Frozen Touch (The Stallions #2)

Chapter One

Finn

I stepped out of the closet and into a shit show.

Yep, that pretty much sums up the past six months of my life.

When I decided to announce to not only my family and friends that I was gay, but to the entire world, I knew there would be turmoil.

My family was shocked at first. How could their superstar athlete, who had no fashion sense, be gay? However, they soon accepted it, and things are now getting better. I don’t know if we will ever be close again, but at least they don’t hate me.

Most of my friends were cool with it, while others ghosted me. It was expected.

But the biggest shock came from the hockey world.

I went pro in the NHL after only two years of college hockey. I was named a rising star, and I had every team in the league salivating to sign me.

I signed on with a team in New York, but all of that came crashing down once social media got wind of my sexuality.

Now, I’m being called in to talk with the team owners, HR, management, and my coach. My stomach is churning, and my gut tells me this isn’t a pleasant, congratulations meeting.

The first sign that something was off was that the conference room smelled like lemon Lysol, and not the usual stench of sweat and old coffee.

The second sign was that they called me in after practice, not before.

I sat across from the GM, who wore a tie the color of processed cheese and an expression somewhere between relief and polite constipation.

“Finn.” He cleared his throat, looked at the assistant GM, then at the HR lady. Why was she here? My pulse ticked up. “Thanks for coming in.”

No handshake. No eye contact, not really. The HR lady fiddled with a paperclip chain. The assistant GM, who once told me I had “the drive of a serial killer in the best way,” drummed his fingertips on a closed manila folder.

The GM said, “You know, Finn, you’re a hell of a competitor.”

I blinked. Waited. The bruise on my cheekbone throbbed in time with the overhead fluorescents—a punch thrown by a teammate, who ‘accidentally’ hit me during a drill.

He went on, “No one works harder on the ice or in the gym. That’s not in question.”

He paused for emphasis—a motivational speaker’s pause, or a Grim Reaper’s.

“But sometimes in this league, things move faster than we’d like. There’s… well, there’s a lot of factors. Financial. Organizational needs. Locker room chemistry.”

There it was—the phrase. I’d bet two years’ worth of meal prep containers that “locker room chemistry” had come up on every call this week.

The HR lady slid a stapled packet toward me. “We want to thank you for your time with the team,” she said as if I were retiring, not being drop-shipped to some third-tier market.

“We’ve traded you to Louisville,” the GM said. He said it fast, as if it hurt.

The Louisville Stallions were an expansion team, in last place, forty minutes from the nearest decent Thai food.

I knew two guys on their roster, one who still owed me forty bucks from a junior tournament and one whose highlight reel was mostly good stuff.

Not exactly a fresh start. More like a transfer to Siberia, minus the vodka.

“Wow,” I said. My tongue felt stupidly thick. “Is this because I—”

“Finn, no.” The GM raised his palms, defensive. “You have to understand; this league is a business. We need to make moves to stay competitive.”

I watched the HR lady’s knuckles go white on her coffee cup. “Uh-huh.”

“Louisville is building something special,” the assistant GM said. “You’ll be a cornerstone there.”

That was corporate-speak for “pack your shit.”

“We’re grateful for everything you’ve done here,” the GM said, standing. “Best of luck.”

His handshake was limp. My own hand looked like a slab of deli meat next to his—still tape-sticky and maybe a little bit bloody.

I stood. Their eyes raked over me nervously.

Part of me wanted to just walk away with my dignity intact.

However, the other part of me was angry at how they were treating me.

I had won this team two championship titles.

I had never had my name in the tabloids for negative reasons.

If they thought I was going to let them trade me without hearing a piece of my mind, they were crazy.

“Thank you for allowing me to be part of this team. For helping you win championships and keeping my teammates from embarrassing the team. I’m thankful to have had the opportunity to work for a new team that values inclusivity and not homophobic ideals.

” I moved toward the door as a few of the people in the room gasped.

“Finn, you misunderstand…” the GM said. I remembered, not long ago, hearing rumors about him having an affair with an intern in the media department.

Holding up my hand, I stopped him. “No, I believe I understand everything clearly.” Then I walked away.

