10. Finn
Chapter ten
Finn
W hen I stepped onto the ice for our latest practice session, I tried to focus on the sound of my skates. It was better than listening to the hum of despondent voices from my teammates. Our last three games had been disasters, and the impact of the losses hung over us like a storm cloud waiting to send damaging lightning strikes.
Sergei glided up beside me. His usual stoic expression was broken up by worry lines creasing his forehead. "Rookie, you, me, that one," he nodded toward Blaise, "we need to talk."
"Okay, sure." I skated over to where Blaise absentmindedly picked at his stick tape. When the three of us formed an unexpected huddle, several of our teammates watched closely. I wanted to think it was curiosity, but due to the current circumstances, I suspected there was suspicion, too.
"Alright, big man, what's this about?" Blaise tapped his stick on the ice. "If you're going to lecture me on team spirit, count me out. I've heard enough of that from Coach."
Sergie glared at him. "No lecture. I want to fix our problem."
I cleared my throat, suddenly realize how physically small I felt next to them. "We're in a bad slump. I hope you have some ideas, Sergei, because if we don't turn things around, any possibilities of reaching the playoffs are gone like a puff of smoke."
"Like you're the genius here, short stack."
I bristled at the ridiculous nickname, but it didn't stop me from speaking my mind. "My point is that we need to do something different. We're banging our heads against the boards and expecting a different outcome."
Sergei nodded. "Finn is right. We've been playing like… how do you Americans put it… strangers in the night?"
Blaise corrected him. "That would be ships passing in the night."
"Ships, strangers, what's the difference?" Sergei waved a hand. "Either way means we're not playing like a team, and we lose the game."
I jumped in. "What if we try some new line combinations and shake things up. Would that help be a little kick in the ass?"
Blaise smiled. "So does that mean you're going to suggest putting me on the first line where I belong?"
I rolled my eyes. Typical Blaise, always focused on what was in it for him, but I didn't want to offend him. Sergei thought he was important. "I'm not suggesting that, but what if we tried you on the wing instead of center? You've got a wicked shot, but sometimes your passing…" I trailed off, aware that my judgments might offend him.
Surprisingly,. he nodded in agreement. "Yeah, okay. I can see that, but if we do it, who takes over at center?"
Sergei spoke up. "I could move to forward. I played center in KHL before moving to the USA. I could try that again."
It sounded like an exciting change to me. "Maybe it could work. With Sergei's bulk and intimidation in the center, Blaise's shot, and my speed out on the other wing…"
Blaise completed my thought. "We'd be fucking unstoppable."
"Language," muttered Sergei.
"Okay, so that's one idea," I said, feeling more energized than I had in weeks. "What about our forechecking? I was thinking..."
And just like that, we were off. Ideas flew back and forth, each of us building on the others' suggestions. Blaise's tactical knowledge surprised me – clearly, he'd been paying more attention in team meetings than I'd given him credit for. Sergei's years of experience provided a solid foundation for our wildest schemes, tempering our enthusiasm with practicality.
As we talked, I could feel the weight of our losing streak starting to lift. We weren't just three mismatched players anymore. We were becoming a unit, a force to be reckoned with.
"You know," Blaise said after a particularly heated debate about power play strategies, "this might actually work."
Sergei clapped us both on the shoulders, nearly knocking me off balance. "Of course it work. We are Lumberjacks. We chop down all obstacles."
I couldn't help but laugh at the corny metaphor, but I felt it too – a sense of renewed purpose, of hope.
"Alright, let's run through this one more time before Coach gets here," I said, sketching out our new formation on the ice with my stick.
As we walked through the plays, our excitement grew. By the time Coach Fraser's whistle cut through the air, signaling the start of official practice, we were ready.
The puck dropped, and I exploded into action, my skates carving sharp arcs in the ice as I raced towards our defense. Sergei's voice rang out, clear and commanding, "Now, Rookie!"
I cut hard to the left, leaving my defender stumbling. The puck slapped against my stick – a perfect pass from Sergei. Without breaking stride, I crossed the blue line, the defense scrambling to adjust to our new formation.
Blaise was there, exactly where we'd planned, his stick cocked and ready. I didn't even need to look – I just knew. The puck left my stick, sailing through the air in a crisp pass.
