Chapter Thirty-One
Maren
The problem with a good rhythm is that it starts to feel safe.
Morning text.
Work.
Rink.
Carter’s camp update.
My job update.
A call if schedules allowed.
It should have made the distance easier.
It did.
That was the problem.
Because easier made me trust it.
And trust still had a way of making my body look for the nearest exit.
By Monday of Carter’s second camp week, I had become a person with office habits.
This was alarming.
I had a mug in the media office.
A preferred chair in the staff meeting room.
A fight with the shared printer that had become personal.
Patty had given me access to the master calendar and said, “Do not abuse this power unless necessary.”
I had said, “Define necessary.”
She had said, “Now you’re learning.”
Coach Adler still wrote terrifyingly brief comments on media drafts.
Dana Price and I had scheduled the first junior media clinic planning session.
The panels remained in the media hallway.
And my skates stayed by my apartment door.
Not in a closet.
Not in a bag.
By the door.
Ready.
All of that should have felt like proof I was doing well.
Mostly, it did.
Mostly.
At ten fifteen, I opened the junior clinic planning document and typed:
Goal: Help young skaters understand that they have ownership over how their effort, mistakes, recovery, and joy are recorded.
Then I stared at the sentence until it blurred slightly.
Too much?
Maybe.
True?
Yes.
I left it.
Patty appeared in the doorway with a folder.
“You look like you are either making something excellent or about to cry.”
“Both can be true.”
“Good.”
I looked up.
“Everyone really has ruined that word.”
“Improved,” she said, dropping the folder on my desk. “Also, Carter’s camp posted a highlight reel.”
My pulse jumped.
Rude.
“Did they?”
“Do not pretend you did not set notifications.”
“I set professional monitoring alerts.”
“Of course.”
She leaned on the doorframe.
“He looks good.”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Patty smiled more softly this time.
“Not just hockey good.”
My chest tightened.
I hated how many people in this building had learned to speak around a bruise with accuracy.
I opened the camp account.
There he was.
Carter in a navy practice jersey that was not Lakeview’s.
Different helmet.
Different room.
Still him.
The clip showed a scrimmage sequence.
He entered the zone, looked shot, waited half a beat, then passed to a player cutting late.
Goal.
The caption read:
Vance sees the extra option.
My throat tightened.
Of course he did.
He had learned that option the hard way.
Patty watched me watch it.
“Good?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Very good yes.”
She did not tease me.
That was how I knew she understood.
At noon, Carter texted.
CARTER: Did you see the clip or should I pretend to be humble?
I smiled.
ME: I saw.
CARTER: Humility canceled.
ME: The pass was excellent.
CARTER: The room liked it.
A second message came before I could answer.
CARTER: I liked it because it was right. Not because the room liked it. Noticing that.
My chest softened.
I typed:
ME: Very good yes.
CARTER: Huge internally?
ME: Respectfully huge.
CARTER: Excellent. I am being modest externally and unbearable to the duck.
I laughed.
Then stared at the phone a second longer than necessary.
The ache of missing him had changed.
Less panic.
More pull.
Like a tide I could feel without drowning in it.
At two, Dana arrived with three sample lesson plans and a stack of old clinic brochures.
The old brochures were all wrong.
Not bad.
Just wrong for what we wanted now.
Too much performance language.
Too much perfection.
Too many phrases like capturing your best moment.
I crossed that one out so hard Dana laughed.
“No best moment?” she asked.
“No. Full moment.”
She wrote that down.
“Full moment.”
“Yes. The preparation, the attempt, the mistake if there is one, the recovery, the finish.”
Dana nodded.
“That is the whole point, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
The answer came without hesitation.
That felt important.
We built the pilot around three sessions.
Session one: camera basics and consent.
Session two: filming movement honestly.
Session three: editing the full story without turning mistakes into spectacle.
By the time Dana left, I felt lit up in a way that had nothing to do with Carter.
That mattered too.
I texted him a photo of the lesson-plan header.
ME: Junior clinic pilot has structure.
His reply came ten minutes later.
CARTER: “Full moment” is very you.
I smiled.
ME: Is that good?
CARTER: Very good yes. Also slightly terrifying to anyone trying to hide.
