Chapter Twenty-Eight
Carter
The problem with leaving for two weeks is that everyone acts like two weeks is not a big deal.
Two weeks is fourteen days.
Three hundred thirty-six hours.
A lot of opportunities to become emotionally weird.
I mention this to Nolan while packing.
He is lying on my floor because apparently friendship means obstructing luggage.
“You are going to Michigan, not war,” he says.
“I could be emotionally challenged in Michigan.”
“You are emotionally challenged in every state.”
“Supportive.”
“Accurate.”
Green sits at my desk with a checklist he made for me.
A checklist.
For camp.
The freshman has become dangerous.
“You need extra skate laces,” he says.
“I packed them.”
“Protein powder?”
“Yes.”
“Laundry bag?”
“Yes.”
“Phone charger?”
I look at him.
He looks back, serious.
I open the top pocket of my duffel.
No charger.
Nolan sits up.
“Oh, that is embarrassing.”
Green silently hands me a charger.
I take it.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Nolan points at Green.
“He is your mother now.”
“Honestly, improvement.”
Green smiles like this is praise.
It might be.
On the bed, my camp packet sits beside my folded Lakeview hoodie.
Development camp.
Two weeks.
Real evaluators.
Real pressure.
No Lakeview locker room.
No Coach Adler whistle.
No Maren in the media office with a pencil behind one ear and a face that can cut through any lie I try to use for shelter.
Just me.
Hockey.
A room that does not already know me.
That thought used to excite me.
Clean slate.
New audience.
A place to be whichever Carter worked best.
Now it scares me for different reasons.
What if the easiest version is still the fastest one?
What if I walk into a room that wants charm, and I give it everything without noticing what it costs?
What if being known only worked because Lakeview gave me time and Maren gave me truth and my team gave me space to become less stupid?
Nolan throws a sock at my head.
I catch it.
“Why?”
“You were brooding.”
“I was thinking.”
“Same family.”
I point at him.
“Do not use my phrases against me.”
“You made them public property.”
Green looks at his checklist.
“Did you pack something green?”
“No.”
Nolan gasps.
“Coach would be ashamed.”
“Coach is not invited to my suitcase.”
A knock sounds at the open door.
Rhett stands there with Mason and Jace behind him.
Great.
A goodbye committee.
Exactly what I feared.
Rhett looks at the room.
“Are we interrupting?”
“Yes,” I say.
“No,” Nolan says.
Green says, “We are reviewing packing.”
Jace looks at the checklist.
“Of course you are.”
Mason steps inside and hands me a small box.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
Suspicious.
I open it.
Inside is a roll of tape, a small team photo, and the rubber duck.
I look up slowly.
Nolan starts laughing.
Jace says, “Absolutely not.”
Mason’s mouth twitches.
“It is symbolic.”
“No,” Jace says.
Rhett folds his arms.
“The duck travels with whoever leaves the room next.”
I stare at him.
“You all made the rubber duck a ritual?”
“Democracy,” Nolan says.
Green nods.
“I made a shared document.”
“Of course you did.”
I pick up the duck.
It is small.
Yellow.
Stupid.
Wearing a tiny strip of blue tape around its middle like a championship belt.
My throat tightens.
Unacceptable.
I look down quickly.
“Terrible.”
“Deeply,” Mason says.
“You take it to camp,” Rhett says. “Bring it back. Or send proof of life.”
Jace adds, “Do not lose it. I have grown unwillingly attached.”
Nolan wipes one eye.
“All of us have.”
I laugh.
It catches halfway.
The room goes quiet enough to notice.
Rhett steps closer.
“You good?”
I look at the duck.
The photo.
The tape.
The ridiculous proof that the room continues by sending part of itself with you.
“No.”
Nolan nods solemnly.
“Good.”
Everyone groans.
I smile.
“Good no.”
Mason bumps my shoulder.
“Accepted.”
After they leave, I pack the duck in my carry-on.
Not the checked bag.
I am not a monster.
At six, I meet Maren at the arena.
