Chapter 4 — Carter
Carter
Carter Hayes woke up with three unread texts, one sore shoulder, and the distinct realization that he had absolutely ruined himself.
Because the first thing he thought about was not the fundraiser.
Not opening remarks.
Not the morning skate he was already six minutes late getting ready for.
Not even Coach Harlan, who had the supernatural ability to know when a player had stayed up too late doing anything besides sleeping, hydrating, or regretting poor choices.
No.
The first thing Carter thought about was Lena Brooks pressed against her car under the parking lot lights, her fingers curled in his hoodie, her mouth warm under his, her laugh breathless against his lips.
He stared at his dorm ceiling.
“Bad,” he said to no one.
From the other bed, Mason Cross groaned into his pillow. “If this is about Clipboard, I need coffee before emotional processing.”
Carter turned his head. “Why are you awake?”
“You said bad in your serious voice.”
“I don’t have a serious voice.”
“You do now. It’s terrifying. Like a golden retriever discovering taxes.”
Carter threw a rolled-up sock at him.
Mason caught it without lifting his face. “See? Emotional violence.”
Carter sat up and dragged both hands through his hair.
Lena: I made the final edits to the speech. Sending now.
Lena: Please read it before tonight. Not five minutes before. Actually read it.
Lena: And do not let Mason near the sponsor table unsupervised. I had a dream he auctioned off the balloon arch.
Not a small smile either.
A full, stupid, helpless smile that made Mason lift his head like a prairie dog sensing danger.
“Oh no,” Mason said.
Carter locked his phone. “What?”
“You’re smiling at your phone.”
“I smile at my phone all the time.”
“You smile at memes. That was not a meme smile. That was a man who got a good morning text from a girl who could ruin him.”
“She sent me the speech.”
Mason sat up, hair sticking in seven directions. “Foreplay for student coordinators.”
“Do not be weird.”
“Brother, you kissed her behind a stage curtain, then in an office, then apparently walked her to her car and came back looking like you’d seen God in a campus parking lot. I am the normal one in this room.”
“That sentence disproves itself.”
Mason pointed at him. “You like her.”
Carter stood and grabbed a towel from the back of his desk chair. “We covered this.”
“No. We acknowledged it while you avoided eye contact and stole my tape.”
“Still counts.”
“How much do you like her?”
Carter opened his dresser drawer too hard. “Why are you asking like you’re collecting data?”
“Because if you like her casually, I make jokes. If you like her seriously, I prepare a friendship intervention.”
Casual definitely did not make him want to stand beside her in a ballroom full of donors tonight and prove, specifically to her, that he could show up.
He hated that.
He liked it too.
“Carter,” Mason said, softer now.
Carter grabbed a clean T-shirt. “I’m not doing an intervention before morning skate.”
“So it is serious.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“That means serious.”
“It means I’m going to shower.”
Mason flopped back dramatically. “Fine. But as your friend, I am legally required to say one thing.”
“No, you’re not.”
“If you treat this like one of your usual flirt-and-escape maneuvers, she will murder you.”
“She said the same thing.”
“And I will help hide your body only if she asks politely.”
Lena’s name sat on the screen like a dare.
He unlocked it.
Carter: Read it twice already.
Carter: Also Mason is banned from all auction activity unless accompanied by an adult or a helmet.
He laughed.
Mason lifted one hand from under his pillow. “Meme smile again?”
“Shut up.”
“Clipboard?”
The second Carter stepped onto the ice, everything else got smaller. The scrape of blades, the snap of tape on sticks, the cold air burning his lungs, the familiar rhythm of drills—hockey had always been the one place his brain stopped chasing itself.
Today, every time he crossed the blue line, he thought about Lena.
Lena telling him he was trying harder than he wanted people to know.
Lena’s hand tightening around his in the parking lot when he offered to let go.
Carter coasted to a stop, spraying ice. “That was one pass.”
“That was the second one you watched go by like it owed you rent.”
Mason skated past behind Coach and whispered, “Clipboard brain.”
Carter shot him a death glare.
Coach’s eyes narrowed. “Something you want to share?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Then share your attention with the drill.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Carter focused.
For approximately twelve seconds.
Then Logan Reeves hammered into him during a puck battle near the boards.
Not dirty.
Not even that hard by Logan standards.
But enough to rattle Carter’s shoulder and snap him back into his body.
“There he is,” Logan said, grin sharp beneath his helmet. “Thought you were writing poetry out here.”
