Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Finn
The next morning, I cradled my favorite coffee mug and watched the news segments on my phone.
I could feel myself smiling like a silly kid. My date with Brody had been incredible. I could sense that Brody was almost ready to take the leap with me. I respected his wishes and wanted to give him time to make his own decision, but I also wanted him so badly that I almost couldn’t stand it.
I picked up my phone and sent a text.
Me: I had a great time last night.
Brody: Me, too.
Me: We need to do it again. Maybe we could have dinner at my apartment. I could show you the decor.
It was brave of me to ask, but I needed to see where Brody was.
Brody: I would like that.
Hell yes! Brody just agreed to come to my apartment. My dick sprang to life at the thought of him at my home. My mind began to fantasize about all of the dirty things I wanted to do to him.
My phone buzzed again. It was the team group chat. I groaned as I opened the message.
Marcus: Team event tonight. No excuses.
Leo: I hate last-minute plans.
Nash: Where? We can make it. Ignore Leo.
Sean: What is the dress code?
Jack: Why do I feel like we are about to do some dumb team-building shit?
Dylan: If there’s booze, then I’m in. And women. I need women there.
Marcus: This is to help our team bond. Everyone is expected to be there. I will send the address.
I read through the messages as more guys from the team responded. I didn’t really feel like going out tonight, but if our team captain was demanding we go bond, I guess I had to oblige.
***
The “team event” was one of those forced-bonding exercises every coach swears is optional, but isn’t.
When I got to the bowling alley, the parking lot was a graveyard of pickup trucks and team-branded SUVs.
Inside, the place was blasting the same five songs from the ’90s on repeat and smelled like old cheese and disinfectant.
The lanes were lit up with LEDs that made everyone look slightly radioactive.
Nash and Leo were at the snack bar, loading up on pitchers and nachos. I joined them, and Nash greeted me with a forearm bash to the ribs.
“Didn’t think you’d show, legend,” he said, voice already half-shouting over the music.
Leo slid me a slice of pizza. “Marcus said it’s team orders.”
“Where is our trusted leader?” I asked, with a chuckle.
Leo pointed to the bar.
I watched Marcus for a minute, trying to take his measure. He looked back, met my eyes, and gave a nod. Not a smile—just enough to say, “I see you.”
Leo leaned in, voice low. “He’s not a hard-ass, but he expects you to pull your weight. And not start shit with Dylan.”
Nash snorted into his beer. “Or at least win the fight, if you do.”
Just then, Sean came bounding toward us. He wore a hot pink-and-black bowling shirt and black pants. He looked like he wore a pro bowling league uniform.
“Where the hell did you get this?” Jack asked, pointing to Sean’s clothes.
Sean looked at himself and then smiled. “I always have an outfit for every occasion.”
I rolled my eyes and chuckled.
I scanned the lanes. Dylan was easy to spot: shaved head, arms like oak trees, already holding court at the far end with two other guys who looked like they could deadlift my car.
They wore matching navy hoodies with Dylan’s number Sharpied on the sleeve.
If I squinted, I could imagine them as a cult.
The rest of the team trickled in. Some rookies, still wide-eyed and awkward, posted up at the arcade machines. A few more veterans, each with the battered confidence of guys who’d been traded one too many times. The lanes filled, the air thickened with fried food and anticipation.
Bowling, it turned out, was the only thing Stallions might be worse at than defense.
Nash immediately guttered three in a row, then insisted the lane was “rigged.” Leo had a slow, methodical approach: his ball always rolling two degrees off target.
I bowled left-handed for the first frame, just to see if I could.
By the second pitcher, the mood relaxed.
Guys started trash-talking with actual smiles, slamming high-fives, and daring each other to bowl blindfolded.
Marcus drifted down to our lane and dropped a ball so hard it bounced, then blamed it on “the humidity.” He offered me a fist bump, and when I gave it, his hand swallowed mine.
“Are you settling in?” he asked.
“Trying,” I said.
He nodded, eyes flicking to the bruise on my cheekbone, still yellow from the Hurricanes. “Good game last night.”
“Thanks.”