Not because we planned something dramatic.
Because she works there.
Because I am leaving in the morning.
Because neither of us wanted goodbye to happen in a parking lot with Nolan yelling from a window.
She is in the media hallway when I arrive, standing in front of the two permanent panels.
Her panel.
Mine.
She wears jeans, a Lakeview staff sweatshirt, and her credential clipped to her pocket.
Official.
Beautiful.
Staying.
I stop a few feet away.
She turns.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
The word still works.
Ridiculous.
Her gaze drops to the duffel in my hand.
“You packed early?”
“Green enforced it.”
“Smart man.”
“Terrifying man.”
“Both.”
I set the duffel against the wall.
The rubber duck is safely inside.
Probably.
Do not check.
That would be too much.
Maren looks at my panel.
Then hers.
“They look different now,” she says.
“Permanent-ish?”
“Permanent-ish.”
I move beside her.
No crowd.
No team.
No capstone wall around them.
Just two panels in a hallway where work happens.
It feels right.
Hard.
Quiet.
Right.
“You nervous?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“About camp?”
“Yes.”
“About us?”
“Yes.”
Her mouth curves faintly.
“Good.”
I look at her.
She lifts one shoulder.
“Honest.”
“Right.”
“What part scares you?”
I breathe.
This is Maren.
No point lying.
“The part where I might go there and become the version of me that gets liked fastest.”
Her expression softens.
“And?”
“And maybe that means I did not actually change. Maybe I just changed here.”
She turns fully toward me.
“Carter.”
“Yes?”
“Change that only works in one place is still change.”
I blink.
That was not what I expected.
She continues, “You learned it here. That does not mean you will perform it perfectly somewhere else.”
“Comforting.”
“It should be.”
“I prefer unrealistic guarantees.”
“I know.”
“I understand,” I correct.
Her smile appears.
“Better.”
She reaches for my hand.
The hallway is public.
She does not care.
Neither do I.
Her fingers fit between mine like a decision we keep making.
“You might get it wrong,” she says.
“Yes.”
“You might joke too fast.”
“Yes.”
“You might come home and tell me about it.”
That lands.
Come home.
Not my home.
Not exactly.
Still.
I swallow.
“Yes.”
“And then you keep choosing.”
I nod.
The old rule wanted a finish line.
The new thing is mostly practice.
Of course it is.
Hockey has been trying to teach me that for years.
Annoying sport.
“What scares you?” I ask.
She looks at our hands.
“That I will get used to you being close and panic when you are not.”
My chest tightens.
“Maren.”
“I know two weeks is not long.”
“It can feel long.”
Her eyes lift.
“Thank you.”
“I understand.”
“You do.”
Good.
Painful.
True.
“And I am scared I will turn the job into a wall,” she says.
“How?”
“Work too much. Stay useful. Stay behind the camera. Tell myself I am fine because the files are named correctly.”
I smile softly.
“You do love correct file names.”
“I do.”
“Deeply.”
“Do not mock the foundation of my life.”
“Never.”
She leans back against the wall, still holding my hand.
“I want to do it differently this time.”
“The job?”
“The rink. The work. Us. All of it.”
My thumb moves once over her knuckle.
“Good yes?”
“Scared good yes.”
“Still counts.”
She smiles.
Then looks at the panels.
“You know what Coach told me?”
“I am afraid.”
“He said not to let you become my only reason to be brave.”
I wince.
“Sounds like him.”
“And not to pretend you are not one of them.”
That one hits softer.
Deeper.
“Do you?” I ask.
“What?”
“Let me be one of them?”
Her eyes meet mine.
“Yes.”
There are better awards than trophies.
No one tells athletes this soon enough.
I step closer.
“Approved location?”
She glances around the hallway.
“Technically public.”
“Emotionally ours.”
“Debatable.”
“Hopeful.”
Her mouth curves.
“Approved.”
I touch her face.
Still careful.
Always.
She leans into my hand before I kiss her.
The kiss is not goodbye at first.
It is familiar now.
