.”
“I noticed less.”
Her mouth curves.
“Go.”
I look over my shoulder.
The hallway is chaos.
Nolan is waving both arms like he is directing emergency aircraft.
Green is still crying.
Rhett is holding the trophy and pretending he is not emotional, which is a lie visible from space.
Mason has one arm around Eden.
Jace is smiling.
Actually smiling.
History.
Coach Adler stands near the locker room with the expression of a man who might be proud enough to need medical attention.
Then I look back at Maren.
She smiles softer.
“I am not going anywhere.”
That sentence almost takes me out.
Not dramatic.
Not huge.
Quiet.
Steady.
A place to come back to.
I nod once because words have left the building.
Then Nolan yells, “VANCE, STOP ROMANCING AND COME BE CHAMPIONS!”
Maren’s mouth twitches.
“Terrible friends.”
“The worst.”
“Go.”
I go.
The locker room after a championship is not a room.
It is weather.
Water everywhere.
Championship hats.
Phones out.
Music too loud.
Players hugging like they are trying to break ribs.
Someone has already put the trophy in the middle of the floor like a religious object.
Nolan sees me and launches himself across the room.
I catch him because I am a good teammate and because if I let him fall, he will absolutely make it my fault.
“We won,” he says into my shoulder.
“We did.”
“We won the whole thing.”
“Yes.”
“I am crying.”
“I noticed.”
“Do not tell anyone.”
“You are crying loudly.”
“Then tell them it is sweat.”
“From your eyes?”
“Yes.”
Green appears on my other side.
He is wearing a championship hat crooked and looks seventeen despite being legally adult.
“I touched the puck before the goal,” he says.
“You did.”
“I almost missed it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I almost did.”
“Almost is not a stat.”
His face breaks into a smile.
I tap his helmet.
No helmet.
Hat.
I tap the hat.
“Pretty alive.”
He laughs.
Nolan groans.
“That phrase is so bad.”
“It carried us to a championship.”
“It did not.”
“Check the analytics.”
Rhett walks over with the trophy.
Dark hair wet.
Eyes red.
Captain face completely ruined.
Good.
He holds the trophy out to me.
“Your turn.”
I stare at it.
Silver.
Heavy.
Real.
The thing we chased all season.
Maybe longer.
The room goes quieter.
Not silent.
Never us.
But quieter.
I take it.
It is heavier than I expect.
Of course it is.
Endings always are.
The team cheers when I lift it.
Not because I won it alone.
Because none of us did.
Because everyone in this room knows the difference now.
I lower it and look at the guys.
Rhett.
Mason.
Jace.
Nolan.
Green.
All of them.
My room.
Not because I kept it loud.
Because I finally stayed when it got quiet.
I clear my throat.
“Oh no,” Nolan says.
“Speech,” Mason says.
Jace mutters, “God help us.”
I point at him.
“You love me.”
“Currently tolerating.”
“Same family.”
The room groans.
Perfect.
I hold the trophy against my hip.
“I had a whole thing about being the loudest guy in the room,” I say.
Rhett’s face softens.
Mason folds his arms.
Nolan wipes his face with a towel and pretends he is not listening harder than anyone.
“I thought that was my job,” I continue. “Make it lighter. Make it funny. Make sure nobody had to feel the hard thing for too long.”
My throat tightens.
I let it.
“Turns out that is useful sometimes.”
A few smiles.
“Turns out it is also a really good way to disappear while standing in the middle of everyone.”
No jokes now.
No exit.
Good.
“I do not think I would have survived this year without this room,” I say. “And not because you laughed at me.”
Nolan raises a hand.
“We did laugh at you.”
“You did.”
“Frequently.”
“Constantly.”
“Therapeutically.”
“Thank you for your service.”
The room laughs.
Good laugh.
Safe laugh.
Mine too.
I breathe.
“But you also stopped letting me hide there. So thank you. For the room. For the extra pass. For ugly safe. For pretty alive, even though that phrase is a crime.”
Green beams.
“And for making this ending real.”
I lift the trophy slightly.
“We won because nobody had to be the whole story alone.”
That one lands.
I did not know I was going to say it until I did.
Coach Adler’s eyes narrow like he is personally offended by good phrasing.
Good.
Let him suffer.
Rhett claps first.
Then the room erupts again.
Someone pours water on my back.
Nolan.
Obviously.
This time I let it happen.
Mostly.
After the locker room celebration, there are photos.
So many photos.
Team with trophy.
Seniors with trophy.
Coach with trophy.
