Chapter Four
Finn
Today's practice hit me like a Mack truck.
No more orientation, no more team-building slideshows, no more polite “Just get in there and find your way” speeches.
It was just before seven; the rink white-lit and freezing as a tomb.
I stripped down to my gear in silence, listening to the back-and-forth of the room—chirps, slaps, the sound of skate blades running over tape.
Nash was the first to spot me. He jammed his helmet on crooked, and gave me a grin full of teeth. “Koskinen!” he said, like a battle cry. “Are you ready to show ‘em how it’s done?”
Leo was at his side, taping his stick slowly and methodically. “Ignore him,” he said. “Nash gets worked up when he has to do wind sprints.”
“Or when we get a guy who might actually put pucks on net,” Nash said, rolling his eyes.
I shrugged, zipped up my practice jersey, and checked the clock. Still ten minutes before the first horn. Enough time to survey the territory.
The Stallions’ locker room was a horseshoe, stalls packed tight, no privacy except the showers.
At the far end, the coaching staff loomed over a whiteboard.
The rest of the team drifted around in a cloud of body spray and testosterone, shooting the shit, half-watching me out of the corners of their eyes.
Dylan had a whole stall to himself, for reasons nobody bothered to explain. He sat bare-armed and still, staring at the row of helmets like they might get up and attack him. When I caught his gaze, he didn’t smile—just nodded, one predatory, silent tick.
Leo followed my eyes. “Don’t let the alpha act freak you out. He’s all meat, no brains.”
Nash piped in, “He’ll test you, though. That’s his thing.”
“I can take a hit,” I said, trying to sound casual.
Nash snorted. “Sure, but can you hit back?”
“Alright, everyone, settle down. I’m here,” Sean announced, walking into the space. He was one of the guys on the team whom I was really eager to meet. His personality was electric, as was his taste in clothing. From what I could tell, he was always in good spirits.
Clearing his throat, Marcus, the team captain, stepped into the center of the room. “Guys, today we get to see what we are all made of. It’s a new season with some new teammates. Let’s get out there and work hard.”
The warmup was laps, then puck handling.
I found my rhythm quickly; skating was the one thing that always made sense.
Every stroke stripped away a layer of nerves until it was just muscle and instinct.
I dipped through cones, fired a few shots, caught Coach Baldwin watching me with an almost grudging nod.
Every now and then, someone else would drift close. Not to talk, but to measure me up.
The drills got faster. Passing, then two-on-one. Nash and I clicked, easy as breathing. He set me up twice in a row, and both times, I hammered it home; the puck echoing off the back post. After the second, Leo skated in for a fist bump, his eyes wide.
“Dude. That shot.” Sean skated past me, smiling as I got the puck past our goalie..
“Thanks.” I tried not to grin.
From the bench, Marcus shouted, “Told you!” and for a second, the tension thinned out. Guys started calling me by name, at least. I caught a few friendly slaps on the pads, even a couple “Nice rips.”
Dylan was a different story. He played every drill like the stakes were life or death, never gave an inch, and if he could check you, he did.
Early in the scrimmage, he caught me with a cross-check to the lower back—just hard enough to sting, not enough to draw a whistle.
I spun, glared, and he just grinned like a shark.
“Gotta keep your head up, new guy,” he said, then jetted off for a breakaway.
At the next line change, Leo caught me at the bench. “He’s gunning for you,” he said, voice low. “Don’t let him get in your head.”
“He’s not,” I said. But he was.
The rest of the practice was a blur. My line was humming—Nash feeding, Leo crashing the net, me picking corners. Coach Reynolds blew the whistle after one especially pretty goal, said, “That’s what I want to see, dammit!” Guys tapped their sticks. I thought I even saw the goalie smile.
But every few minutes, Dylan found me. Stick in the ribs, glove to the face, heavy shoulders knocking me just off balance. It was like he had a sixth sense for my location. My heart rate spiked, a mix of pride and dread.
Then came the final drill. Full-ice, full-contact scrimmage, blue versus white. I was white. Dylan was blue. It was like he’d been waiting for it all morning.
The puck dropped, and we went at it, bodies smashing, skates carving up the fresh ice. I took the first shift, made a clean pass to Nash, then pivoted up ice. I caught a shoulder, hard, but stayed on my feet.
Coach was yelling, “Move, move, move!” The puck cycled to the point, and I circled behind the net. Nash found me with a blind pass, and I one-timed it, quick, off the crossbar and in. Pure muscle memory. Our bench erupted.