The sound of Blaise's shot echoed through the rink – a resonant thwack followed by the satisfying ping of rubber hitting metal. Top shelf, where mama hides the cookies, as Quinn would say.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then Blaise's whoop of triumph shattered it, and suddenly Sergei was there, crushing us both in a bear hug.
"Holy shit," Blaise laughed, his usual cockiness tinged with genuine surprise. "That actually worked!"
"Language," Sergei and I chorused, but we were grinning too hard to mean it.
A sharp whistle cut through our celebration. Coach Fraser stood at center ice, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in a look of bewildered irritation.
"What in the name of Gordie Howe was that?" he barked.
We skated over, a mix of pride and apprehension churning in my gut. Sergei spoke first, his accent thicker than usual in his excitement.
"New strategy, Coach. We think—"
"I don't recall asking you to think, Volkov," Fraser cut him off, but there was a glint in his eye that I'd never seen before. He turned to me. "This your idea, Novak?"
I swallowed hard. "It was a team effort, sir. We all contributed."
Fraser's gaze swept over us, lingering on Blaise, who for once looked more eager than arrogant. After what felt like an eternity, the coach's mustache twitched.
"Run it again," he said gruffly. "Let's see if it was a fluke."
We shared a quick glance before taking our positions. This time, the entire team was watching, a palpable energy crackling through the air.
As I crouched for the face-off, I caught Fraser muttering under his breath.
"Well, I'll be damned. They might actually have something here."
***
I slid into the booth across from Moose, and the vinyl seat squeaked slightly under my weight. The café buzzed around us, the clinking of cups and murmur of conversations creating a cocoon of noise. It was perfect for a clandestine meeting between secret agents.
"Agent Knitter," I said in a low voice, fighting to keep a straight face. "I trust you weren't followed?"
A smile tugged at the corners of Moose's mouth. "All clear, Agent Speedster. Though I did have to lose a tail by ducking through Mrs. Kowalski's begonia garden."
I snorted, picturing Moose's hulking frame trying to sneak through our older neighbor's prized flowers. "Well done, Agent. I'll be sure to note that in my report to HQ."
Our spy game had started almost by accident, born out of necessity and a shared love of terrible action movies. It was Moose's idea. We'd been trying to figure out how to keep our relationship under wraps—not out of shame, but out of a desire for privacy in the fishbowl world of professional sports.
"We need a code," Moose had said one night, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back as we lay in bed. "Something that sounds innocent to anyone else, but that we'll understand."
I'd propped myself up on one elbow, raising an eyebrow at him. "What, like 'the eagle has landed' or something?"
Moose's eyes had lit up. "Exactly! But more... us. Like, 'the puck has dropped' or 'the sweater is knitted.'"
From there, we expanded it into full-blown spy personas. I became Agent Speedster, the daring field operative always ready for action. Moose was Agent Knitter, the unassuming analyst whose crafty skills were invaluable to the mission.
Our operations were usually just mundane meetups—coffee dates, quick lunches, late-night rendezvous at one of our apartments. But the game added a layer of excitement, a shared secret that was just ours.
More importantly, it gave us a way to communicate in plain sight. "Operation Caffeine Boost" meant grabbing coffee between my practices and Moose's meetings. "Classified Documents Exchange" was code for swapping sweat-soaked jerseys for freshly laundered ones.
It was silly, sure, but it was ours. And it had become a lifeline, a way to stay connected despite our hectic schedules and the need for discretion.
Now, sitting across from Moose in our usual booth, I wished I could use our spy code to decipher what was really going on with him. He was trying to keep something to himself. His shoulders were tense, and his eyes darted to his phone every few seconds.
"So," I said, dropping the spy act. "How's work going? Any exciting new marketing campaigns in the works?"
Moose's hand tightened around his coffee mug. "It's fine. Just busy, you know how it is."
I did know. My life as a professional athlete was demanding. Something in Moose's tone set off alarm bells.
"Hey," I said softly, reaching across the table to touch his hand. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything."
For a moment, I thought he might open up. His eyes met mine, and I saw a flicker of... something. Vulnerability? Fear? But then his phone buzzed, and the moment was gone.
