Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Finn
Three games, five days, and two thousand miles on a bus older than my parents.
That’s what they called a “light” road trip in the Stallions schedule.
Nash claimed it was the easiest swing we’d get all season: three Midwest teams so far from relevance that their arenas doubled as roller rinks for birthday parties.
But when we loaded onto the bus at sunrise—half the team hungover, the other half already mainlining pre-workout—the mood was less “spring break” and more “penal colony.”
I packed light. Always did. One duffel for gear, one for clothes, and a backpack full of protein bars, chargers, and the stupid little good luck charms I wouldn’t admit to carrying.
I took the last row, feet stretched across two seats, headphones in.
Leo sat next to me, laptop open, editing some video for his YouTube channel.
Nash and a rookie named Omar had already commandeered the aisle for poker, chips clinking every time the bus hit a pothole.
The rest of the team filtered in, a slow-motion parade of sweatpants, hoodies, and every flavor of energy drink ever sold.. When Dylan slouched on, he fixed me with a look, all challenge and zero warmth. I gave him nothing back.
You could tell a lot about a team by how they traveled. Some groups went full Animal House, others locked down in total silence. The Stallions were a hybrid: rowdy until Coach barked, then dead quiet for hours at a stretch, every man left to his own thoughts.
Brody wasn’t with us. Trainers rode separately. I scrolled through team memes, then the news, I was ready to do anything to keep my mind off the way the seat still smelled like his cologne, citrus and aftershave, and something else I couldn’t name.
When Brody had come to watch practice, it had given me hope that we were only moving forward in steps to having a relationship. We had chemistry, that was for sure. And, I wanted to see him again soon. Hopefully, we can figure it out soon.
Our first stop was Indianapolis. The hotel was located in the center of downtown, packed full with hockey fans and teenagers attending a boy band concert.
We hit the lobby as a pack, Nash launching instant chaos by arm-wrestling Omar over who’d get the better bed. I grabbed my key from the assistant manager, ignored the wink he gave me—guessing he recognized me from last week’s goal or maybe just the battered face.
Upstairs, I let myself into the room. Leo was already unpacking, headphones on, but he pulled them off when he saw me.
“You get the text?” he asked.
I blinked. “From who?”
He tossed me his phone. Brody’s number was at the top. 6:47pm, Room 618. Don’t be late.
I tried to act casual, but Leo’s grin said he saw right through it. Panic tumbled through me like a wild tornado. My face paled, and my pulse raced. Brody would never forgive me if anyone found out about us right now.
“Relax,” he said, “I know you are out, but clearly Brody isn’t. I won’t say anything.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I meant to text this chick who gave me her number earlier. Her name was Brittany or Blair or some other name that started with a B.”
He chuckled. “Damn, I didn’t realize you were such a player.”
Sixth floor. The hallway reeked of microwave burritos and Febreze, but Brody’s door was propped with a towel. I knocked anyway, then slipped inside.
He stood by the window, framed in blue dusk. The city outside looked like a model, nothing but smudged lights and a river of headlights.
“You made good time,” he said, voice soft.
I shrugged. “Didn’t want to miss my ice bath.”
He grinned, then locked the door behind me. For a second, I just looked at him—hair still wet from a shower, skin glowing in the TV’s static blue.
“Come here,” he said.
I crossed the room in two strides. He caught me at the waist, pulled me in, and kissed me hard. The kind of kiss you give someone when you don’t know if you’ll see them in the morning.
We moved to the bed, careful at first, but then not.
His hands were everywhere—my neck, my ribs, my wrist still sore from last week’s game.
He tasted like coffee and peppermint. I lost the thread of time, the sound of the world outside fading to nothing but the rustle of sheets and the thump of my heart against his chest.
Afterward, we lay tangled, the sweat drying cold on our skin. Brody traced the scar on my hand, then pressed a kiss to it.
“I wish we could just—” he started, then shook his head. “Never mind.”
I knew what he meant. So, I said it. “You wish we could just be us in public.”
He closed his eyes. “Yeah.”
A beat of silence. “We can.”
I thought about the team, the league, the way every locker room echoed with the same old shit. “Sometimes. But it’s worth it.”
He smiled, crooked. “For now.”
A knock at the door, loud and sudden. My pulse spiked.
Brody scrambled for the bathroom, grabbing his shirt on the way. I shoved myself back into my clothes, and stood back as Brody opened the door just enough to peek out.
It was Nash, holding a pizza box and a six-pack.
“Jesus, man,” he said, “thought you’d gone missing. Are you coming to the team suite or nah?”
I tried to play it off. “Yeah, I just needed some tape for my wrist.”
He eyed me, then the bathroom door, then back to me. “You know, you could just say you’re banging the trainer. It’s not like we’re gonna care.”
I felt my face go hot. “It’s not—”
He held up a hand. “Chill. I don’t judge. Just don’t show up with hickeys, or Coach will actually die.”
I laughed, too loud. “Noted.”
Nash left, and I exhaled slowly. Brody emerged, shirt half-buttoned.
“That was close,” he said, voice shaking a little.
I reached for his hand. “Are you okay?”
He nodded, but didn’t let go.
We stood like that, quiet, until the lights of the city blurred into a single line.
***
Game day was a blur of routine. Wake, stretch, force down a bagel, tape up, bus to the rink.
Indianapolis’s arena was so cold it made my nose burn, and the locker room was a cinder block cave under the stands.
Brody worked his rounds, taping ankles and prepping ice bags, never looking my way for more than a split second.
But every time I caught him out of the corner of my eye, my heart did this weird, traitorous flutter.
The game was brutal. They played with a desperation I’d never seen, hacking and slashing every shift.
Dylan got into a fight in the first period, then spent the rest of the game pretending not to limp.
We went into overtime, tied 2-2. Coach sent out the top line.
Leo won the face-off, Nash dug the puck out of a scrum, and I drove the net.
Took a cross-check to the chest, but kept my stick down.
The puck hit my blade, and I banged it home, barely registering the red light before my teammates dogpiled me against the boards.
We mobbed back to the bench, roaring and slapping helmets. Brody was waiting at the end, clipboard in hand, but his eyes met mine, just for a second.
It was enough.