In the corridor, I stood for a minute and tried to lower my heart rate.

A janitor passed by, nodding at me. He probably already knew.

Everyone always knew before you did. I set my jaw, yanked my duffel onto my shoulder.

There was a tight, sharp pressure behind my eyes, but I wasn’t going to lose it. Not here.

On my way out, I passed the rookie from Quebec—he ducked his head and kept walking. In the parking lot, I saw one of the trainers through the weight room window, pulling his phone away from his ear, eyes flicking up to watch me go. The air stung my lungs when I opened the door.

I sat for a while in my cherry-red Corvette with the engine off, palms pressed flat to the wheel.

I thought about my old coach, the one who told me, “The only thing you can control is how hard you go.” He said that the week before he benched me for an entire playoff run.

Still, it was true. I couldn’t control who traded me, or why.

But I could show them they’d made the wrong call.

I started the engine and pulled out, not looking back at the arena. I was done there. Next stop: Louisville.

***

Louisville, Kentucky, was going to be a big adjustment.

The weather was a roller coaster of seasons all in one month.

After my trade was made official, I only had a month to sell my home in New York and lease a condo in Louisville.

I wasn’t ready to purchase anything yet.

Not because I couldn’t afford it—I made millions—but because I had no idea if this new team would work out.

Last year, they had two players come out as gay and announce that they were in a relationship, but that didn’t mean I would have the same luck.

The condo was in a high-rise building in downtown Louisville.

I was only a few blocks away from the arena, so on nice days I could walk.

I had the code to get into my condo, so when I arrived at the luxury building, I didn’t waste any time opening boxes.

Kitchen stuff first: two pots, a battered French press, four random mugs (three chipped).

Clothes were next: sweats, t-shirts, team-issued jackets, all smelling faintly of the locker room.

A framed photo of my parents at my college graduation: Dad in an ill-fitting suit, Mom looking proud and a little shocked I’d made it.

They’d moved to Florida after retirement and barely watched hockey anymore.

I put the frame face down on the counter—too much of a guilt trip in their eyes.

I built a sad little fort of books and set my laptop on them.

Tomorrow will be my first practice with the Stallions.

Tonight: leftover drive-thru and a Netflix binge.

But instead, I just sat on the floor since I still needed furniture, with only the light coming from the microwave clock, and scrolled through my phone.

My thumb hovered over Nash’s number. He and Leo were already with the Stallions—maybe the only reason I didn’t say no to the trade outright.

Nash had reached out, said it was “probably for the best.” He’d been out since juniors, got shit for it, but also didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought.

I admired that, even if I never had the guts to play the same way.

I wanted to text him. I also didn’t want to sound like I needed a babysitter.

Instead, I flicked open my notes app. Somewhere in there was the list of goals my agent made me write after I came out, right after the media circus and the sudden influx of supportive and less-supportive DMs. The top five:

1. Be first line.

2. Win a cup.

3. Get a dog.

4. Don’t die alone.

5. Coach someday.

It was supposed to be a joke, but every time I read it, the list felt more like a dare.

“Coach someday” was the real one. I’d thought about it since high school.

I’d even done a few off-season clinics, liking the look on kids’ faces when they figured out a move or scored their first goal.

But in the league, most coaches looked like walking versions of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

” None of them were out. Not even close.

Maybe I could be the first. Or maybe I was kidding myself.

I stretched out on the mattress and tried not to think about the last week—the GM’s handshake. The stunned look on my old teammates’ faces, as if they’d been waiting for the trade but didn’t expect it so soon—the absolute silence in the group chat afterward.

I should have felt relieved, I guess. Louisville was supposed to be a new beginning. I could stop looking over my shoulder every time I went out with a guy. Maybe even meet someone who didn’t get nervous being seen in public with me.

I closed my eyes and let the hum of traffic fill the room. Louisville. The Stallions. A team with a losing record and nothing to lose. Maybe that’s exactly where I belonged.

Tomorrow, I’d lace up for them, but tonight, I let the loneliness in, just for a minute, so it wouldn’t sneak up on me later. Then I pulled a hoodie over my face and tried to sleep.

