Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Finn
It’s game day.
It had been two days since I met Brody for coffee, and I’ve been so busy that I haven’t talked to or seen him since.
We’ve shared a few texts, but with the big day looming, my priority has been hockey.
But today, the vibe was different.
I could hear the roar of the crowd from the locker room, and the guys were amped up.
The Stallions’ locker room was louder, tighter, every square inch pulsing with the kind of anxiety that made your hands shake if you let yourself think about it.
Guys taped sticks, slurped Gatorade, and some worked through their game day rituals.
This was my first game on the Stallions’ team, and I wanted to make sure I showed everyone what I was made of.
I watched the clock, counting down the minutes until warmup. My own wrist was a knot of tension under the wrap, but I flexed and rotated it—nothing but a dull ache now, that felt more like anticipation than pain.
Coach Reynolds stormed into the locker room and glanced around. “Guys who need taping, I need you to head to the training room now,” he ordered.
I jumped up too quickly, and thankfully, no one noticed. Excitement grew inside of me at the thought of seeing Brody. What the hell? I was acting like a middle schoolboy with his first crush.
Dylan had his back to me as I walked past him and out the door. I found Brody in the training room next to a rolling cart stocked with tape and trauma supplies. He was already gloved up, sleeves rolled high, and looking adorable as hell in his baby blue scrubs.
He didn’t look up. “Sit.”
I sat.
When he turned around, his eyes lit up, and a small smile grew across his face. It’s clear he wasn’t expecting me just yet.
“Hey,” I said, breaking the silence.
That warm smile almost melted my heart. “Hey.”
He touched my hand, and that magnetic chemistry sparked between us. He glanced around before leaning closer to me. I wanted to inhale his scent, to memorize every inch of this man.
“Your wrist looks good,” he noted.
“Does anything else on me look good?” I asked, making sure to keep my voice low so that if anyone walked by, they wouldn’t hear our conversation.
Brody’s cheeks turned pink, but I could feel his body heat growing warmer. “Finn, you already know the answer to that question,” he said, a hint of nervousness tinting his voice.
That made me chuckle. I cared that Brody was nervous.
I secretly enjoyed making him squirm. It meant he liked me, too.
“Sorry, I’ve been busy and haven’t texted much. We should go out again once we are both free,” I prompted.
Brody began adding tape to my wrist, using careful skill to ensure it was tight but not uncomfortable.
Brody started wrapping, slow and precise.
Each pull was snug, almost tender, but he didn’t let himself pause.
I watched the tendons in his forearm work under the skin. A weird calm settled over me.
“They told you the Hurricanes have two guys out for blood, right?” he said, eyes still on his work.
We were playing a smaller team out of New York called the Hurricanes.
“They always do.” I shrugged. “They still play like it’s 1985.”
He finished the tape, pressed down the edge, but didn’t let go of my wrist.
I flexed my hand. “Perfect.”
Brody lingered, his thumb running over the ridge of bone just under the tape. “Are you nervous?”
“I don’t get nervous.” I tried to grin, but it felt thin. “I just got laser-focused on the game.”
Brody held my gaze. “You are very confident,” he chuckled.
He went to move his hand away, but I placed mine on his, stopping him. “Yes, but I also always get what I want.”
He pulled off the glove with a snap. His bare hand was warm when it found mine, just for a second. Long enough to make me want to lean across the table and forget about the game, the crowd, the Hurricanes. Just him.
But he broke it first, shaking his head as if he were trying to clear water from his ears. “Go,” he said, voice low. “Coach’ll kill me if you’re late.”
I stood, ignoring the need to move in close and wrap my arms around him.
“I will text you later. I can’t wait for you to show me more of Louisville,” I stated, heading to the door.
I left the training room, hand still buzzing, and walked straight into the hurricane of pre-game. Leo and Nash were already at the tunnel, chirping at the first line and daring each other to see who’d trip on the way to the ice.
Dylan stood with his arms folded, scowling at the door. He always looked pissed off. When I passed, he didn’t say anything, but his glare was an elbow to the kidneys.
Coach shouted for the lineup, and the rest of the world fell away. I hit the ice, lungs filling with cold, the rumble of the crowd hammering into my chest.