“Careful, Reeves,” Carter said, shoving him back. “You’re almost funny.”
Logan smirked. “And you’re distracted.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re Carter fine or actually fine?”
“Same thing.”
Logan laughed once. “Absolutely not.”
Carter skated away before that could become another conversation he didn’t want.
The thing about Logan was he didn’t talk much, but when he did, he somehow said the most annoying correct thing possible. It was probably why everyone on the team respected him and slightly feared him.
Coach ran them through breakouts, passing, odd-man rushes, and a penalty kill sequence Carter usually loved because it rewarded controlled chaos.
By the end of skate, his legs burned, his shoulder ached, and his brain had only thought about Lena eighty percent of the time instead of one hundred.
Barely.
In the locker room, Mason dropped onto the bench beside him and unlaced his skates.
“So,” Mason said.
“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“I was going to say your speech draft is actually good.”
Carter paused.
Mason kept his eyes on his laces. “Lena sent it to me too. For timing.”
“She did?”
“Team rotation group chat.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t sound jealous. It’s adorable.”
“You looked like someone else got your favorite snack.”
Carter yanked at his skate lace. “It’s just a speech.”
Mason’s expression shifted. “No, it isn’t.”
Carter looked at him.
Mason shrugged. “It sounds like you.”
That hit harder than expected.
Carter looked down.
“I don’t know if that’s good.”
“It is,” Mason said. “Annoying, because I prefer you emotionally unavailable and easier to mock, but good.”
Carter laughed under his breath.
Across the locker room, Jonah zipped his bag. “It’s good, Hayes.”
Tank nodded. “Made my mom cry when I read it to her.”
Everyone turned.
Tank blinked. “What? She likes hospital fundraisers.”
All pretending very badly that they were not trying to support him.
Something moved in his chest, uncomfortable and warm.
“Thanks,” Carter said.
His injured shoulder.
Carter winced.
Mason froze. “Sorry.”
“I’m fine.”
Coach Harlan appeared in the doorway at exactly the wrong time. “Training room. Now.”
Carter groaned. “It’s nothing.”
Carter stood.
Mason whispered, “Tell the trainer about your broken heart too.”
By four o’clock, Carter had survived practice, a trainer poking at his shoulder, three reminders from Lena about player arrival times, and Mason asking if a navy polo counted as “donor hot.”
Polished.
Blue and silver balloons framed the entrance.
The repaired banner hung above check-in with no visible sign of the Helmuts tragedy.
The silent auction tables gleamed with baskets, gift cards, sports memorabilia, and local business donations.
The children’s booth sat near the back with foam pucks, stickers, temporary tattoos, and enough prize bags to bribe a kindergarten army.
And Lena Brooks stood in the center of it all wearing a fitted navy dress, nude heels, and the same determined expression she wore with jeans and a clipboard.
Just stopped.
Mason ran into his back.
“Ow,” Mason said. “Why are we stopping?”
She had curled her hair loose around her shoulders, and the pencil was gone, which felt rude because he had not been emotionally prepared for her neck.
The dress was simple but fit her in a way that made Carter’s thoughts briefly lose university accreditation.
She held a clipboard in one hand and a walkie-talkie in the other, like a woman prepared to organize a room, save a fundraiser, and ruin a man’s life before dessert.
Mason leaned around him and followed his gaze.
“Oh,” Mason said. “You’re dead.”
Carter swallowed. “Shut up.”
“Completely dead.”
“I said shut up.”
“I’ll say nice things at the funeral.”
Lena looked up then.
Worth dying for.
Carter crossed the room toward her, leaving Mason to whisper something dramatic behind him.
“Brooks,” he said when he reached her.
Not too long.
Long enough.
“You look…” He stopped.
Her brows lifted. “Careful.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “That’s the problem.”
But also not victory, because now he wanted to touch her face and kiss the blush out of her, which was not considered appropriate pre-fundraiser behavior.
Probably.
“You clean up well,” she said.
Carter glanced down at his button-down shirt and dark jeans. “This is my donor costume.”
“No tie?”
“I don’t believe in neck prisons.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I do believe in compliments, though.”
She looked at him.
He leaned in just a little. “You look beautiful.”
A little shy.
Completely devastating.
“Thank you,” she said.
Buried with his self-control.
The walkie-talkie crackled in Lena’s hand.
“Check-in needs more name tags.”
Lena blinked back into coordinator mode. “On my way.”
Carter stepped aside. “Want help?”
“Yes,” she said, then stopped like the answer had surprised her. “Actually, yes.”