Chapter Six
Finn
I got a random call this morning to head up to the second floor after weight training.
Stepping into the elevator, I made my way up to HR. The last time I was summoned to HR; I got traded from my other team. My stomach churned from nervousness. Could this be the same thing?
A woman from HR met me at the glass door. She wore business casual, the kind of smile you’d slap on for a job interview. “Hi, Finn? Thanks for coming up. This’ll just be a few minutes.” At least she was being pleasant. “My name is Mary.”
Inside, three chairs had been set up around a low coffee table. Coach sat with his hands steepled, chewing his lower lip. Next to him, the assistant GM, Mr. Roberts, flicked through something on his phone. HR Girl slid in last, with a legal pad and a bottle of water.
Nobody said, “Take a seat,” but I did, anyway. Nobody made eye contact, either.
Coach was first. “Morning, Koskinen.”
“Morning.” My voice sounded shot. Maybe it was.
He exhaled. “Are you settling in okay?”
I shrugged. “Sure.” I wanted to keep the conversation short and simple in case this was going to be bad.
Mr. Roberts cleared his throat. “We’ll keep this brief. Do you know why you’re here?”
“Not really.”
Coach leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s about what happened at practice. The hit.”
I nodded, jaw tight.
“We want to make it absolutely clear,” he said, “that we don’t tolerate any targeting or unsportsman-like conduct, especially not against our own teammates.”
Mr. Roberts added, “You’re here because you’re a valuable part of this organization. We’re not interested in old-school hazing or intimidation. That’s not our brand.”
My mouth went dry. I wanted to ask if they’d told Dylan that, but I decided against it.
Coach watched me for a reaction, like I might jump up and throw a chair or start sobbing. I did neither.
Mary added, “We want you to know, Finn, we take your safety and well-being seriously. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, or if there are any other incidents, we need you to come to us.” She handed me a card. The words “CONFIDENTIAL SUPPORT HOTLINE,” were printed in all-caps.
I tucked it into my pocket without looking.
Mr. Roberts said, “We had a conversation with Dylan this morning. There are consequences. He’s benched for the next scrimmage and fined.” He said it like it was a line he’d memorized.
“And if it happens again?” I asked.
Coach’s face turned stony. “If it happens again, he’s gone. We’re not bluffing.”
I watched him, looking for a tell. “Does he know that?”
“He does now,” Coach said.
Mary folded her hands on her knee, earnest. “You’re safe here, Finn. If you need to talk, we are always here.”
“I’m good,” I cut in. “Can I go?”
They hesitated, like they expected more drama. When I stood, the chair legs squeaked against the linoleum. I left the door open behind me.
In the elevator, I leaned my forehead against the cold metal and exhaled hard. “Wellness Check-in.” Like a bandage on a bullet wound.
In the corridor, I caught sight of Dylan through a window. He was in the trainer’s office, back to me, head low. His knuckles were white on the table’s edge. I wondered what his version of the meeting looked like and if he was pissed, scared, or just bored by the whole process.
In the lobby, Nash intercepted me. “You survive?”
I shrugged. “I’m still here.”
He grinned and clapped my shoulder, softly. “Come on, Brody’s got to check your hand before we skate.”
“Now?”
“Now,” Nash said. “Guy has got a stick up his ass about paperwork.”
I followed him back to the locker room, trying to shake the aftertaste of HR-speak from my mouth. Nothing had really changed. But at least now I had a card to call if someone decided to end my career before lunch.
If that counted as progress, I didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up.
We skated hard for two hours. Every shift, every line change, every puck battle, Dylan didn’t look at me.
He crashed the net as though it owed him money, took a few shots at Leo, then sat stone-faced on the bench, hands folded in his lap.
Nobody brought up the incident, but everyone felt it.
Even the air tasted different, sharp and metallic.
Afterwards, Coach cornered me by the showers. “You got a sec, Finn?”
He said it as a question, but it wasn’t.
The coach’s office was smaller than I expected. No windows, just a dry-erase board covered in arrows and angry red Xs. He shut the door, closing out the noise from the rink.
“Sit,” he said.
I did.
Coach offered a light smile. “You’re not in trouble.
I just want you to hear this from me.” He looked tired, gray at the temples, as if he’d seen every mistake a kid could make.
“This place—the Stallions—have had their problems. Old blood, bad habits, all that shit. I’m trying to change it, but it takes time. ”
I shrugged. “I don’t have time.”
He smiled, thin. “Neither do I. That’s why you’re here.”
I watched the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
“You need to know, Coach, that I’m not here to be a headline.
I just want to play. But if this team doesn’t protect its players, I’ll walk.
I’ll go to management, or the league, or wherever.
I’m not getting my head caved in for the sake of ‘team culture.’”
Coach stared at me, not blinking. “You think I don’t know that? You think I wanted this circus?” He shook his head gruffly. “You’re the best forward we’ve had in a decade. If you go, we’re back in the toilet. I’m not letting that happen.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “Then make it stop. I’m not the only one Dylan’s gunning for. Ask Brody. Ask the rookies. Nobody says shit because they think it’s normal.”
Coach’s jaw flexed. “You want him gone, he’s gone. But that’s not what you want, is it?”
I shook my head. “I want him to play hockey. That’s all.”
