2. Finn
Chapter two
Finn
T he chilly air of the rink was a firm wake up call as I skated across the ice for early morning practice. The subtle scrape of my skates was a sound that always made my pulse race. To most of the guys, it was probably just another practice, but just over two weeks into my NHL career, I was determined to make my mark.
I warmed up by doing some lazy laps, gradually picking up speed as I worked on my edges, transitioning smoothly from inside to outside edge with each stride. As I did, I caught snippets of conversation from the veteran team members.
"… undersized rookie problem." Whether he intended it or not, Axel's gravelly voice carried across the ice.
"Runt" was the single word I heard from another player.
My jaw tightened, and I gripped my stick harder, the familiar texture of tape against my gloves grounding me. Time to put on a show.
Pushing harder, I picked up even more speed as I rounded one end of the rink. The cold air stung my face.
"Holy crap, Novak!" Quinn called out as I swept past him. "You trying to plant some crops with those skates?"
I grinned and slowed to skate at his side. Quinn O'Reilly joined the team at the start of the season, but even with a few extra months as a Lumberjack, he was still a rookie.
"Just my warm up," I told him as I matched his speed. "I'm the late arrival and have to make up for lost time."
"Lost time?" Quinn shook his head. "Keep up that speed, and you'll lap all of us by the end of the season."
"Shh… that's the plan."
"As if," Quinn scoffed. "Seriously, bud, glad to have you on the team. It's nice not being the newest kid anymore."
"Aww, glad I could help out. Race you to the other end?"
"You're on."
We took off, digging our skates into the ice, and we both laughed as we shot ourselves down the rink. As we raced, I understood that maybe I was starting to find my place on the team.
As more players arrived, the scraping of skates, smacking of pucks against sticks, and general banter filled the arena with sound. As Quinn skated off to greet another player, I spotted Sergei stretching by the boards and skated up to him.
"Hey, I've been meaning to ask you about Vladivostok since you mentioned it yesterday. Where is it? Anywhere near Moscow?"
I raised a rare chuckle from deep inside his broad chest. "You need Google Maps. She's much closer to Tokyo than Moscow."
Tilting my head to the right, I tried to place the items on my mental globe. "And that seaweed. Do you eat that a lot at home?"
Sergei straightened up. "That's true. We eat many kind of seaweed, mostly kelp. It's not like Moose's chips, though. We eat it in soups, salads, and drink tea."
"Seaweed tea?" I wrinkled my nose. "What's that taste like?"
"Like the ocean in a cup." Sergei shrugged. "Maybe it's an acquired taste."
"Fascinating." I grinned up at his rare smile with a tooth missing. "Maybe you could teach Moose and me a little about eating seaweed."
"Maybe, but first, you teach the team about your speed, da? Show them small can mean fast."
I bumped his chest with my glove. "Thanks, I appreciate that."
Before he could say more, Coach Fraser's whistle cut through all of the noise. "Alright, men. Let's get started with speed drills. Show me what you've got."
Did he say speed? That was my wheelhouse.
I lined up with the rest of the team at the goal line. At the sound of the whistle, I burst forward, my skates almost taking flight. The world around me blurred, and my world narrowed to the burn in my lungs and sting on my cheeks.
Crossing the finish line, I turned to see everyone eating my dust. Blaise, our self-proclaimed master of speed, frowned like he'd sucked on a lemon.
"Again," Coach ordered.
As we lined up, Axel glanced at me and slightly shook his head. Challenge accepted, old man.
I pushed even harder the second time around, my thighs on fire. I pushed past the pain and won by an even wider margin. It was a victory, and my teammates were my witnesses.
After practice, the usual buzz of chattering conversations filled the locker room. While I unlaced my skates, Blaise sat on the bench next to me.
"Nice skating out there, Novak." His voice dripped with sarcasm. "But you know, speed isn't everything. Wait till you've got a guy twice your size in your way. It's like skating—BAM!—into a brick wall." He chuckled.
I stood, my chest nearly touching Blaise's. "Speed isn't my only asset. I'm no one-trick pony." My voice was low and firm. "I've dealt with guys bigger than you my whole career."
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh yeah? And how'd that work out for you, pipsqueak?"
"Well enough to land me here," I gestured around the locker room. "Same as you."
"We'll see how long that lasts." Blaise sneered, and he gave me a light shove.
I planted my feet, refusing to step back. "Why wait? How about we settle this now? One-on-one drill. We'll see if you can catch me."
A hush fell over the locker room. Blaise's face reddened, but before he could respond, Sergei's deep voice cut through the tension.
"Speed is a weapon." He stepped between us. "And Novak has a good gun. Size means nothing if you can't catch what you're trying to hit."
Blaise rolled his eyes, but I nodded my appreciation at Sergei.
Coach Fraser's gruff voice cut through all the chit-chat. "Novak. Office. Now."
As I headed that way, I spotted Quinn, and he gave me a subtle nod of approval.
While I knocked tentatively on his office door, I listened to the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. When he called for me to enter, I stepped inside. It was like walking into a cloud of coffee vapor.
