Chapter Thirty
Carter
The problem with a new locker room is that it smells like every old locker room but judges you differently.
Same rubber.
Same sweat.
Same tape.
Same stale coffee somebody should have thrown away yesterday.
Different eyes.
Different names.
Different rules nobody writes down but everyone somehow knows.
By day two of camp, I know three things.
One, Michigan ice is still ice, which is rude because part of me expected it to feel foreign enough to blame for everything.
Two, Tyler says buddy like punctuation.
Three, I miss Maren most when something good happens.
That last one is inconvenient.
I expected to miss her at night.
Or when I saw a camera.
Or when somebody asked a question and then waited long enough to make me confess something against my will.
I did not expect to make a clean pass through traffic during morning skate and immediately think, Maren would have seen that correctly.
Not praised it too much.
Not made it about me.
Seen it.
That is different.
Dangerous.
Good.
After morning skate, I sit at my stall beside Tyler, who is built like a refrigerator with opinions.
He nods at my bag.
“The duck traveling with you all camp, buddy?”
I look down.
The rubber duck sits in the top pocket because Green requested proof of life and Nolan demanded “location-based duck content.”
I refuse to call it that.
“Yes.”
“Superstition?”
“Emotionally complicated team artifact.”
Tyler blinks.
Then laughs.
A real laugh.
Good.
Maybe not a serial killer.
“Your college team weird?”
“Deeply.”
“Miss it?”
The question comes fast.
Too fast for me to joke around it.
“Yes,” I say.
Tyler nods like that makes sense.
No pity.
No chirp.
Just nods.
“I missed juniors like that,” he says. “First month after, I kept expecting to hear the same idiots yelling in the same hallway.”
My chest tightens.
“Yeah.”
“Gets better.”
I look at him.
He shrugs.
“Not gone. Better.”
Useful.
Unexpected.
Buddy Threat has depth.
Horrifying development.
Our afternoon meeting is worse than morning skate because video does not care about feelings.
Coach Bennett, the camp director, is not Adler.
No one is Adler.
Coach Bennett smiles more.
This makes him more suspicious.
He freezes a clip of me forcing a play near the blue line.
“Vance.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“What do you see?”
I stare at the screen.
Old instinct says make a joke.
Something light.
Something that tells the room I know I messed up before they can decide I do not.
The room waits.
Twenty-three players.
Three coaches.
One camera angle of me making a bad decision in high definition.
I feel the old smile start.
I catch it.
Not fast enough to stop it completely.
Fast enough to choose what comes next.
“I was trying to make a play that was not there,” I say.
Coach Bennett nods.
“And why?”
Because I wanted to be noticed.
Because new rooms make me feel like I have to prove I deserve a place in them.
Because simple felt invisible.
Because pretty dead still looks pretty for half a second.
“Wanted to show too much,” I say.
The room is quiet.
Then Coach Bennett nods again.
“Good. Fix?”
“Ugly safe.”
A few guys turn.
Tyler grins.
“Sorry,” I say. “Lakeview phrase.”
Coach Bennett’s mouth twitches.
“Meaning?”
“Make the unpretty play that keeps the shift alive.”
“Good phrase.”
No.
Absolutely not.
Green will be unbearable.
Coach rewinds the clip.
“Again. What is the ugly safe play?”
I show him.
He nods.
The room moves on.
I do not die.
Interesting.
After the meeting, Tyler falls into step beside me.
“Ugly safe, huh?”
“Do not make it weird.”
“Too late, buddy.”
“Buddy still sounds threatening.”
“That’s because you’re sensitive.”
“Yes.”
He glances over.
I do not take it back.
His eyebrows lift.
“Respect.”
Maybe friend.
Hard to say.
At dinner, I eat chicken, rice, and something green that is better than yesterday’s defeated vegetable pile.
I take a photo for my mother.
Then, after a second, one for Maren.
Not the same photo.
My mother gets the full plate.
Maren gets the plate with the caption:
Evidence. Also, the green thing is alive but unhappy.
She replies ten minutes later.
MAREN: I respect accurate vegetable reporting.
A second message:
MAREN: How was day two?
I could say fine.
I could say good.
I could say camp camped aggressively.
Instead, I type the truth.
ME: Got corrected on video. Almost joked. Didn’t. Said I wanted to show too much. Survived. Ugly safe has entered Michigan.
Her reply takes longer.
I wait.
Not panicking.
Mostly.