Coach looking like he would rather be audited than photographed with trophy.
Green with trophy, looking terrified it might bite.
Nolan trying to kiss the trophy and being physically removed by Jace.
Then families.
Then alumni.
Then the capstone wall.
Patty wants one final photo of the championship team under the five rules.
Coach pretends to object.
Patty wins.
Of course.
We gather under the wall.
Hazel and Grady nearby.
Tessa and Rhett.
Sloane and Jace.
Eden and Mason.
Maren behind the camera.
Of course.
I stand in the middle with the team around me.
The quote above my head.
The loudest guy in the room is still allowed to be known.
Maren lifts the camera.
Her eyes find mine over the lens.
I smile.
Not the old one.
Not the easy one.
The real one.
Flash.
A record.
A good one.
Later, I find my mother on FaceTime.
She answers with tears already on her cheeks.
“Do not start,” I say immediately.
She starts.
I start too.
Disaster.
“There is my champion,” she says.
I sit on a bench in the quiet end of the hallway, trophy celebration still thundering somewhere behind me.
“Hi, Mom.”
“You did it.”
“We did.”
“Yes.” She smiles through tears. “You did your part.”
That lands exactly right.
Not too much.
Not too little.
My part.
“I wanted you here.”
“I know.”
“I understood you were.”
“I was yelling at the laptop.”
“Did the neighbor survive?”
“Barely.”
I laugh.
She wipes her cheek.
“I saw the kiss.”
My soul leaves my body.
“What?”
“The stream cut to the hallway after. Not the whole thing. Just enough.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“She is lovely.”
“Mom.”
“And you looked happy.”
I cover my face with one hand.
“I am going to fight the camera crew.”
“Don’t you dare.”
I peek through my fingers.
She is smiling.
Tired.
Proud.
Soft.
“Are you?” she asks.
“What?”
“Happy?”
The hallway noise fades.
I think about the trophy.
The room.
The kiss.
The wall.
Maren saying she was not going anywhere.
“I think so,” I say.
Then correct myself because this one deserves the full answer.
“Yes. Good yes.”
My mother’s face crumples a little.
“Good.”
After we hang up, I sit there for another second.
Not because I am hiding.
Because the night is big.
Too big to swallow whole.
Footsteps approach.
Maren stops at the end of the hallway.
Camera bag on one shoulder.
Championship credential crooked around her neck.
Hair coming loose.
Beautiful in the tired, real way that makes my chest hurt.
“Hi,” she says.
That word.
Still dangerous.
“Hi.”
“You okay?”
I nod.
“Good yes.”
She walks closer.
“Your speech was good.”
“You heard?”
“I was filming.”
“Right. Evidence.”
“Always.”
She sits beside me on the bench, leaving no dramatic space this time.
Her shoulder touches mine.
On purpose.
“Your mom okay?”
“Yes. Crying.”
“Reasonable.”
“She saw the kiss.”
Maren freezes.
“What?”
“Apparently there was a stream cut.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes widen.
“Professional disaster.”
“Romantic success?”
She looks at me.
“Do not.”
“I am coping.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“A little.”
She presses her fingers to her forehead.
“My reputation.”
“As a woman with excellent taste?”
“Carter.”
“Sorry.”
I am not very sorry.
She shakes her head, but she is smiling.
Then the smile fades into something softer.
“Are you scared about tomorrow?”
The question surprises me.
Not because I do not know the answer.
Because tomorrow has been sitting behind everything like a locked door.
After the championship.
After the last game.
After the room empties.
After the identity that carried me for four years becomes a jersey in a closet.
“Yes,” I say.
Maren nods.
“What part?”
“All of it.”
“Specific.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
I lean back against the wall.
“My last game is over.”
The words land.
Really land.
I have known that all night.
I have not said it.
My last game is over.
My chest tightens.
Maren’s hand finds mine on the bench.
No production.
Just there.
“I loved it,” I say.
“I know.”
“I understand,” she adds softly.
I look at her.
“I loved the room. The noise. The practices, even the awful ones. The way everything made sense when the puck dropped.”
My throat tightens.
“I loved being needed out there.”
Her fingers tighten around mine.
“And I am scared that when hockey stops needing me, I will not know where to put myself.”
Maren is quiet.
Good.
Then she says, “Maybe you do not have to put yourself anywhere immediately.”
I laugh once.
“That sounds illegal.”
“It is not.”
“I have plans. Camps. Options. Maybe coaching track. Maybe training program. Maybe—”
“Carter.”
I stop.
She looks at me.