“You keep that up, you’ll do fine here.”
I wanted to say something back—something about the team, or Dylan, or maybe how this whole season felt like walking a tightrope. But all I managed was a shrug.
He didn’t seem to mind. Marcus looked at Nash and said, “Show him the trick shot.”
Nash grinned and immediately rolled a ball between his legs backward. It guttered, but he held his arms up like a champion.
“Legend,” Marcus repeated, this time with a hint of actual warmth.
The night spun on. The groups started to blend—rookies joined our lane, veterans wandered over. Even the guys from Dylan’s end came by, mostly to needle Nash for “bowling like a grandmother,” but they stuck around for a round of nachos and a shot at beating Leo’s slow-motion technique.
I took a picture of the bowling alley and then texted it to Brody.
Brody: Looks fun.
I sent a text back with an emoji rolling its eyes.
Me: It’s not too bad. I wish you could be here with me.
Brody: Me, too. Maybe someday soon.
“Who are you texting?” Jack asked, as he sat next to me.
“Oh, just a friend,” I lied.
I wasn’t about to out Brody.
Jack nodded, and then it was his turn to bowl. I watched as he picked up a shiny blue ball and launched it with terrible technique. He managed to knock down one pin.
“Fuck,” he roared out. We all laughed.
Dylan himself stayed apart, mostly. He bowled angrily, as if each ball were a warning shot. When he finally approached, it was with a swagger that tried too hard.
He sized up Marcus first. “Cap, are you letting the new kid sandbag for us?”
Marcus didn’t blink. “You got a problem, D?”
Dylan’s smile was sharp. “Just don’t want to lose because someone’s scared to keep score.”
Nash laughed. “Says the guy who ducked out after the second period last night.”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed, but Marcus cut in before it could go nuclear. “This is supposed to be fun. You remember fun, right?”
Dylan rolled his shoulders, then grinned, full of teeth. “Whatever you say, Cap.”
He looked at me, dark and direct. “You bowl like you skate?”
I shrugged. “Worse.”
He dropped a ball, nailed a strike, then walked off without looking back.
Marcus watched him go, then turned to me. “He’s not as bad as he seems.”
I doubted it, but I just nodded.
***
After a few more frames, Nash and Leo convinced me to join them at the arcade for “serious business.” The place was mostly empty except for one guy from the B-squad and a couple of randoms. Leo challenged me to a basketball free-throw contest, and Nash heckled us both.
Every time I missed, Nash invented a new insult. By the end, even I was laughing.
Leo nailed three in a row, then leaned on the machine. “You ever do stuff like this, back home?”
I shook my head. “We mostly just played hockey. Or drank.”
“Could be worse,” Nash said, stealing a turn. “Leo’s hometown is, like, four houses and a gas station. The only fun they had was cow-tipping and stealing lawn gnomes.”
Leo grinned. “We still have your mom’s gnome, by the way.”
Nash fake-tackled him, and for a second it was easy to believe I’d always been here, a part of whatever weird pack this was.
We drifted back to the lanes. Marcus was holding court, telling a story about his first fight in juniors. Even Dylan’s crew seemed to listen, if only to catch him out. I hung at the edge, not quite sure if I belonged at the center.
After a while, the group splintered. Some left for the bar down the road; others nursed sodas, texting silently. I sat with Leo at the high tables, watching the rest of the team break into smaller, shifting alliances.
Leo tipped his glass at me. “Don’t let Dylan get in your head.”
“I won’t.”
He studied me, like he didn’t buy it. “We all got our shit, Finn. He just shows his louder than most.”
I didn’t answer, just watched the rest of the team. I thought about Brody, probably at home or in some late-night med call, and wondered if he ever got nights out like this.
Nash plopped down beside us, clutching a basket of fries. “I heard Cap’s making us do paintball next week. ‘Team building,’ or whatever.”
Leo shook his head. “You’re just mad you lost at bowling.”
“I let him win,” Nash said. “For the good of the team.”
He elbowed me. “Are you coming to the bar?”
I considered it. “Maybe just for a bit.”