MAREN: That is very good.
I stare at the words.
Very good.
Not medium.
Not scaled.
Just true.
ME: Huge internally?
MAREN: Medium-large externally. Huge internally.
I grin.
Tyler looks across the table.
“Girlfriend?”
My head lifts.
The word hits weird.
Good weird.
Scary weird.
“We have not...” I stop.
The table looks over.
Great.
Now I am doing relationship taxonomy in a camp dining hall.
“She is Maren,” I say.
Tyler chews.
“That explains nothing.”
“Correct.”
Another guy, Alvarez, points his fork at me.
“Is Maren the reason you have a duck?”
“No.”
“Is Maren the reason you look at your phone like it sends oxygen?”
I lock the screen.
“I hate this room.”
Tyler grins.
“Room loves you, buddy.”
Threatening.
Maybe friendly.
Probably both.
That night, I call my mother first.
She answers with, “Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“Proof received.”
“Did you forward that to anyone?”
“No.”
“Suspicious.”
“How was camp?”
I tell her about the video correction.
The almost joke.
Ugly safe.
Tyler.
She listens the way she always has.
Like I am worth the whole answer.
When I finish, she says, “You told the truth in a new room.”
I lean back against the hotel headboard.
“Yeah.”
“Proud of you.”
The words land.
I let them.
“Thank you.”
No joke.
No sprint to earn more.
Just thank you.
After we hang up, I call Maren.
She answers on the third ring.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
I will never get tired of that.
Probably.
Maybe in forty years.
No.
Still no.
“How is the officially employed life?” I ask.
“Patty gave me a laminated access card and said, ‘Do not lose this or I will haunt you administratively.’”
“Romantic workplace.”
“Deeply.”
“Coach?”
“Rejected a graphic by writing ‘This font lacks discipline.’”
I close my eyes.
“I miss him.”
“You would.”
“Did you skate today?”
“Yes.”
“Good?”
“Good yes. I tried a tiny turn.”
My chest lifts.
“Define tiny.”
“Tiny.”
“So huge.”
“Internally, yes.”
I smile at the ceiling.
“Proud of you.”
She is quiet for a second.
Then, softly, “Thank you.”
I hear the landing.
The word reaching her.
Good.
“I wish I saw it,” I say.
Then immediately add, “Not in a pressure way. In a proud way.”
“I know.”
I wait.
She sighs.
“I understand.”
We are both smiling. I can hear it.
Then she says, “I missed you when it went well.”
My whole chest goes warm.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Which was annoying.”
“Deeply.”
“I wanted to tell you before I turned it into a file note.”
“Strong growth.”
“I know.”
“I understand.”
She laughs.
There it is.
Crossing states like it belongs here too.
The next few days build rhythm.
Morning text.
Skate.
Camp meeting.
Truth/funny ratio report.
Her office update.
My duck proof.
Her rink update.
My mother food check.
A call at night when schedules allow.
We miss each other.
We say it.
Not every time.
Enough.
Camp gets harder.
By day four, my legs feel like someone filled them with wet sand and criticism.
Coach Bennett pushes pace.
Drills shrink decision time.
New room pressure rises because evaluations start feeling less like development and more like sorting.
Who gets invited back.
Who gets a call.
Who becomes a note in a file and nothing else.
That fear finds me.
Of course.
During afternoon scrimmage, I start playing too loud.
Not funny loud.
Hockey loud.
Forcing hits.
Calling for pucks when I am not the best option.
Trying to make evaluators see me every shift.
The first time, it almost works.
The second time, turnover.
The third, Tyler slams his stick against the boards.
“Vance. Buddy.”
There it is.
Threat punctuation.
I turn.
“What?”
“You’re chasing the room.”
I go still.
The bench noise fades.
“What?”
He shrugs like he did not just read my spine.
“You heard me.”
The next shift starts.
I barely hear it.
Chasing the room.
That is exactly what I am doing.
Not hiding with jokes.
Different costume.
Same fear.
Make them want you.
Make them notice.
Make the new room yours before it can decide you are optional.
I skate my next shift simple.
Ugly safe.
Support low.
Win a board battle.
Pass early.
No highlight.
Good shift.
On the bench, I breathe like someone just avoided a cliff.
Tyler bumps my shoulder.
“Better.”
I look at him.
“Do you always say emotionally devastating things mid-scrimmage?”
“Only to guys with ducks.”
Fair.
