Chapter Eight
FINN
The second goalie lesson ends with Mara on top of me.
This is not intentional.
It is also not something I am prepared to correct quickly.
We are practicing lateral movement at the edge of the crease. She has improved enough to become dangerous at higher speed. Her left skate catches a rut. She reaches for the nearest stable object.
I am the nearest stable object.
We fall together.
My pads hit first. Mara lands across my chest with one knee between my legs and both hands braced beside my head.
Her pink helmet rolls away.
For one second, neither of us speaks.
Her hair has come loose from its braid. Copper strands fall around her face, catching the arena light. Her breath warms my jaw.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Define okay.”
“Pain.”
“None.”
“Head?”
“Still attached.”
“Dizzy?”
“Possibly for non-medical reasons.”
My entire body becomes aware of hers.
Not abstractly. Specifically.
The pressure of her thigh. The curve of her waist beneath my glove. The small hitch in her breathing when my fingers tighten.
Her eyes drop to my mouth.
The rink is empty. The door is locked. Morning light moves across the ice.
I could kiss her.
The thought arrives with such force it feels like impact.
Mara’s gaze returns to mine. The humor fades.
“Finn?”
I release her waist.
She pushes herself upright and sits beside me on the ice.
Cold immediately fills the space she leaves.
“Sorry,” she says.
“You fell.”
“I noticed.”
I sit up. “You reached too high. If you lose the edge, drop your center of gravity.”
“You are giving technical notes now?”
“It was a technical failure.”
Her expression closes.
I have hurt her.
Not dramatically. Mara does not make pain easy to see. Her brightness shifts half a degree, becoming performance instead of light.
She stands. “One more drill?”
I should let the moment disappear.
Instead, I say, “I wanted to kiss you.”
She freezes.
The confession hangs above the ice.
My heart pounds once, hard.
Mara turns slowly. “Past tense?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
The question is direct enough to remove every hiding place.
“Because I do not know if it is a good idea.”
“Those are usually the memorable ones.”
“You cover the team.”
“Tessa covers you now.”
“My money funds your station.”
“With a written agreement preventing influence.”
“I have panic attacks.”
Her eyes sharpen. “That is not a reason not to kiss someone.”
“It is a reason not to build a relationship around someone who knows how to stop them.”
Something in her face softens.
“Finn, I do not want to be your emergency exit.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The echo of her sister’s question lives inside the words.
I push to my feet. In pads, I tower over her. She does not step back.
“I want you when I am not panicking,” I say.
Her breath catches.
“I want you when I am playing well. When the room is quiet. When you are arguing about cereal. When you send coffee and pretend it is not kindness.”
“Finn—”
“I listen to every show.”
She goes still.
I have crossed the line into truth. There is no reason to stop now.
“I listened before the donation. I listened on road trips and after games and at three in the morning when I could not sleep.”
Her eyes shine.
“That is why?” she asks.
“Partly.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it sounds like a burden.”
“It sounds like I mattered.”
“You mattered without knowing.”
The sentence changes the air.
She steps closer.
“Do I matter now?”
“Yes.”
“Are you panicking?”
“No.”
“Have you been taught about consent in therapy?”
“Not specifically.”
“Let us make this educational.”
Her mouth curves.
I understand the invitation. I still ask.
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
I remove my blocker and glove first.
The action is absurdly slow. Mara watches every movement. Barehanded, I touch the side of her neck.
Her pulse beats against my palm.
Fast.
Mine answers.
Then I kiss her.
She tastes like coffee and the mint gum she chews during broadcasts. Her hands grip my jersey. The first contact is careful because everything with Mara feels capable of becoming too much.
She solves that by pulling me closer.
The kiss deepens.
Noise disappears. So does the rink, the season, the donation, the part of me trained to calculate every angle before movement.
There is only warmth and her mouth opening beneath mine and the small sound she makes when my thumb traces her jaw.
I have spent years learning not to chase.
I chase this.
When we separate, her cheeks are pink.
“That,” she says, “was significantly better than your teaching style.”
I rest my forehead against hers.
“You talk too much.”
“You listen anyway.”
“Yes.”
The answer removes her smile.
Not because she is unhappy.
Because for once, she has no joke ready.
We remain inside the silence together.
Then a puck strikes the glass behind us.
Jace stands outside the locked gate wearing street clothes and the expression of a man who has discovered fire.
His mouth forms a perfect circle.
Mara steps away.
I consider whether the goalie stick can reach him through the gap.
Jace presses both palms to the glass and shouts, “I KNEW THE HEART FORECAST WAS ACCURATE.”
Mara laughs so hard she bends over.
I close my eyes.
The season is ruined.