Coach looked up from behind piles of old playbooks and single sheets of scribbled diagrams. He gestured for me to sit opposite him. As I grabbed the chair, I did my best not to fidget.
"I've been watching you," he began.
I swallowed hard. "Yes, Coach?"
"That show of speed today. Impressive. Honestly, very impressive." He leaned back in his chair. "You need to know, though, speed isn't everything. It's only one part of the game."
I nodded. "I understand. Just wanted to show that I could keep up and add something to the team."
He gazed into my eyes and studied me for a long moment. Finally, Coach leaned forward. He pounded his chest. "Heart of a lion, Novak, but we need to move beyond the speed. You're going to be up against some brawlers that won't hesitate to slam you into the boards… just to prove who owns the ice."
He didn't use the exact words, but he was calling me out for being too small. I winced. "I'll work on it, and I can handle it."
"I don't doubt that, but I want to help out. Speed with smarts is a great combination. We need to work out how best to use your size to your advantage. With excellent skills at anticipating plays and your natural agility, you can make great things happen out there. Think Cole Caulfield, and the great Henri Richard was shorter than you."
"Pocket Rocket," I chuckled under my breath.
Coach grinned. "Yes."
"So, what do you suggest I do first?"
"Focus on your stickhandling and tape-to-tape passes. With your wheels, you could be deadly on the rush. Work on your one-timers too—I want you to be a threat in the slot on the power play. I saw you jawing out there with Quinn. See if he has a few tips for you. Next, get to know a few of the veterans and study how they read the game. There's a lot to learn from them."
I straightened my spine and lifted my chin as I met Coach's gaze. "Got it. You can count on me. I'll do the work."
"I know you will. That's why I called you in. I see potential. Remember, it's not about proving yourself to your teammates, it's about knowing you're the best player you can be."
"Thanks, Coach. I won't let you down."
***
After I showered and changed into street clothes, it was time to head home. As I strolled down a hallway, I spotted Moose. He walked with his head down and a folder tucked under one arm. Colorful brochures peeked out from inside.
"Hey, Moose!" I called, my voice embarrassingly eager.
He turned, his face lighting up. "Finn! How's Speedy Gonzales today?"
I shrugged and did my best to appear nonchalant. "Oh, much the same, trying to avoid getting squashed by the giants."
Moose laughed, and then he noticed me staring at the folder. He pulled it out from under his arm. "You wondering about this? It's just some… uh, light reading."
I pulled a brochure out of the folder. "Light reading about… marketing the Lumberjacks?"
"Yeah, well, you might as well know." Moose blushed a little. "I'm applying for a position in the front office. Crazy idea, huh?"
I opened my eyes wide, leaning in closer without even knowing it. "Are you kidding? That's all kinds of awesome. What made you go for it?"
He reached up and rubbed his buzzed head. "I don't think I told you. My background's in biology and environmental science, but I've always loved watching sports. I'm a klutz as a player, but I'm an A-1 hockey fan. This job might give me an opportunity to sort of blend my passions. Plus, I'd get to work on showing the world how great you guys are."
I reached up and gave his shoulder a good-natured punch. "You'd be perfect. What exactly would you be doing?"
"The position involves a lot of community outreach." Moose's eyes lit up. "I'd work on events, promo campaigns, and that sort of thing. I could probably even sneak in some eco-friendly ideas."
"More seaweed?"
"Hey, don't knock it too much, particularly until you try maple-flavored seaweed." He grinned. "And I did just that—last night."
"You didn't…"
Moose started to wave his hands in his excitement. "I did more than try it. I used your idea to create a culinary masterpiece." He painted a picture in the air with his waggling fingers. "Imagine this: crispy waffle topped with crunchy seaweed chips and rich maple syrup drizzled over the top."
I blinked, trying to process the entire idea. "And, um… how was it?"
"Surprisingly scrumptious. Sweet plus salty, always a good choice. Don't knock it yet, Finn. We might be onto something serious."
I laughed. "Moose, you're certifiably insane. I mean that as a compliment."
"Aren't all of the great inventors a little nuts?"
"Got me there. So, tell me about your marketing pitches. 'Check out the Lumberjacks. We'll chop the other team down to size.' Does that work?"
Moose rubbed his chin. "I think I can do better. 'Portland Lumberjacks: We've got wood… and we know how to use it.'"
I gasped. "Hey, we're a family-friendly team!"
"Okay, how about 'Lumberjacks: Stick it to 'em'?"
"I think that might be worse." I added one more. "Cutting Edge Hockey!"
Our horrible puns drifted into theme day ideas.
Moose shouted, "Flannel Fridays! Half price for everyone wearing flannel. You've got to do that one."
I tossed one into the basket. "Log Rolling Rumble! There's a log-rolling during one of the breaks between periods. Maybe the winner gets season tickets."
Moose finally lost it. He slide his back down against the wall, grabbed hold of his stomach, and laughed even harder. His entire face turned beet red. I joined him, and we did our best to catch our breath.