I looked at the panels down the hallway through the open office door.
ME: Then it is working.
That evening, I skated.
Not long.
Thirty minutes.
Edges.
Turns.
One small jump prep I did not complete.
I stopped before forcing it.
Not because I was scared.
Because I could come back tomorrow.
That was new.
I did not have to prove the rink was mine in one session.
I could build trust by returning.
When I stepped off the ice, I had three missed messages from Carter.
My stomach dipped before I opened them.
Old habit.
Bad news arrives in clusters.
But the messages were not bad.
CARTER: Scrimmage got rough.
CARTER: I am fine.
CARTER: Saying that first because I am learning.
I sat on the bench.
Still in skates.
Heart slowing.
ME: What happened?
He called.
I answered immediately.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
His voice was tired.
Tight.
Not hiding.
Good.
“What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic. Tyler took a bad hit. Clean-ish. He got up. I got mad.”
“Okay.”
“I did not take a penalty.”
“Good.”
“I did run my mouth.”
“How much?”
“Medium.”
I almost smiled.
“Externally or internally?”
“Externally medium. Internally huge.”
“Did it help?”
“No.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Not much. Coach Bennett told me to stop narrating my feelings at opposing players.”
A laugh escaped me.
Carter laughed too.
Then went quiet.
“I wanted to hit someone because Tyler is mine now.”
My chest softened.
“Friend?”
He sighed.
“Unfortunately.”
“Good.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I remembered what I told you. You are not the reason I stay steady. My mom is not. Lakeview is not. The room is not.” He exhaled. “I choose.”
I listened.
Cold air around me.
Skates still on my feet.
“And did you?” I asked.
“Eventually.”
“Good.”
“Not perfect.”
“Still good.”
He was quiet.
Then, “I miss you.”
The words landed warm.
“I miss you too.”
“No performance.”
“No performance.”
A pause.
Then softer, “I want to come home.”
Home.
Not Lakeview only.
Not me only.
Something wider.
I breathed.
“When do you leave?”
“Saturday morning. Back late afternoon.”
Three days.
Three days was not long.
Three days was forever.
“I work Saturday until two,” I said.
“I can come by after.”
“You should rest.”
“I can rest at the arena.”
“That is not how rest works.”
“I will sit very still.”
“Debatable.”
“I can try.”
I smiled.
“I want to see you.”
His breath changed.
“Good.”
“Very good yes.”
We stayed quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “Tell me about skating.”
So I did.
I told him about the jump prep I did not force.
He treated that like progress because it was.
He told me about Tyler calling him “buddy” in three different emotional tones.
I treated that like friendship because it was.
When we hung up, I sat on the bench for a while longer.
My feet ached.
My heart ached.
Neither felt like danger.
At work the next morning, an email waited from Human Resources with my official start confirmation.
No more almost.
No more likely.
Official.
Athletic Communications Coordinator — Lakeview State Athletics
Start date: immediate.
I stared at the email.
Then forwarded it to Patty.
She replied:
WELCOME TO THE CHAOS.
Coach Adler replied an hour later:
Good.
Dana replied with three exclamation points.
Angela Vance replied even though I had not sent it to her, which meant Carter had.
ANGELA: Proud of you, sweetheart.
Sweetheart.
I cried for exactly forty-two seconds in the media office.
Then drank water so Patty would not appear by instinct.
I texted Carter.
ME: Official.
His reply came fast despite camp.
CARTER: I am in a meeting and cannot be appropriately dramatic. Internally on floor.
Then:
CARTER: Proud of you. Not because you stayed. Because you chose.
I pressed the phone against my chest.
Again.
Apparently I did that now.
Fine.
At lunch, I took a sandwich to the media hallway and sat on the floor beneath the panels.
Not very professional.
No one saw.
Except Coach Adler, obviously.
He walked past, looked at me, looked at the sandwich, and said, “Better than coffee.”
Then kept walking.
Fair.
I sat there and ate.
Beneath Carter’s quote.
Beside my own panel.
In the hallway where the work happened.
It felt less like a monument now.
More like a reminder.
A good one.
Friday came with rain.