Behind me, Brody watched from the bench. I didn’t look, but I could feel it.
First game. First shot.
The opening minutes were a shitshow. Not because the Hurricanes played dirty—though they did, every shift, every scrum—but because my own team couldn’t decide if I was actually one of them.
First period, line one. I rotated with Nash and Leo, ready for the drop. The crowd roared, and for a second, it felt like pure oxygen, but then the puck hit my stick, and every Hurricane player in a ten-foot radius tried to murder me.
I broke the zone and snapped a shot high, wide of the net.
Dylan, crashing the crease, didn’t even bother for the rebound—he circled away, leaving me hung out to dry.
Next shift, same story. Leo feathered a beauty of a pass, and I took the shot, but Dylan skated through my lane, screening his own goalie. No tip, no redirect, nothing.
It got worse. The second line change, we had an odd-man rush, three-on-two; their defense gassed. Nash split the D, laid it perfectly. I had a clean look, far post. But Dylan refused to pass, even when I called for it. He cut cross-ice and fired it straight into a Hurricane’s shin pad.
I heard the thud from here. The puck pinballed up-ice, and before I could react, the Hurricanes had a breakaway.
Our bench fell silent. Coach chucked his clipboard on the ground, then pretended he hadn’t. I skated to the bench and sat, lungs burning, jaw clenched.
Nash leaned in, low. “He’s not gonna pass to you, man.”
I wiped sweat from my mouth, ignoring the sting where my lip was still healing. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll take it from him.”
Marcus, always the peacemaker, tapped my helmet. “Just keep skating. He’ll come around.”
The first period ended 0-0. Coach called us in, voice sharp. “We are not losing to these clowns. Reset. Play your game.”
He glared at Dylan as we filed out, but nothing changed.
The second was worse. The Hurricanes scored two greasy goals—one off a bad bounce, the other on a power play after Dylan tried to start a fight and landed in the box. I stayed out of it, but I could feel the bench tightening. Guys wouldn’t look at me, or at Dylan.
Midway through, I picked off a pass at center ice.
I had a half-step, enough to make something happen.
I angled toward the net, saw Sean cutting down the right, but Dylan signaled for the puck anyway — like he’d forgotten the last ten minutes of tape.
I sent it to Nash. Clean break, good shot, goalie glove save.
We regrouped in the corner, and Dylan got in my face. “You don’t pass to me, ever?”
I didn’t even flinch. “You don’t pass to anyone, Dylan. That’s the problem.”
He shoved me, hard. I let him. We skated off, separated, and nobody said shit.
When the horn sounded for intermission, I was half-expecting the locker room to explode. Instead, it was quiet. The hiss of the showers, the clatter of sticks on tile, and that feeling—like the air right before a tornado.
Coach let us sweat for a good thirty seconds before he walked in.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t throw anything. He just stood in the doorway and waited for everyone to look up.
“Dylan,” he said. “Explain to me what’s more important than this team right now.”
Dylan’s jaw flexed. “He’s not playing the system. I don’t know why we needed new players this season.”
Coach laughed, sharp and dry. “The only system you know is ‘dump and chase and punch a guy.’ You don’t make the rules. I do. You want to be a hero, go play juniors.”
Dylan glared, but Coach didn’t back down.
“We are not here to fight each other,” Coach said. “We are here to win. That means you bury your drama and you play for the name on the front, not the one on your back.”
Leo piped up, “He’s right. We can’t beat them if we’re beating ourselves.”
Nash nodded, eyes never leaving Dylan. “Team first, man. Always.”
Coach pointed at Dylan. “One more shift like that, and you’re benched for the season. Am I clear?”
Dylan said nothing. I watched his face, saw the storm behind his eyes, but for once, he didn’t blow up. He just nodded, clipped and angry.
Coach turned to me. “Koskinen, you want to be a leader? Lead. Don’t play his game. Play yours.”
I nodded, voice low. “Yes, Coach.”
He tossed a towel at my chest, then turned to the whiteboard and started sketching the next play. The rest of the room moved, slow at first, then with purpose. The message was clear.