Coach sat back, ran a hand over his face. “Fine. He gets one more chance. But if he pulls anything, you come to me. Directly.”
“Deal.”
He stood and extended a hand. We shook on it, brief and iron-hard.
At the door, Coach paused. “One more thing. You've got a hell of a shot. Reminds me of a kid I coached back in my first year as a head coach.”
I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded.
He smiled, softer this time. “Don’t let the shitheads change your game. That’s how you win.”
I left the office feeling as if I’d just gone twelve rounds. My hands shook, not from fear, but from the idea that maybe—just maybe—I’d changed something.
In the hallway, the lights flickered. I could hear the rookies in the weight room, Nash yelling something about squats. Everything felt loud and alive, and just a little bit dangerous.
Maybe that’s what starting over really looked like.
I made my way to the training room, ready to get checked over again. Brody was already there, sleeves pushed up, prepping a cold pack at the little desk by the sink. His hair fell over his forehead, sweat-dark at the roots, and his hands moved like he was assembling a bomb.
He didn’t look up when I knocked on the doorframe. “Come in,” he said, the tone brisk. All business.
I sat on the exam table, my legs swinging a little like a grade-school kid. “Didn’t expect you to still be here. Practice was over an hour ago.”
“I live here,” he deadpanned. “Injuries don’t wait for business hours.” He set the ice pack down and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves. “Take off your shirt.”
Damn, I loved that he asked me to take my shirt off. Maybe he’ll ask me to take my pants off, too. Whoa, where did that come from? I needed to tame my dirty thoughts about Brody.
I peeled off the practice top and undershirt and left them folded on the table.
Brody’s eyes flicked over my shoulder, down to the wrist, then to the old bruises on my ribs.
“You heal fast,” he said. He pressed along the tendons, then the bones, searching for tenderness. His hands were cool and precise.
I hissed when he hit a sore spot.
“Sorry,” he said.
He checked for range of motion, then taped my wrist with long, sure strips of gauze. “You’re cleared for light practice tomorrow. Maybe two days for contact. You know the drill.”
“Copy that.” I looked at the mirror on the far wall. I could see his reflection, and I couldn’t help but stare at him. His blonde hair was like sunshine, and his blue eyes reminded me of the ocean. His toned body was magnificent. His pink lips pursed, and it was adorable.
I slid off the table, grabbing my shirt. For a second, we just stood there. The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the gap. I stepped close. Not touching, but close enough that I could smell the sweet aroma of his cologne.
He looked at my face, searching for a tell, then shook his head. “Do you need anything else?”
“Probably.” My voice was deep and husky. I pulled on my shirt, the fabric stiff with old sweat and fresh resolve. “But what I want isn’t ready.”
He went back to his notes, but I caught the flush on his cheeks and saw a smile creeping over his face.
Leaving the office, I felt satisfied that Brody understood that he was what I wanted.
At home, the apartment was so quiet it felt like a vacuum.
The bruise on my arm had gone from magenta to a sickly yellow, and my wrist ached where the tape pressed in.
I microwaved a protein bowl, shoveled it down without tasting it, and sat in the dark with my phone, waiting for sleep or something like it.
The team had hired my new assistant. She was young, in her early twenties, and was like a ghost most days.
I barely saw her, and we communicated mainly through text and emails, which was perfect for me.
But she was also a godsend. I was terrible with organizing my own schedule and never responded to emails in time.
At 11:32 p.m., a text popped up. Number not saved, but I knew the area code.
Unknown Number: Hey. I hope the wrist’s still attached.
I read the text and felt myself smile. I wasn’t sure who it was, but I had an idea and I hoped that I was right.
Me: Who is this?
Unknown Number: Sorry, I should have led with that. It’s Brody. I have your contact information since I am working with you. I hope it’s ok that I am reaching out.
My smile only grew wider. It was hot that he reached out first, even if it was to check on me. I quickly saved his name and contact information.
Me: Hey, it’s all good. I’m ready for the big game.
Three dots, then:
Brody: I’m glad.
I grinned.
Me: So, is the coffee invite still on?
This time, the response was slower. I pictured Brody in bed, or maybe on his couch, writing and deleting, the same as me.
Brody: As friends, right?
I stared at the message for far too long.
I wanted to be his friend, but I wanted more than that, too.
I wanted to get to know him on a deeper level.
His smile and kind eyes spoke to my soul.
There was something about him that drew me in, and I desperately wanted to know everything there was to know about Brody.
But I knew I couldn’t push this. He needed a slow and steady approach.
If starting as friends was what he needed, then that’s what I could do.
Me: Of course!
Brody: Yeah. I thought maybe Friday? There's a place downtown that’s pretty cool.
I didn’t, but I liked that he did.
Me: Friday works. Do you want to meet there?
Another pause.
Brody: I’ll send the address. Is 9 p.m. too early?
9 p.m. was absurd for a hockey player. We had to wake up super early. But for him, it was fine, so I said so.
Me: Okay. see you then
I read it back three times before saving the number. My heart thumped, dumb and hopeful, just as it had the first time I ever scored in juniors. Or the first time I ever let someone see me, really see me, and didn’t regret it.
I set my phone down and pulled the list from my wallet.
Friday wasn’t far. I was ready.