"I know," he said, pulling his hand back to check the message. "It's nothing, really. Just a lot going on right now."
I nodded, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. "Okay. But if you need to debrief with your fellow agent, I'm here. Anytime."
Moose's smile was grateful, if a bit strained. "Thanks, Finn. I mean, Agent Speedster."
As we finished our coffee, making small talk about the team and upcoming games, I couldn't shake the feeling that our little spy game was becoming less of a fun diversion and more of a real cover.
***
The following morning, I arrived at the rink with a mixture of excitement and trepidation churning in my gut. Sergei and Blaise were already there, huddled together near the bench, their breaths creating small clouds in the chilly air.
"Ready for this?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Blaise cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit I'd noticed he had before big games. "Born ready, short stack. Let's show these losers how it's done."
Sergei just nodded, his eyes focused on the ice with an intensity that was almost unnerving.
As the rest of the team filtered onto the ice, I could feel their curious glances. Word had obviously spread about our impromptu strategy session. Coach Fraser was the last to arrive, his face set in its usual scowl as he surveyed the team.
"Alright, listen up," he barked, his voice echoing through the rink. "Novak, Volkov, Johnson - front and center."
We skated over, exchanging quick glances. This was it.
"Now," Fraser continued, his bushy eyebrows drawn together, "you three seem to think you've cooked up some magic formula to turn this team around. I'm giving you exactly ten minutes to prove it's not just a load of hot air. Understood?"
"Yes, Coach," we replied in unison.
"Good. Now get out there and show me what you've got."
As we took our positions, lined up against our defensemen and goalie, I could feel the weight of everyone's stares. Blaise flashed me a cocky grin, but I saw the nervousness in his eyes. Sergei remained stoic.
The puck dropped, and we were off.
It wasn't perfect. Our timing was a bit off on the first play, and Blaise nearly collided with our defenseman on a complicated crossover. But as we settled into the rhythm, something clicked.
Sergei's positioning was flawless, creating space where there seemed to be none. Blaise's shot was as lethal as ever, finding the tiniest gaps in our goalie's defense. And me? I felt like I was flying, my speed finally being utilized to its full potential.
Five minutes in, we executed a perfect tic-tac-toe play that left even our own teammates gaping. The puck hit the back of the net with a satisfying thwack, and for a moment, the rink was silent.
Then Coach Fraser's whistle cut through the air. "Alright, that's enough. Everyone gather 'round."
We skated over, my heart pounding in my ears. This was it—the moment of truth.
Coach Fraser's face was unreadable as he looked us over. "Well," he said finally, "I've seen worse."
Coming from him, that was practically a standing ovation.
"We'll incorporate elements of this into our strategy for the next game," he continued. "Novak, Volkov, Johnson—good work. Great players think outside the box. The rest of you, pay attention. This is what happens when you use your brains as well as your brawn."
A ripple of excitement went through the team. I caught Quinn's eye, and he gave me a subtle thumbs up.
"Don't get cocky," Fraser warned, but there was a glint in his eye that I'd never seen before. "This is just the beginning. We've got a lot of work to do if we're going to turn this season around."
As we broke into groups to start running the new plays, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Sergei, a rare smile on his face.
"We did good, Rookie," he said quietly.
Blaise skated by, bumping my fist. "Not bad, short stack. Not bad at all."
For the first time in weeks, I felt a surge of real hope. We weren't just a team of misfits anymore. We were a force to be reckoned with.
And as I watched Coach Fraser explaining our new strategy to the rest of the team, his usual gruff demeanor softened by genuine enthusiasm, I knew we'd done more than just come up with a new play.
We'd reignited the spark that had been missing from our team. Now, it was up to us to fan it into a flame.
***
I settled onto Moose's couch, the familiar leather cradling my body. The scent of our takeout dinner lingered in the air, mixing with the subtle pine fragrance of Moose's favorite candle. It should have been cozy, comfortable. Instead, an electrical charge hung in the atmosphere, like the air before a thunderstorm.
Moose sat beside me, his large frame tense. He'd been quiet throughout dinner, responding to my attempts at conversation with distracted hums and half-formed sentences. Now, as he stared at his phone for what felt like the hundredth time that evening, I couldn't keep my frustration in check any longer.