***

I woke up to the rattle of the HVAC and the kind of headache you only get from not drinking enough water or thinking too hard. The city outside was already loud, and the sun came in through the blinds like it was trying to blindside me.

A text message came through my phone.

Nash: Hey. Thought Leo and I would meet you before practice. How about breakfast?

I was surprised by the text. Other than my new coach, no one else from the team had really reached out to me. I guess this could be a good sign.

Me: Sure. Where?

Nash texted me directions to a small diner not far from my condo.

I rinsed off, found a shirt that didn’t smell like old sweat, and followed the GPS to a strip-mall pancake place with a cartoon moose on the sign.

Inside, Nash was already at a booth, left arm draped over the backrest, hair a black slash against the red vinyl.

Leo sat across from him, scrolling his phone one-handed and already halfway through a glass of orange juice.

They both looked up when I came in. Nash grinned like an idiot and raised his glass. “Finn! The man, the myth, the most talked-about trade in the league. Sit.”

I slid in next to Leo, who gave my shoulder a quick, silent squeeze. Nash flagged down a server before I’d even taken off my jacket. “Three coffees, and a pitcher of syrup for my friend here.” He winked at me. “You look like you could use it.”

“Thanks,” my voice came out hoarse.

Leo slid over the laminated menu. “Everything’s good except the waffles. Waffles are, like, a crime here.”

“Noted,” I said. “Pancakes only.”

The server poured our coffee. Nash started talking at warp speed about last night’s game, how the Stallions gave up a three-goal lead but still managed to win in a shootout. Leo added a few words here and there, but mostly just watched me, his gaze steady.

After the play-by-play, Nash dropped his voice. “So, you settling in okay?”

I shrugged. “Boxes everywhere. Smells like cardboard and disappointment.”

Leo snorted. “Sounds about right.”

“Yeah, I’m going to need an interior decorator. I have no idea how to style a home,” I admitted.

Nash leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Listen. I know what happened is a shit deal, but you’re going to like it here.”

“Yeah?” My skepticism was audible.

He nodded, serious for once. “This team’s different. Like, not in a culty way, but people don’t care about the same dumb stuff as back there. It’s hockey and then whatever.”

Leo said, “Nobody’s going to treat you like a sideshow, Finn. Promise.” He grew quiet for a moment. “The weather sucks in the summer. There’s too much humidity, but it’s beautiful here.”

I wanted to believe it, but my skin crawled just thinking about tomorrow. New locker room. New teammates. All the stares and the silent judgment, even if nobody said anything out loud.

“What if they do?” I said, quieter than I meant to.

Nash shrugged. “Then fuck ‘em. Play your game. That’s what got you here.”

He made it sound easy. It wasn’t.

Leo changed the subject to something safer—off-season plans, dumb movies, their dog (some tiny rescue with a Napoleon complex). I could almost forget why I was in Louisville, at least until the check came and the morning skate loomed again.

We left the diner; the air outside was humid and a little sour. Nash clapped me on the back. “Text if you need anything, yeah?”

Leo smiled. “We’ll see you at practice.”

I nodded and watched them walk off, hands brushing together as if they couldn’t help it. For a second, I wondered what that would feel like, not just being out but being so comfortable, you didn’t think twice about it.

Back in the condo, I killed the rest of the day watching highlight reels, finding an interior designer, and half-heartedly unpacking. My phone buzzed every hour with reminders, team emails, and one from my agent: “Be yourself. Play hard. They’re lucky to have you.”

By night, I was too wired to sleep, so I started prepping my gear. Laid out the fresh jersey. Double-checked my stick curve. Taped my pads just the way I liked. The rituals helped a little.

I thought about tomorrow, about walking into a room where nobody really knew me, except for Nash and Leo, and everyone else would be waiting to see if I was worth the hype. Or just another headline.

My fingers itched for a stick and puck, for the sharp slap of blade on ice. The fear was still there, but it was smaller now. Manageable.

I set the alarm for six, then lay on my back and watched the numbers glow. This was it. New team, new city, new chance to prove something.

Or maybe just a chance to be myself for once.

I closed my eyes and counted my heartbeats, steady as a metronome, until I finally let go and slept.