He nodded. “Don’t let Marcus buy you shots. He does this thing where he counts to five, and you have to drink, or he calls you a wuss.”
I grinned. “He calls everyone a wuss.”
Nash laughed. “That’s why he’s the captain.”
They wandered off, leaving me alone for a minute. I watched the emptying lanes, the flicker of neon on polished wood. The night felt different now, not quite so sharp around the edges. Maybe, I thought, this could actually work.
I texted Brody, just a quick, hey. The reply came back in two seconds.
Me: Still up?
Body: Yeah. Do you want to talk?
Me: Alway. Bowling tonight was interesting… Do you ever go bowl?
Brody: Only with bumpers
I smiled, picturing it.
The group started gathering at the door, Nash and Leo waving me over. I followed, letting the noise and movement carry me out.
For the first time, it felt like the team was pulling me in, not pushing me away.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was a start.
The party migrated to the alley’s bar—a dim, sticky-floored room with blacklight carpet and cheap plastic glasses.
The music was louder here, and the air shimmered with spilled beer and the thin ozone of fried food.
Nash and Leo took over a corner booth, laughing too loud.
Nash held court with a couple of the rookies and turning every story into a parody of itself.
I hovered near the end of the bar, nursing a watery IPA, when I caught a flash of familiar honey-blond hair in the crowd.
Brody. He stood near the change machine, clipboard in hand, pretending to inventory the first aid kit but mostly just watching the chaos.
He wore a Stallions quarter-zip, sleeves pushed up, eyes roaming the room, and missing nothing.
He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, but also like he couldn’t leave.
For a minute, I let myself watch him. Every so often, his gaze flicked my way. Never more than a second, but enough to make my ears burn. He was careful. Always so careful.
I tried to wave him over. He shook his head, the movement tiny, almost nothing. Then he pointed at the stack of pizzas in the corner, like he was telling me to eat more carbs.
I grinned, then made a show of shoving two slices into my mouth. Brody rolled his eyes and smirked. It was the closest thing to intimacy we could get away with here, and for now, it was enough.
The rest of the staff was there, too—mostly trainers and assistants, faces I recognized from the rink but didn’t know by name.
They clustered at the far end of the bar, making small talk and trading war stories about “the glory days.” Every so often, one of them would glance at Brody, then at me, then look away fast.
The team was louder now, the dynamic shifting as the alcohol flowed. The lanes emptied out, and more guys drifted into the bar, crowding the tables, yelling over the music.
Marcus, the captain, did laps—checking in with each group, making sure nobody was passed out or on the verge of a brawl. When he stopped by my table, he motioned for me to follow him outside.
The patio was a slab of concrete ringed with ashtrays and broken picnic tables.
We stood in silence, watching the moonlight catch on the ice-rimmed power lines above the alley. I waited for him to start.
He didn’t. Instead, he pointed through the glass at the bar, where Nash and Leo were mock arm-wrestling two rookies. “You know why I picked you for the first line?”
I shrugged. “Stats?”
He shook his head. “It’s not always about numbers. Sometimes you just know a guy can take a hit and not fold. You get that, right?”
I nodded, feeling the weight behind the words.
He turned to me, his face flat in the low light. “You keep playing like you did last night, you’ll make it. But you gotta keep your head. Dylan’s not going to stop just because Coach yells at him. He needs to see you mean it.”
I wanted to say I always meant it, but the words stuck. Instead: “Do you ever wish it was easier?”
He snorted. “Never. If it’s easy, it’s boring.”
He gave me a clap on the shoulder, then headed back inside.
I stood alone on the patio, letting the cold settle into my bones. When I went back in, the music was even louder, and the mood had shifted again.
Dylan’s group had moved to the pool table, and they were getting mean. Not physical—yet—but the words carried. I heard my own name, Nash's, and something ugly about “rainbow jerseys.” One of the rookies looked sick.
I felt the familiar burn in my chest. The urge to fight, to bark back, and make it stop. But the team rules were clear: no drama, not in public.
By the time I got home, I was beyond exhausted. I was going to ask Brody to come over this weekend.