“Tomorrow does not have to prove you survived the ending.”
Oh.
I hate that.
I need that.
“You have been waiting to say that?”
“I have been waiting for you to breathe long enough to hear it.”
Fair.
Very fair.
I look down at our hands.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“After the feature. After the wall. After the archive clip. After all this.”
Her gaze drops.
Good.
Right question.
Maybe.
“I have to decide whether to take the communications job if they offer it.”
I go still.
“At Lakeview?”
“Yes.”
Hope moves too fast.
I grab it by the throat.
Do not make this pressure.
Do not make this about you.
I breathe once.
“Do you want it?”
She looks toward the arena.
“I think so.”
“Good.”
Her eyes flick back.
I continue before fear can ruin me.
“Is that a good yes?”
She exhales.
“I do not know yet.”
“Okay.”
“I love the work.”
“Yes.”
“I love the rink again, which is terrifying.”
“Yes.”
“And you are here.”
My chest goes tight.
There.
The thing.
The dangerous thing.
“I do not want to be the reason you stay,” I say.
Her expression softens.
“You are not.”
Good.
Painful.
Correct.
“But you are part of what staying would mean,” she says.
That is better.
Worse.
Everything.
“I can live with part,” I say.
“Can you?”
Can I?
The old me would want to become the reason.
The proof.
The anchor.
The new me is trying very hard not to confuse love with being necessary.
“I can try,” I say.
Her mouth curves.
“Good answer.”
“Not good yes?”
“Good answer.”
“I’ll take it.”
The hallway fills with distant cheers again.
Someone calls my name.
Not Nolan this time.
Rhett maybe.
The trophy photo rounds are not done.
Because joy is apparently very administratively demanding.
Maren squeezes my hand once.
“Go.”
“You keep sending me away.”
“You keep being needed.”
I look at her.
She sees the old bruise in that word immediately.
Her face changes.
“I mean wanted,” she says.
A correction.
A careful one.
“You are wanted in there.”
That lands differently.
Clean.
Warm.
I nod.
“Okay.”
She lets go of my hand.
This time, I stand without feeling like leaving proves something.
At the corridor entrance, I turn back.
“Maren.”
“Yes?”
“I want you to take the job if you want it.”
Her eyes hold mine.
“Even if it gets complicated?”
“Especially then.”
“Do you understand what you just said?”
“No.”
She laughs.
I grin.
“I understand enough.”
“Go be wanted, Vance.”
I smile.
“Good wanted?”
She shakes her head.
“Go.”
I go.
The next two hours blur.
Trophy photos.
Coach interviews.
Team chants.
School president handshake.
Too many cameras.
Not enough food.
At some point, Maren hands me a sandwich without comment and walks away before I can make it romantic.
It is romantic anyway.
At midnight, the arena finally empties.
Mostly.
The team has moved to the house for a controlled celebration that will absolutely become uncontrolled within twelve minutes.
I am last in the locker room.
Of course.
I sit at my stall.
Jersey still on.
Championship hat beside me.
The room smells awful.
Perfect.
Quiet now.
My skates sit on the floor.
For a second, I do not move.
Then Coach Adler appears in the doorway.
“Vance.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He steps inside.
Looks around the room.
Then at me.
“You did good work here.”
Not a joke.
Not a correction.
Good work.
My throat tightens.
“Thank you.”
He nods.
“That was not just about tonight.”
“I understand.”
“I know.”
From him, the word is allowed.
He looks at the nameplate above my stall.
“Leave the room better than you found it. That is the job.”
I look around.
The room.
My room.
Not mine forever.
Never was.
“Yes, Coach.”
He turns to leave.
Then pauses.
“And Vance?”
“Yes?”
“You were funny before you were useful.”
My breath stops.
He walks out before I can answer.
Probably on purpose.
Devastating man.
I sit there for a long time.
Then I take off the jersey.
Fold it carefully.
Not goodbye.
Not exactly.
A finish.
When I leave the locker room, Maren is in the hallway.
Of course.
Not waiting.
Maybe waiting.
I do not ask.
Her camera is gone.
No headset.
Just her.
“You ready?” she asks.
“No.”
She nods.
“Good.”
I laugh.
Then she holds out her hand.
I take it.
We walk past the capstone wall.
Past the trophy case.
Past the new hallway.
Toward the doors where the cold night waits.
The championship is won.
The final game is over.
The room is behind me.
Not gone.
Behind me.
Maren’s hand is warm in mine.
I do not know exactly what comes next.
For the first time, I do not turn that into a joke.
I just keep walking.