The kind of rain that made the arena doors squeak and the parking lot shine.
Carter’s final camp scrimmage was at four.
I watched the livestream in my office with the door closed and my headphones on.
This was professional monitoring.
Also love.
Both.
He played well.
Not perfectly.
Well.
One assist.
Two smart defensive plays.
One shift where he overhandled and corrected on the next.
Tyler scored and pointed at Carter like an idiot.
Carter laughed.
Real.
Happy.
Not to fill space.
Just because it was funny.
At the end, Coach Bennett shook his hand and spoke to him for a full minute.
I could not hear.
I hated that.
Carter nodded.
Smiled once.
Not huge.
Thoughtful.
Then the stream ended.
My phone did not buzz for twenty-three minutes.
I did not panic.
Much.
When it finally did, I opened it too fast.
CARTER: Good final day. Coach says there may be a fall invite. Nothing guaranteed. I did not explode from uncertainty.
I laughed softly.
ME: Very good yes.
CARTER: Tyler says he will miss the duck more than me.
ME: Understandable.
CARTER: Betrayal.
Then:
CARTER: Coming home tomorrow.
Home again.
This time, I let myself smile at it.
ME: I’ll be at the arena.
CARTER: Of course you will.
ME: I work here.
CARTER: I know. I love that.
My chest warmed.
ME: Drive safe tomorrow.
CARTER: Truth/funny ratio on the road?
ME: Yes.
CARTER: Truth: I cannot wait to see you.
I stared.
Then typed:
ME: Truth: same.
Saturday moved slowly.
So slowly I suspected time of misconduct.
I worked.
Actually worked.
Barely.
Patty noticed and gave me tasks that required movement because she was either kind or manipulative.
Likely both.
At two, my official workday ended.
At two oh-one, I was still in my office.
Ridiculous.
At two fifteen, I went to the rink.
Not to skate.
Just to be somewhere honest.
At three thirty-eight, my phone buzzed.
CARTER: Five minutes.
My heart became an unprofessional organ.
I stood in the media hallway between our two panels.
Not because I planned it.
Maybe because I did.
The arena doors opened down the hall.
Footsteps.
Familiar.
Then Carter appeared at the far end of the hallway with a duffel over one shoulder and the rubber duck sticking out of the side pocket like a tiny survivor.
He looked tired.
Sun-browned.
Hair messy.
Eyes searching.
When he saw me, his whole face changed.
Not performance.
Not relief alone.
Home.
I walked toward him.
Not fast at first.
Then faster.
He dropped the duffel.
I stepped into him.
His arms came around me immediately.
Careful for half a second.
Then tight.
I held him just as tightly.
He smelled like travel, soap, and cold rink air from somewhere else.
His face pressed into my hair.
Mine into his chest.
No cameras.
No crowd.
Just return.
“Hi,” he said against my hair.
I laughed.
Watery.
“Hi.”
He pulled back enough to see my face.
“Good?”
“Very good yes.”
His smile broke.
Then he kissed me.
Soft.
Then not soft.
Still safe.
Still careful.
But with two weeks of missing inside it.
My hands held his hoodie.
His hand cupped my face.
The panels stood behind us.
Known.
Getting up.
Coming back.
When we separated, he rested his forehead against mine.
“I missed you,” he whispered.
“I know.”
I smiled.
“I understand.”
His laugh shook a little.
“Excellent correction.”
“Thank you.”
He looked past me at the panels.
Then back.
“You stayed.”
“Yes.”
“I came back.”
“Yes.”
His thumb brushed my cheek.
“Good story.”
“Full moment,” I said.
His eyes softened.
“Full moment.”
The duck slid halfway out of his duffel pocket and hit the floor with a tiny squeak.
We both looked down.
Then at each other.
I laughed first.
Carter closed his eyes.
“Emotional artifact down.”
“Very dignified.”
“Please respect him.”
I picked up the duck and handed it to him.
“Welcome home, buddy.”
Carter stared.
Then burst out laughing.
Not for the room.
For me.
For himself.
For the ridiculous duck.
For the fact that distance had stretched and not snapped.
His laugh filled the media hallway.
Safe.
Loved.
Known.
And this time, I laughed with him.