"Alright," Moose gasped as he wiped his eyes. "We'll have a Lumberjack Feast Night. Before the game, we'll set up a long, rustic wood table on the ice. All of the players have to eat a full lumberjack breakfast before they can take the ice."
A vision of Axel trying to stuff his face full of a stack of pancakes while wearing his hockey gear made me giggle. "Oh, my God," I muttered. "Just think of Coach's face."
Moose did a spot-on impersonation of Coach Fraser. "Eat faster, men! Get those bellies full, and I mean, full."
"With the loads of pancakes, it might turn into Maple Syrup Slip 'n Slide Night."
Another massive round of laughs consumed us. Moose occasionally let out adorable little snorts.
"Oh, man." Moose gripped his ribcage. "I think I pulled something."
I continued to giggle. "Might have done the same. I haven't laughed like that sine… don't think I can remember."
As the laughter finally began to face into occasional chuckles, I saw how close I was sitting to Moose. His arm pressed against my shoulder, and I felt the warmth of his flesh through my shirt.
He smelled crisp and clean, like one of those shampoos advertised as masculine. Heat crept up the back of my neck, and my heart skipped a beat..
Moose spoke in a soft voice with an edge of seriousness. "When I was talking to the receptionist, I worried that I might not have any ideas if I got a job like this. Now, I feel like they'd be nuts not to hire me."
I elbowed him lightly. "So true. You'll change the game, one plaid-faced fan at a time."
Moose cleared his throat. "I'd better get going. I've got a lot of reading to do with all these brochures. The interview's two days from now."
I nodded and we both stood. I lingered, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, searching for an excuse to prolong our conversation. "Good luck with the application." My voice was a little husky, and I cleared my throat. "You'll have to let me know what happens."
"Of course, and thanks for the good wishes. And hey, you keep skating circles around those giants, okay?"
I watched Moose walk away, and I realized my cheeks and gut were both sore from so much smiling and laughing. My drive home was a blur as our conversation replayed on a loop inside my head.
Later that evening, as I sat on the edge of my bed, I pulled out a box of old photographs and mementos I'd chosen to move. Except for the distant hum of traffic outside the window, the room was silent. Holding a framed photo of my family, I looked at my mom's smile, my dad's proud, firm expression, and my older brother's mischievous grin.
My finger trembled as I traced the outlines of their faces on the glass. I hadn't expected such an intense round of homesick feelings. Instead, I'd thought I'd be far too busy and focused on hockey to miss much of anything. That wasn't true.
I set the photo on the bed and pulled a small, worn notebook out of the box. It was my favorite sketchbook during my final college year. As I flipped through the pages, I smiled at my notes and doodles. They covered a lot of ground—motivational quotes, jokes with friends, and a few dreams about the future.
But now, sitting alone in my apartment that still smelled new, those dreams felt distant. The pressure to prove myself on the team was immense, and the constant undercurrent of doubt gnawed at my confidence. What if I wasn't good enough? What if I couldn't handle the physicality of the game?
I sighed and rubbed my temples, trying to shake off the negative thoughts. The loneliness was the hardest part. Back home, I had my family, my friends—a support system that always had my back. Here, it was just me, facing challenges that made me think I was climbing a mountain without knowing what was on the other side.
My phone buzzed, startling me out of my thoughts. I reached for it, hoping for a distraction. It was a text from Moose:
Hey, Finn. Just wanted to say you did great today. Don't let the giants get you down.
I smiled. Somehow, Moose knew that I needed a boost. I typed back:
Thanks so much.
Almost immediately, he responded:
Anytime, man. You're not alone in this. We’re all in it together. Btw, tried maple seaweed again. Still weird, but I think it’s growing on me. ??
You're crazy, but I love it. Catch up soon?
Absolutely. Keep your head up. You're stronger than you think.
I set the phone on the coffee table, feeling a little lighter. The conversation with Moose reminded me I wasn't alone. I had teammates who believed in me and friends who saw potential in me even when I struggled to see it myself.
Taking a deep breath, I stood and walked over to the window. The city sprawled out before me, a sea of lights, bridges, and pine trees.
I thought about what Coach Fraser had said, about using my speed and agility to my advantage. I knew I'd have to work on my board battles and my play in the dirty areas. Being strong on my stick and using my low center of gravity could help me come away with the puck more often than not.
Turning back to the box of memories, I picked up a small hockey puck keychain—a gift from my dad when I made my first travel team as a kid. I squeezed it in my hand, grinning at the memory. It was time to show everyone, including me, what I could do.
As I slid beneath the sheets to sleep with the photo of my family on the nightstand, I whispered into the darkness, “I’ll make all of you proud.”
I dreamed wild dreams of skating on a rink made of maple syrup, weaving between players wearing flannel and carrying a plate holding a stack of pancakes. Moose stood at the side, cheering me on and holding up score cards for my puns.
When I woke, I had a smile on my face and a flutter in my stomach. Whatever was happening with Moose, whatever these feelings were, I knew one thing for sure—I couldn't wait to see him again.