But that’s when it happened. Dylan, chasing the play, skated through me like I was invisible.
His hip caught my thigh, spun me, and his elbow found the soft spot under my arm.
I crashed into the boards, head ringing.
My stick flew out of my hands and landed sharply on the ice. The world stuttered for a second.
Then I realized I couldn’t feel my left hand.
Someone was yelling. I heard Leo shout, “The fuck, man?” I tried to get up, but my wrist was on fire. Pain, sharp and electric, lit up every nerve.
I sat, stunned, for a second. Dylan stood over me, looking not exactly sorry, but not pleased, either.
“You alright?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer, skating off.
Nash helped me to my feet, careful with my arm. “Shit, are you good, Finn?”
I flexed my fingers. Pain spiked. Not broken, but close. “Yeah,” I lied.
Coach Reynolds stomped over. “Do you need a trainer?”
I looked over at the glass. Brody was already halfway down the stairs, his expression hard and focused.
“I’m fine,” I said again, but nobody listened.
Leo tossed an arm around my good shoulder. “Let’s get you checked out.”
I let them steer me off the ice. The pain was bad, but worse was the hot knot of anger in my gut. I’d seen that hit before. I’d even done it once or twice. But not on your own teammate, not in the first week, unless you were trying to make a point.
Dylan watched from the blue line, helmet off, sweat streaming down the thickly veined sides of his neck. I met his eyes. He looked away first.
In the tunnel, Nash clapped my back, careful of my arm. “First blood,” he said, trying for a joke. “You’ll fit right in.”
But I didn’t laugh. I barely even looked at him. All I could think about was the way my wrist throbbed, the way Brody’s eyes looked at the swelling, the way everyone else in the room was waiting to see if I’d cry or punch something or quit.
I wouldn’t. Not for Dylan. Not for anyone.
I gritted my teeth and limped to the training room, hoping the next part would hurt less than this.
***
Coach Reynold’s chewing-out started before I made it off the ice.
I heard him, voice like a circular saw: “What the hell was that, Dylan?” Followed by a few muffled fucks and at least one, “You want me to bench the whole line?” I didn’t stick around for the rest. My wrist was already ballooning, every pulse a little shockwave of pain.
The training room was all antiseptic and buzzing fluorescent lights. Brody stood behind a rolling cart, gloves already on, the pale blue latex hugging the bones of his knuckles. He’d been talking to the assistant trainer, but as soon as he saw my face, the conversation died.
He guided me to the table with a hand on my elbow, gentle but unnegotiable. “Sit.” His eyes flicked to my wrist, then back to my face. “Scale of one to ten?”
I grunted. “Six. Eight if you poke it.”
“Let’s call it seven,” he said, voice bone dry. His eyes were kind, and I couldn’t help but stare into them. They were blue and reminded me of the Caribbean Ocean.
He slid a pair of scissors up my sleeve, cutting through the fabric with surgical precision. The touch was impersonal, almost cold, but then his thumb pressed into the base of my palm—so soft I barely felt it.
“Move your fingers.” His voice was soothing and relaxed me.
I did as asked, and the pain doubled. I winced, teeth digging into my lip.
Brody’s brows knitted. He twisted my hand, testing the range. I watched his face instead of the injury—how his jaw flexed, the shallow line of concentration between his eyes. I wondered if he looked at everyone like this, or if I was only a curiosity. Maybe an experiment.
He started wrapping the wrist, slowly and carefully, each layer snug but not suffocating. “You know he did it on purpose, right?” he said, not looking up.
“Yeah.”
“He’s a psycho,” Brody said, and I swear, I heard anger rising in his voice.
I snorted. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Brody gave a half-smile, but there was nothing soft about it. He finished wrapping, then set my hand down on a cold pack. “You’ll live. Ice it tonight, and don’t play hero for at least a day. If the swelling doesn’t go down, you come back.”
I nodded, staring at the way his thumb brushed along my palm before letting go.
He started cleaning up, tossing wrappers into the biohazard bin . His hands shook, barely noticeable, but enough to make the plastic rattle.
“You ever think about quitting? Or at least working somewhere where you don’t have to deal with egotistical jocks?” I asked, just to break the silence.
Brody cocked his head. “All the time. But then I remember the world’s full of assholes, and at least here I know who they are.”
I liked that. Maybe too much.
There was a moment—barely a heartbeat—where he just stood there, watching me. Not professionally, as a trainer would. Like he was memorizing my face.
I didn’t plan what I said next. “Do you want to get a drink later?”
He blinked. “Like, with the team?”