6. Finn
Chapter six
Finn
I was uncomfortable in the away locker room as soon as I stepped inside. It had a low ceiling, making the overhead fluorescent lights oppressive. They cast sickly shadows across the faces of my teammates. Gone were the pleasing wood surfaces of our home arena, replaced by rough concrete needing touch-ups for the chipped blue paint.
It was cramped, too, and I dodged equipment bags and the outstretched legs of other players to reach my stall. As a rookie, I got the one wedged in a corner that was more like a cage than a resting place. The bench was too short, and the hooks were too high.
While I changed out of my street clothes, my thoughts drifted to Donovan Michaels. The echoes of his mocking laughter rattled inside my head. I wondered how often he'd sat on benches in this arena, making plans to terrorize smaller players.
Thinking about his sneering face made my skin crawl. I pulled my jersey on over my pads, acting like it was my armor against his attacks.
"Everything good, Finn?" Sergei's voice broke through my musing. "Are you sure you're not trying to strangle yourself with that jersey?"
I smiled weakly. "Everything's peachy. Does this place give you the creeps, too, or is it just me?"
He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Just another rink. The ice is always the same—frozen water."
That was easy for him to say. Sergei was built like a Russian bear and had been in professional hockey for almost as long as I'd been alive. Goons like Michaels didn't mess with him.
With each breath I took, the locker room's foreign smell—unfamiliar cleaning products and decades of sweat—made my stomach churn. My swiftly tightening anxiety didn't help matters.
While we filed out toward the ice, Quinn leading the way, I wished Moose were in the stands, his reassuring presence cheering me on. I tapped my stick against my skates. I was in the big leagues now. I didn't have time to feel homesick or hope to see friendly faces in the stands. Squaring my shoulders, I skated onto the ice to the roar of a hostile crowd.
It didn't take long to spot Michaels; he was already glaring at me. Lurking near center ice, he looked like a predator ready to pounce. I kept my head down while warming up, concentrating on the scrape of my skates. Then, I skated too close. I was in hearing range of his ridiculous comments.
"Well, if it isn't the Lumberjacks' pet chihuahua." I glided past as quickly as possible. "Careful not to trip over the blue line, short stuff."
Don't respond, Finn. That's what he wants.
After the ref dropped the puck for the opening face-off, I darted for it while Michaels' stick tangled with my feet. Stumbling, I was barely able to stay upright.
"Oops, guess those little legs aren't so fast after all."
Every shift was like marching into battle. Michaels seemed to appear out of nowhere every time the puck came my way. He was always in my peripheral vision, lurking while poking and prodding with his stick, jabs that were right on the edge of being called for a penalty.
"Getting tired yet, runt?" he sneered during a face-off. "Do you need a booster seat over there on the bench?"
I gritted my teeth and did my best to let it all go in one ear and out the other. Unfortunately, he had an uncanny ability to toy with my deepest insecurities.
Late in the first period, I finally seized my moment. It was a breakaway, and I saw nothing but open ice ahead of me. I took off like a rocket, and then—
WHAM!
Coming out of nowhere, Michaels slammed me into the boards. It knocked all the air out of my lungs. With my eyes watering from the impact, I watched the ref's arm rise. He finally called a penalty.
"Need me to kiss it to make it better?" Michaels sneered at me as he skated past on the way to the box.
Something snapped. Without thinking, I was suddenly in his face, shoving him hard. "Back off!"
I found myself slapped with a penalty, too. Coach Fraser glared as I skated to the box.
While the game continued, I slumped forward on the bench. I'd let the goon get to me and throw me off. If I'd stayed calm, we'd have a power play opportunity for a goal.
The words echoed inside my head, igniting all the doubts that plagued me for years. Maybe he was right. Perhaps I was too small for the big league.
When the penalty box door finally opened with five seconds left in the period, I skated onto the ice, trembling slightly. One period down, two to go.
Back in the locker room, I leaned forward as I sat on the bench, cradling my head in my hands. The first period ran through my mind like a nightmarish highlight reel.
While I wallowed in self-pity, a large hand gripped my shoulder. Looking up, I saw Axel's weathered face. His gaze, usually steely and grey, glimmered slightly. Was he concerned about me?