After scrimmage, I sit in the locker room longer than everyone else.
Not hiding.
Maybe hiding.
Hard to say.
I text Maren.
Then delete it.
Then text again.
ME: Got weird today.
I stare at it.
Send.
No explanation.
No joke.
My phone rings thirty seconds later.
Maren.
I step into the hallway.
“Hi.”
“What kind of weird?”
No panic.
No softness that turns me into a child.
Just her.
I lean against the wall.
“Camp evaluations started feeling real. I started chasing the room.”
She is quiet for a second.
Then, “What did that look like?”
“Force. Noise. Not jokes. Just trying to be seen every shift.”
“And?”
“Tyler called me on it.”
“Buddy Threat?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe friend.”
“Unfortunately.”
“What happened after?”
“I played better.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
Then I say the thing under it.
“I hate that the instinct changes clothes.”
Maren exhales softly.
“That is unfairly accurate.”
“I thought if I stopped hiding behind funny, maybe I stopped hiding.”
“No,” she says. “You found one door. There are usually more.”
I close my eyes.
That should be discouraging.
It is not.
Maybe because she says it like fact, not failure.
“I wanted to be past it.”
“I know.”
“I understand,” I correct.
She says, “I wanted to be past fear because I accepted the job.”
My eyes open.
“And?”
“I checked the job listing twice today to make sure it was real, then worked an hour longer than I needed because I got scared they would regret hiring me.”
My chest tightens.
“Maren.”
“Different door,” she says.
A laugh breaks out of me.
Soft.
Not because it is funny.
Because she found me there.
Or met me there.
Same hallway, different states.
“Different door,” I repeat.
“So we notice.”
“And choose second.”
“Exactly.”
I breathe.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you need me to tell you they will not regret hiring you?”
“No.”
Good.
Hard.
“Do you want me to?”
A pause.
Then quieter, “Yes.”
I straighten.
“They will not regret hiring you. You see the right thing. You protect the story without making it sterile. You made Lakeview bigger by coming back.”
Silence.
Then her breath.
Shaky.
“Carter.”
“You asked.”
“I did.”
“Too much?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Very good.”
We stay on the phone until Tyler walks by and says, “Tell Maren buddy says hi.”
I close my eyes.
Maren bursts out laughing.
“Did he just—”
“Yes.”
“Tell Buddy Threat hello.”
I look at Tyler.
“She says hello, Buddy Threat.”
Tyler frowns.
“Why threat?”
“Tone.”
He nods like this is useful feedback and walks away.
Maybe definitely friend.
The first week ends with a scrimmage under evaluators.
I play well.
Not perfect.
Well.
Simple when simple is right.
Creative when the play actually opens.
Funny on the bench when the room needs air.
Quiet when it does not.
After, Coach Bennett pulls me aside.
My stomach drops.
“Vance.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He looks at his clipboard.
“You have leadership habits.”
I wait.
That can mean anything.
“Some good,” he says. “Some noisy.”
I almost smile.
Do not.
“Yes, Coach.”
“You see rooms fast.”
That sentence lands hard.
“Use it to serve the game, not manage your place in it.”
I stare.
This is apparently a universal coaching conspiracy.
“Yes, Coach.”
He nods.
“Good week. Better after you stopped chasing.”
I swallow.
“Thank you.”
When I get back to the hotel, I send Maren one text.
ME: Stopped chasing. Good week.
Her reply:
MAREN: Very good yes.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let myself feel it.
Proud.
Tired.
Still scared.
Not hidden.
The duck sits on the desk.
The room is not Lakeview.
But I am still me here.
Maybe that was the test.
Not whether I became perfectly known everywhere.
Whether I could carry enough truth into a new room to not disappear.
My phone buzzes again.
Maren.
MAREN: I did not work late tonight.
I grin.
ME: Very good yes.
A photo follows.
Her skates by her apartment door.
Not hidden in a bag.
Out.
Ready.
Proof.
I send back a photo of the duck on the desk beside my camp credential.
ME: Same.
Her reply:
MAREN: The duck is not skates.
ME: Emotional artifact. Do not disrespect him.
MAREN: Him?
ME: We are still learning.
She sends a laughing emoji.
Maren Ellis sent an emoji.
This is major.
I fall back on the bed, smiling at the ceiling.
Camp is hard.
Distance is hard.
The new room is hard.
But tonight, hard does not feel like a warning.
It feels like something I can tell the truth inside.
And that is new enough to count.