A little.
Her hand tightens in mine.
My other hand settles at her waist.
She rises on her toes.
I forget where I am for one second.
Then remember because someone at the far end of the hall drops a clipboard.
We separate.
Maren presses her forehead to my chest, laughing quietly.
“Workplace,” she whispers.
“Right.”
“Policy.”
“Painful.”
“Necessary.”
I kiss the top of her head once.
“That allowed?”
“Probably not.”
“Risky employee romance.”
She laughs again.
Then steps back.
Her eyes are bright.
Not crying.
Maybe.
“Call when you get there?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Not every hour.”
“I had planned every forty-five minutes.”
“No.”
“Every two hours?”
“Carter.”
“Daily?”
“Daily is good.”
Good.
Small word.
Big promise.
“And texts,” she says.
“Texts.”
“But not performance texts.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“What is a performance text?”
“Overly funny when you are actually scared.”
“Attacked.”
“Accurate.”
I nod.
“Truth texts.”
“Some truth texts.”
“And some funny because I am naturally gifted.”
“Yes.” Her mouth softens. “Some funny.”
I pick up the duffel.
It feels heavier now.
Not in a bad way.
Just full.
At the arena doors, she walks me out.
The evening is warm enough to smell rain.
Spring turning.
Season over.
Something else starting.
We stop by my car.
No box this time.
No crowd.
Just two people trying to make a temporary leaving the right size.
“I love you,” I say.
Still careful.
Still new.
Less afraid.
“I love you too,” she says.
Still a miracle.
Still steady.
I breathe through it.
She sees.
“Good?”
“Very good yes.”
She smiles.
Then kisses me once more.
Quick.
Soft.
Enough to make leaving harder and better at the same time.
“Go pack the charger Green saved,” she says.
“I already did.”
“Check again.”
“Bossy.”
“Concerned.”
“Good concerned.”
She steps back.
I get in the car.
I do not make the moment huge.
No dramatic window goodbye.
No final joke yelled across the lot.
I just look at her once through the windshield.
She lifts one hand.
Small.
I lift mine.
Then I drive away.
The next morning, I leave before sunrise.
Nolan and Green insist on coming downstairs.
Nolan wears sunglasses despite the dark because he claims goodbye lighting is unflattering.
Green hands me a printed checklist for the return trip.
Rhett texts: Represent the room.
Mason texts: Rest when you can.
Jace texts: Do not lose the duck.
Coach Adler texts at six exactly: Be honest. Play simple. Call your mother.
I laugh alone in the car.
Then I call my mother.
She answers sleepy.
“On the road?”
“Yes.”
“Duck?”
“Packed.”
“I heard about the duck.”
“Of course you did.”
“Maren?”
“I said goodbye last night.”
“Good?”
“Good yes.”
She exhales softly.
“Drive safe.”
“I will.”
Three hours into the trip, Maren texts.
MAREN: Patty already gave me eight tasks. Coach wrote “No” on a flyer draft. The panels are still there. I ate breakfast.
I smile so hard my face hurts.
ME: I have crossed into Ohio. The duck is emotionally stable. I ate a banana. Not performance texting.
Her reply:
MAREN: Proud of you.
I look at the road.
Then the dashboard.
Then the tiny rubber duck wedged in the cup holder because apparently I did check on it at a gas station like a lunatic.
Proud of you.
Words I am still learning how to receive without trying to earn them again immediately.
I send back:
ME: Scared. Excited. Miss you. Also a truck just passed me with a giant inflatable cow in the back, so the Midwest is healing me.
Three dots.
Then:
MAREN: Excellent truth/funny ratio.
I laugh.
Out loud.
Alone.
Not to fill a room.
Just because I am happy.
Maybe that is the difference.
The road stretches ahead.
Camp waiting.
Unknown rooms.
New pressure.
No guarantee I get it right.
But I have the duck.
The room.
My mother.
Maren.
Myself, maybe.
More than before.
And for once, leaving does not feel like disappearing.
It feels like carrying proof forward.