"Hey, kid." He spoke with a grunt and dropped down on the bench beside me. The old wood creaked in protest. "You're letting that oversized knuckle-dragger live rent-free in your noggin. You can't do that."
I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised a hand to cut me off.
"Save it. You know what I'm saying. Play your game. I've seen rookies in their first games show more composure on the ice."
The words stung, but he wasn't wrong. I'd lost my focus.
He leaned in close enough that his breath tickled my ear. "Listen close. I'm only gonna say this one time. You have something Michaels will never have—speed that makes him envious as hell."
"Thanks, Axel—"
He cut me off again and poked my chest with a thick finger. "But right now, you're playing his game, not yours. He's got you all twisted up inside your head."
Axel was right. Although I was technically an offensive player, Michaels put me on defense the whole period.
"So here's what you're gonna do." Axel stared into my eyes. "You're gonna get out there and skate circles around that loser. Make him eat your ice shavings the rest of the night. He can't hit what he can't catch, right?"
I nodded. His words lit a new spark of determination in my chest.
Axel had more to say. "And kid, all that garbage he's throwing your way? It's 'cause he's scared of you. He's like a damn playground bully. He only picks on the guys he thinks are a threat."
He stood, and his old joints popped like mini firecrackers. "Now, ditch that self-pity and show 'em what you can do. I didn't sign up with a Portland expansion team to watch a rookie fold like a cheap card table."
As he lumbered off, I sat up straight. His words rattling in my head drowned out Michaels' insults. He's scared of me? On the surface, that sounded a little ridiculous, but the more I thought about it, the more I saw it all from a different perspective. Maybe Axel was right.
While Coach Fraser gave us his pep talk, I tuned in and buried the self-pity. Maybe I was the smallest guy on the ice, but that didn't mean I had to play like it.
If Michaels thought he had me as a punching bag, I'd change the game and be a ghost instead. How tough could he be while swinging at thin air?
During the second period, I flew with the wind at my back. Every time Michaels tried to get close, I was two strides ahead. I heard his curses, and they blended together like sweet harmony in a song.
In the blink of an eye, we were ready for the third and final period. Twenty more minutes to go, and we trailed by two goals.
The puck dropped, and I was off with jet engines strapped to my skates. With each stride, I picked up speed. Finally, I felt like my usual self again.'
Michaels tried to keep up with me, but I was already three strides ahead. I weaved in and out of the other defenders like they were standing still.
Five minutes in, I found my opportunity. I darted behind the net, pulling two defenders in my wake. At the last second, I flicked a pass to Quinn. He lit the lamp, and we'd cut the deficit in half just like that.
While we celebrated on the ice, I glanced at Axel on the bench. He offered a discreet nod, and I grinned from ear to ear.
We'd rattled our opponents. Their passes were suddenly sloppier than usual, and we'd thrown their formation off. It was time to take advantage of the mistakes.
Five minutes later, I broke away again. I glanced over my shoulder at Michaels and almost saw the wheels turning in his head. Was he trying to decide whether to take a penalty or let me score?
I didn't give him time to decide. I feinted left, then swept to the right, leaving him swinging his stick at thin air. Now, it was just me and their goalie.
As everything seemed to move in slow motion, I watched the goalie's eyes open wider. He tracked me closely and then committed to something low, anticipating an attempt to shoot between his legs.
Instead, I lifted the puck gently with my stick, just enough to fly over his outstretched pads. The shot found its mark, and my teammates roared their approval.
As I skated back to the bench to end my shift, I looked at Michaels. The anger in his gaze could have melted half the rink. This time, I didn't let it bother me. I'd found my groove, and he couldn't stop me.
Both teams threw everything into the final minutes, attempting to break the tie score. My legs screamed for rest, but I couldn't stop. I pushed through the pain.
With only thirty seconds left to play, we had one more opportunity. I tore off, taking the puck into their zone with Michaels following, huffing like a freight train. At the last second, I pivoted and moved to the side, using his momentum against him. He went flying past me and crashed into his own defender.
