Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Finn
Our second stop was Indianapolis. Smaller town, even worse hotel. The Wi-Fi didn’t work, and the heat in our room rattled like it wanted to die. Leo and Nash staged a Mario Kart tournament on a battered Switch, betting pushups on every race. I watched, but mostly let my brain drift.
Brody texted only once: Can’t tonight. Sorry.
I knew what that meant. I tried not to be disappointed. But it lingered, sour and hot, all through the game the next day. I played like shit, took two dumb penalties, and nearly got benched for the third.
Afterwards, I found Brody in the trainer’s office, packing up supplies.
“Are you mad at me?” I said, leaning in the doorway.
He shook his head, not looking up. “Just busy. And tired. I’m not used to this.”
I stepped closer. “If you want to stop—”
He cut me off, voice sharp. “Don’t. I just need to catch up. That’s all.”
I left him alone, but that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the way he wouldn’t meet my eyes, the edge in his voice. I wondered if this was already falling apart.
Third game, third city. Cincinnati. The arena was huge, the kind that made you feel like a bug under a microscope. The visiting locker room smelled like feet and broken dreams. We lost, 4-1, and the bus ride after was silent.
Back at the hotel, I went straight to my room, flopped on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
A knock came at the door, soft and hesitant.
It was Brody.
He came in, closed the door, and stood with his back to it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “About earlier. I just… I’m scared, Finn.”
I stood, not sure what to do with my hands.
He crossed the space and hugged me, desperate. “I don’t want to lose this. Or you.”
I hugged him back, harder than I meant to.
We didn’t speak after that. I led him to the bed, and we lay there, holding each other, the rest of the world shrinking to a single, perfect moment.
In the morning, he was gone. But I could still smell him on my pillow, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone.
We got back to Louisville late, the bus rolling to a stop under flickering streetlights. Guys grabbed their bags and shuffled off, grumbling about sleep and laundry and the hell of Monday skate.
As I stepped off the bus, I felt someone watching me.
Dylan stood by the curb, arms folded, eyes dark.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
I walked past him, heart racing. I thought about Brody, about the feel of his hand in mine, and told myself I’d fight the whole world if I had to.
If this was what hiding looked like, I could live with it.
But maybe, just maybe, I was ready for more.
***
The next week was a parade of bruises and ice packs. We played four games in seven days, three of them against teams who’d decided my existence was an affront to the sport itself. After every shift, my body felt less like an instrument and more like an obstacle course of old wounds.
Nash joked that I was “living rent-free in their heads.” But on the ice, I could feel it: the little extra hook after the whistle, the shoulder that didn’t pull up in time. They didn’t say it out loud, but you could hear it anyway, under the noise.
The worst of it was in Toledo. Their rink was a refrigerator with better acoustics, and the home fans had a gift for personal insults.
In the second period, I took a face-off and got immediately hammered from behind.
My helmet slammed the glass, and the world went full static for a second.
I caught myself on the ice, vision doubled, and heard the ref blow it dead.
When I sat up, Brody was already there, sliding to his knees, gloves up. “Hey, Finn. You with me?”
I nodded, but the ceiling was spinning. “Yeah. Just… ringing.”
***
He pressed his hand to my shoulder, gentle and steady. “Don’t move.” His face was closer than it ever should’ve been in front of ten thousand people. I saw it in his eyes: the panic, sharp and clear. Not trainer panic—something worse.
I tried to stand. He held me down with a hand at the base of my neck. “Stop. Let me check you.”
From the bench, Nash hollered, “Let the nurse do his job, Princess!”
A ripple of laughter from both teams. I grinned, then winced at the pain.
Brody ran his thumbs behind my ears, checking for blood. “You’re bleeding. Stay still.”
I did, because he said so.
The ref skated over. “You good, kid?”
I wiped my nose on my glove, blood bright and slick. “Yeah. Is my helmet fucked?”
Brody glared at the ref. “He needs protocol, not a new helmet.”
The ref shrugged and drifted away. Brody fixed his eyes on me. “You’re not impressing anyone by getting back in, you know.”
“Wasn’t trying to impress,” I muttered, but he was already lifting my chin, shining a penlight in my eyes.
He whispered, so only I could hear: “You scared me.”
I wanted to say sorry, but the world was fuzzy.
He helped me up. The crowd cheered, then booed when they saw the blood. I skated to the bench under my own power, Brody’s hand never leaving my back.
In the locker room, Nash and Leo crowded around, both talking at once.
“Did you see that hit?” Nash yelled. “That was murder.”
Leo handed me a towel, eyes scanning my face. “You good?”
I nodded, pinching my nose shut. The trainers had me strip off my jersey so they could check for a concussion. Brody stayed quiet, typing notes into his tablet, but I felt him watching.
After a few minutes, Leo pulled me aside, away from the noise.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’ve had worse.”
He didn’t buy it. “I saw Brody out there. Never seen him move like that for anyone.”
I snorted. “He’s dramatic.”
Leo shook his head, eyes narrow. “You think I’m an idiot? I’ve seen how you two look at each other.”
I went quiet. My face was still numb, but my ears burned.
He nudged me. “It’s fine, man. But you gotta be careful. You know the media’s sniffing around, right? They’ve been asking Nash about your ‘lifestyle.’”
I rolled my eyes. “They can ask all they want.”
He dropped his voice. “They’ll ask about Brody, too. And if Dylan gets wind of it? He’ll lose his shit.”
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. “I’m not letting him ruin this. Or me.”
Leo smiled softly. “Good. I don’t want to see you get burned.”
I nodded, then, after a second, “Thanks. For saying it.”
He shrugged. “We’re line-mates, right? I got you.”
Back at my stall, Brody was packing up his kit. When our eyes met, he did the tiniest shake of his head, a warning or an apology or maybe all-out fear.
I watched him go, stomach knotted.
***
That night, my phone buzzed with interview requests, most from numbers I didn’t know. The headlines were already out: “Stallions Star Takes Brutal Hit,” “Koskinen’s Gutsy Return,” “Is Hockey’s Toughest Player Hiding a Secret?” I laughed, but it wasn’t funny.
I texted Brody.
You okay?
He replied.
Fine. you?
I wanted to say, "I miss you" or "I need to see you." Instead, I typed: protocol says 48 hours, right?
His answer came quickly.
Come by after curfew. room 430.
I waited until Leo was asleep, then slipped out. The hotel hallway was empty, just the hum of ice machines and the buzz of exit signs. I found 430 and knocked timidly.
Brody opened the door in sweats and a hoodie, hair still wet from a shower. He pulled me inside, locked the door, and wrapped me in his arms.
For a long time, neither of us said anything. He just held me, his hand at the back of my neck, thumb running along the line of my jaw where the hit had landed.
“I thought you were out cold,” he whispered. “I thought—”
I pressed my forehead to his. “I wasn’t. I’m right here.”
He kissed me, soft and shaky. I let myself lean into it, let the fear and frustration drain out.
After a while, we sat on the bed, knees touching. He checked my eyes with the penlight again, flicking it back and forth.
“Still dilated,” he said, voice low.
“Is that bad?”
He smiled. “Means you’re alive.”
I grinned. “You like me alive?”
He didn’t answer, just kissed me again.