"Okay, what's going on?" I asked, trying to keep my voice level. "You've barely said two words all night, and you keep checking your phone like it's going to explode."
Moose's head snapped up, guilt flashing across his features before being replaced by a forced smile. "It's nothing, Finn. Just some work stuff."
"Work stuff," I echoed, unable to keep the skepticism out of my voice. "The same 'work stuff' that's had you stressed and moody for days now?"
He ran a hand over the top of his head. "It's complicated, okay? There's a lot going on with the team's marketing strategy, and—"
His phone buzzed again, cutting him off. Moose's jaw clenched as he read the message, his knuckles whitening around the device.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
I leaned forward, trying to catch his eye. "Hey, talk to me. Whatever it is, we can sort it out."
For a moment, I thought he might open up. His shoulders sagged, and he looked at me with such raw vulnerability that it made my chest ache. But then, as quickly as it appeared, the moment passed. The walls were suddenly back in place, and he shook his head.
"It's fine, Finn. I've got it under control."
Frustration bubbled up inside me. "Come on. We're supposed to be partners. Secret agents, remember? Let me help."
I reached for his hand, but he pulled away, standing up abruptly. "I said it's fine. Can you just drop it?"
The rejection stung, but I pressed on. "No, I can't just drop it. Not when I can see how much this is eating at you. Please, let me in."
He paced the length of the living room, agitation radiating from every movement. "You don't understand. This is my job, my career. I can't just—"
His phone buzzed again, and something in me snapped.
"Oh for fuck's sake," I growled, jumping to my feet. "Can you put that thing down for five minutes and actually talk to me?"
Moose whirled on me, his eyes flashing. "What do you want me to say? That I'm drowning in work? That I'm terrified of screwing up this opportunity? That I don't know how to balance this job with... with us?"
His words hung in the air between us, heavy and charged. I took a step toward him, my heart racing. "Yes," I said softly. "That's exactly what I want you to say. Because then we can face it as a team."
For a moment, I thought I'd gotten through to him. But then his phone buzzed again, and the spell was broken.
"I need to take this," he muttered, already turning away.
"Moose, Agent Knitter, wait—"
"Not now!" he snapped, his voice harsher than I'd ever heard it. "Can you just... can you drop the stupid spy shit for five minutes and let me handle this?"
The words hit me like a body check, leaving me winded. His eyes widened, shock and regret flooding his face as he realized what he'd said.
"Oh, fuck, I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"It's okay," I said quickly, even though it wasn't. My chest felt tight, and I struggled to keep my voice steady. "You're stressed. I get it."
Moose ran a hand over his face, looking lost and defeated. "Please, I didn't—"
"I should go," I cut him off, already moving toward the door. "Early practice tomorrow."
"Wait—" Moose started, but I was already halfway out the door.
The cool night air hit me as I stepped outside, a stark contrast to the suffocating tension of the apartment. As I walked to my car, I couldn't shake the image of Moose's face—the stress, the anger, and the regret. Something was eating at him, something beyond normal work pressure.
***
The next morning, I arrived at the rink early, hoping the familiar rhythm of stick handling drills would clear my head. To my surprise, Sergei and Blaise were already there.
"You look like shit, Novak," Blaise said by way of greeting.
"Thanks," I muttered, lacing up my skates.
Sergei studied me with his shrewd gaze. "Problems with your big friend?" he asked.
I nearly dropped my stick. "What? No, I—how did you—"
Sergei's laugh was a low rumble. "I have eyes, Rookie. And many years of watching teammates fall in love."
"We're not—it's not—" I stammered, feeling heat creep up my neck.
"Relax, buddy," Blaise chimed in. "Your secret's safe with us. Though you might want to tone down the googly eyes during team meetings."
I buried my face in my hands, equal parts mortified and relieved. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to those paying attention," Sergei said kindly. "Now, come. We have a new play to perfect before Coach arrives."
As we ran through our drills, executing the new strategy with increasing precision, I felt some of the tension drain from my body. Whatever was going on with Moose, whatever challenges we faced, I wasn't alone. I had teammates—friends—who had my back.
After practice, I pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over Moose's contact for a long moment before I began to type:
Agent Speedster requests offline debrief with Agent Knitter. Urgent.
I hit send, my heart racing.