That left the path to the net clear, but I didn't have a good angle for a shot. Spotting my man, one of the best forwards in the league, I fired a pass. Quinn's stick met it perfectly, and he redirected the puck into the net.
We'd done it with only five seconds to spare. After the final countdown, we all mobbed Quinn.
Someone shoved me hard from behind when we began to skate off the ice. I turned to see Michaels looming over me, his face bright red.
"You little shi—" he started. Sergei cut him off, pushing himself between the two of us.
In a calm, almost casual tone, he asked, "Problem?"
Michaels backed off, but I barely noticed. I was floating on a cloud of triumph.
***
Back at the team hotel, I collapsed onto my bed, and the mattress was too soft. My muscles ached, and I'd probably have a complaining back in the morning on top of it. I stared at the popcorn ceiling above me as my thoughts swirled. Without any specific thoughts, I reached for my phone and punched Moose on the contact list.
His voice was rough and a little ragged. "Finn? You okay? It's late. I thought you'd be sleeping off that big win."
"Hey, Moose." I was trying to understand why I called. Was it just to hear his voice? "I'm sorry. Were you already asleep?"
"No, I was still awake. I just finished watching a replay of that awesome last goal and climbed into bed. You're the man, bud."
I grinned, proud of the game I played. "Thanks. It was a little intense tonight."
"I bet. From what I saw, Michaels was all over you. You doing okay about him?"
I heard the soft, warm concern in his voice. Something about that made me want to tell Moose everything, and the entire game story spilled out. I shared the taunts in the first period, my struggles, and Axel's big boost in the locker room.
"That rat bastard, Michaels," growled Moose. "Damn, he better watch out next time they play you at home. I'll—"
"Whoa, easy, slow down." A soft chuckle bubbled inside me. "I'm pretty sure you can't drop the gloves and go after him from up in the press box."
Moose laughed. "Yeah, I was letting myself get a little carried away. It's just… you're out there only trying to play a great game of hockey, and he gives you crap. He's just a one-trick bully that can't do anything but throw body checks."
"Hey, I appreciate that, but I handled it. Let it go. I'm okay; the whole team's also got my back. Axel shocked the hell out of me, but I guess I shouldn't feel that way about him."
"You're a class act, Finn. I wish you were here. Can't wait for you guys to get back home."
"Yeah? Kind of wish you were here, too."
With mock concern, he asked, "Only kinda?"
My breath caught in my throat, and I wasn't sure what to say. Something was going on between us, and I wasn't sure whether I was ready to discuss it. It wasn't just friendship, was it?
"Finn? You still there?"
"Yeah, sorry. I guess I'm a little lost in my thoughts." It was more like I was drowning in a sea of realization.
"Something you want to talk about?"
I hesitated. Did I want to talk about it? Could I figure out a way to put my feelings into words? Could I tell him how his voice cradled me like a safety net, how I wished he was at the game, and how talking to him made the world a better place? How did you tell a friend you were falling for them?
"I… um, no, not yet, but maybe soon?"
Moose's voice was soft when he answered. "Whenever you're ready. There's no pressure, though. We can jaw on about the best pizza toppings or this awesome old movie theater I discovered."
I settled back against the pillows and listened. The content wasn't significant, but the sound of Moose's voice was. While he talked, the tension in my muscles melted away, and a warm sensation spread through my body.
We talked for almost another hour until I started to fade. Moose called me on that.
"Hey there, Finn. I think you need your sleep. It's another big day tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah. We've got one more game, and then I get to come home. Another dinner out?"
"Or I can make a Moose-tastic homemade lasagna."
The thought of a quiet night in with Moose, just the two of us, excited me. I smiled. "That sounds great."
"Goodnight, Finn. You get some rest, bud."
"You, too. Night, Moose."
After setting the phone down, I stared at the dark screen for a moment. Every word from Moose ran back through my mind. I could hear his laughter. What did it all mean? I wanted to be close to him every time I thought about him… which was often. I wanted to make him laugh.
A sore muscle in my ribs twinged when I rolled onto my right side. It was a reminder of Donovan Michaels' treachery. Still, the pain couldn't chase away the lingering warmth from my conversation with Moose.