Chapter Twenty-Three #2
After she left, I opened my personal notes and typed:
The rink did not only hold the fall. It held the record. It held the finish. It may still hold work I want to do.
Then I sat with that.
At six, Carter’s feature repost went live.
The reaction was immediate.
Students shared it.
Alumni commented.
Parents wrote paragraphs.
Angela Vance texted me directly.
ANGELA: That picture of him looking up after the trophy. Thank you. That is my boy.
My chest squeezed.
I replied:
MAREN: He was looking for you.
Her response came fast.
ANGELA: I know. I found him right back.
I pressed my phone to my chest.
Not because I was dramatic.
Because sometimes the body needs somewhere to put a sentence.
At seven, Carter arrived.
He knocked on the open media office door.
Jeans.
Championship hoodie.
Hair still damp from a shower.
No camera.
No crowd.
Just him.
“Hi,” he said.
I leaned back in my chair.
“Hi.”
“You look tired.”
“You look like you slept in a trophy case.”
“Emotionally, yes.”
He stepped in.
Stopped.
“Open door okay?”
“Yes.”
He left it open and came to the other side of my desk.
There was a small paper bag in his hand.
He placed it on the desk.
“What is that?”
“Food.”
“I ate.”
“Bagel is not a personality.”
“It is today.”
He pushed the bag closer.
“Sandwich. Also something green.”
I opened the bag.
Turkey sandwich.
Apple.
Small salad.
I looked up.
“Your mother?”
“Me.”
I blinked.
He looked mildly offended.
“I can care independently.”
“I know.”
“I understand.”
His smile softened.
“There she is.”
I hated how much I liked that.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
He nodded toward the chair.
“Can I sit?”
“Yes.”
He sat.
For a few minutes, I ate while he told me about the team trying to decide who got the trophy first for pictures at the house.
Nolan had apparently attempted to build a sign-out sheet.
Rhett had destroyed it.
Green had asked if the trophy needed to be stored at a certain temperature.
Jace had said yes just to watch him panic.
Mason had told everyone to stop tormenting the freshman and then taken a photo of Green reading trophy care instructions.
The room lived on.
Even after the last game.
That mattered.
When I finished half the sandwich, Carter looked at the capstone wall files on my screen.
“You staying late?”
“Probably not.”
“Good.”
He shifted.
Not nervous exactly.
Careful.
“Did Coach talk to you?”
My eyes narrowed.
“Does he report to you?”
“No. He ambushed me too.”
“About?”
“Next steps.”
Ah.
I leaned back.
“Yes. He mentioned the job.”
Carter went very still.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
There was the restraint.
Visible.
Hard-earned.
“What do you want to say?” I asked.
He looked at me.
Honesty moved over his face like weather.
“I want to say stay.”
My heart kicked.
He continued before I could answer.
“I am not going to say it like that.”
“You just did.”
“I know. I am correcting the form.”
I waited.
He took a breath.
“I want you to stay if this place feels like yours again. I want you to stay if the work matters. I want you to stay if the rink feels bigger than what happened to you here.” His hands opened on his knees.
“And selfishly, yes, I want you nearby. But I do not want to become the prettiest version of a trap.”
Oh.
That sentence.
I looked down at the sandwich because apparently turkey was easier to face.
“Prettiest?”
“I am attractive and emotionally improving.”
A laugh burst out of me.
He grinned.
Good.
Still Carter.
Then the grin softened.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“Understand?”
I nodded.
“I understand.”
The office was quiet.
The open door made the moment safer somehow.
Less trapped.
Less secret.
More chosen.
“I think I want the job,” I said.
His breath caught.
Small.
He did not celebrate.
Good.
“I think I want it because I like the work,” I continued. “Because Patty is terrifying and efficient. Because Coach Adler gives terrible good advice. Because the rink feels like more than one bad week now.”
Carter listened.
No interruption.
“And because I do not want leaving to be the only way I prove I can protect myself.”
His eyes softened.
“That sounds like good yes.”
“Scared yes.”
“Still counts.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“Can I be happy about it?”
“Yes.”
His smile broke open.
Real.
Bright.
Then he visibly tried to reduce it.
I laughed.
“You may make it medium-large.”
“Thank God.”
He stood.
Then stopped.
“Approved location?”
I looked toward the open door.
Then back at him.
“Door open.”
“Right.”
“Media office policy.”
“Painful but respected.”
I stood.
Walked around the desk.
His eyes followed me.
I stopped close enough that his breath changed.
“However,” I said.
His eyebrows lifted.
“Dangerous word.”
“The hallway is available.”
His smile was slow.
“New hallway?”
“New hallway.”
We left the office together.
Not sneaking.
Not rushing.
Just walking.
The side corridor was quiet.
Ugly lights.
Rubber floor.
The vending machine humming like it had witnessed too much and signed an NDA.
Carter turned to me.
I stepped in before he could ask.
This kiss was not championship adrenaline.
Not grief.
Not a test.
It was softer than that.
Steadier.
A yes that had survived the morning after.
His hands rested at my waist.
Mine slid up to his shoulders.
No gear this time.
Just Carter.
Warm.
Here.
When we separated, he leaned his forehead against mine.
“Good yes?” he whispered.
“Good yes.”
“Medium?”
“Medium.”
A beat.
Then I smiled.
“Internally medium-large.”
His grin nearly ruined him.
“Externally respectful?”
“Trying.”
He laughed.
I kissed him once more because I could.
Because I wanted to.
Because the hallway was ours now.
Not old.
Not haunted.
Chosen.
After, we walked back to the media office and packed my laptop.
He carried the food bag.
I carried my camera.
At the arena doors, I turned back.
The capstone wall glowed faintly down the concourse.
My archive panel beside his.
The fall.
The getting up.
The loudest guy allowed to be known.
All of it still breathing.
Carter held the door open.
I stepped out into the cold.
Not leaving.
Just going home for the night.
That difference mattered.
And tomorrow, when the arena opened again, I knew I would come back.