Dylan glared at me from across the room, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Good. I didn’t need more words. I just needed the puck.
When we hit the ice for the third, I was ready. I’d skate through him if I had to.
We all would.
***
Third period, zero margin for error. The ice was a boneyard of bad decisions and half-melted pride. I sat on the end of the bench, my stick vibrating in my hands, the tension in the arena thick enough to choke.
Coach double-shifted the lines, trying to wring blood from stone. The crowd, hungry for a comeback, hammered at the glass with every possession. Nobody said it, but we all knew: one more Hurricane goal, and it was over.
My first shift back, I took a hard hit against the boards, felt my spine snap to attention, but kept my feet. Nash chased down a loose puck in the corner and lobbed it up the line to me. I turned, only to find Dylan in my lane—again, as if he couldn’t stand the idea of sharing a play.
For a split second, I thought about letting him take it. Let him crash and burn. But Coach’s words rang in my head: Play your game. Lead.
So, I held my ground, kept the puck, and waited out the defender. Nash shouted from the left, but I didn’t force it. I drove low, fought through a tangle of sticks, and tried a sharp-angle shot. The Hurricanes’ goalie stuffed it, but the rebound ricocheted out, right toward the high slot.
Dylan tried to corral it, but he was off-balance. It bounced off his skate. Then Leo swept in, grabbed the puck with a fluid wrist, and slid it across the paint—perfect, tape-to-tape.
I didn’t think. I just hammered it home, sticking to splitting the difference between speed and desperation.
The net bulged. The siren wailed.
For half a heartbeat, nobody reacted. Then Nash tackled me from behind, and the whole line piled on, bodies and helmets and roars. Even the bench erupted—fists in the air, gloves slamming the boards. I lay there, mashed under Leo and Nash, face jammed into cold plastic, and grinned like an idiot.
The jumbotron flashed my number, and the house PA screamed my name. Koskinen, with the go-ahead.
Dylan didn’t celebrate. He skated to the bench, jaw locked, like he wanted to spit nails. But the next shift, he played it straight. No cheap shots, no sabotage. Just hard, simple hockey.
The Hurricanes answered with a greasy power-play goal, knotting it 2-2, but we didn’t break. Coach called a timeout, gathered us at the bench, and looked right at me.
“Finish it,” he said.
I nodded. I wasn’t even tired anymore. I was alive, every muscle sparking, heart beating out Morse code against my ribs.
Last shift of regulation, I won the draw in our own zone, then sprinted up ice. Leo, always three steps ahead, floated into the seam, drawing the D-man with him. Nash darted down the wing, saw me, and feathered a perfect saucer pass over two sticks.
I caught it, hands soft, and flew across the blue line. Two defenders closed in , but I dropped a shoulder and cut inside. The goalie squared up, ready for the shot.
Instead, I waited. Just a heartbeat, enough to draw him out.
Then I flicked it high, to the top corner, where nothing but air and hope lived.
Goal. 3-2. The building went feral.
When the horn sounded, we dogpiled on the ice. Helmets and gloves everywhere. Nash nearly cracked my ribs hugging me. Leo screamed in my ear, something in Finnish, which I couldn’t translate but sounded a lot like joy.
Dylan lingered at the edge of the scrum, arms folded. But even he couldn’t deny what had happened.
Back in the locker room, the music blasted, and guys pounded the walls with sticks, howling and laughing and spraying energy drinks everywhere. I stripped off my gear, sweat pouring, and let myself bask for half a second.
Nash grabbed me by the shoulders. “You fucking did it, man!”
Leo crashed into me, spilling blue Gatorade down my chest. “Legend!”
I grinned, dizzy from adrenaline and pride. For a second, I felt like the universe had finally stopped fighting me.
Across the room, Dylan stared at me. His mouth was tight, eyes narrow, but he didn’t say a word.
Let him watch, I thought. Let them all.
As the noise reached fever pitch, I caught a glimpse of Brody through the trainers’ window. He was alone, clipboard under his arm, a crooked smile just barely there.
I raised a finger at him, a victory salute.
He rolled his eyes, but didn’t look away.
We had won, and not just the game.