12. Finn
Chapter twelve
Finn
T he airport terminal was a cacophony of rolling suitcases, muffled announcements, and the constant hum of conversation. I paced back and forth, my hockey-honed muscles coiled tight with nervous energy. Each step was a mixture of excitement and dread, my emotions as turbulent as the planes taking off outside.
I checked the arrivals board for the thousandth time. Flight 1872 from Minneapolis: On Time. My stomach lurched, a feeling reminiscent of those seconds before a face-off, when the whole game hangs in the balance.
This visit meant everything to me. It wasn't just about introducing Moose to my parents; it was about bridging two worlds that had seemed impossibly far apart. My life in Minnesota—the backyard rinks, high school games, and family dinners—felt like a lifetime ago. Now, I was Finn Novak, NHL rookie, living in Portland, and I had a boyfriend my parents had never met.
What if they didn't approve? What if they couldn't accept this new version of me? The thoughts sent chills up my spine, colder than any ice rink I'd ever skated on.
But then another voice in my head, one that sounded suspiciously like Moose, reminded me of how far I'd come. I was living my dream, playing the sport I loved, and I'd found someone who understood me in a way I never thought possible.
As I turned to make another lap around the concourse, I spotted a family reunion happening nearby. A young woman, probably close to my age, was engulfed in a group hug by what looked like her parents and siblings. Their joy was apparent; their laughter carried across the terminal.
A lump formed in my throat. God, I'd missed my family. Video calls and texts were fine, but they couldn't replace the warmth of my mom's hugs or the proud gleam in my dad's eyes when he watched me play.
The PA system crackled to life, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Flight 1872 from Minneapolis now arriving at Gate C3."
My heart rate spiked, and I wiped my suddenly sweaty palms on my jeans. This was it. In a few moments, my past and present would collide, and I had no idea what the outcome would be.
As I stood on my tiptoes, searching for familiar faces in the crowd of disembarking passengers, I made a silent promise to myself. No matter what happened, I would be honest—about who I was, about Moose, about everything. I owed them that much, and I owed it to myself.
And then I saw them, highlighted by Mom's floral scarf and Dad's Twins cap. It was the embodiment of home, walking towards me. In that moment, all my fears and doubts melted away, replaced by a surge of love so strong it nearly knocked me off my feet.
"Finn!" Mom's voice cut through the airport chatter. Before I could say anything, she enveloped in a hug that smelled of her favorite lavender perfume and Dad's Old Spice.
"Hey, kiddo," Dad said, his hand warm on my shoulder. "You growing again? Swear you're taller than last time."
I laughed, some of the tension melting away. "Pretty sure I stopped growing years ago, Dad."
As we waited for their luggage, Mom's looked into my eyes. "You look tired, honey. Are they working you too hard?"
"I'm fine, Mom," I assured her, though my mind flashed to Moose and the darker circles under his eyes. "Just excited to have you here."
The drive home was a blur of catch-up chatter and pointing out Portland landmarks. As we neared my apartment, the knot in my stomach tightened again.
"So," Dad said, a hint of teasing in his voice. "When do we get to meet this Moose of yours?"
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. "He's joining us for dinner. You'll love him, I promise."
***
The clinking of cutlery and the warm aroma of roasted chicken filled my apartment. Moose sat across from me, his broad frame dwarfing the dining chair. To my left, Mom peppered him with questions, while Dad observed with amused interest.
"So," Mom began, leaning forward, "how did you end up in sports marketing? Finn mentioned you used to work in environmental consulting."
Moose's eyes lit up, and for a moment, I saw a glimpse of his usual energy. "Well, Mrs. Novak—"
"Anna, please," Mom interrupted with a smile.
"Sarah," Moose corrected himself, grinning. "It was actually a bit of a happy accident combined with a brainstorm. I saw the posting of a job at the arena, and I already felt close to the team due to my good friend, Quinn. When I worked on a project helping the Portland Lumberjacks with a sustainability initiative, I decided to go for it.
Dad chuckled. "Sounds like you stumbled into your dream job."
"You could say that," Moose agreed, his gaze flickering to me. My heart swelled, remembering how nervous he'd been about this career change.
"Speaking of dream jobs," Mom chimed in, turning to me. "Finn, honey, have you been eating enough? You look a bit thin."
I rolled my eyes. "Mom, I'm a professional athlete. Trust me, I'm eating plenty."
"Oh, you should see him at team dinners," Moose jumped in, a mischievous glint in his eye. "This one time, we were at this all-you-can-eat sushi place, and Finn—"
"Moose," I warned, feeling my cheeks heat up.
"No, no, I want to hear this," Dad said, leaning in conspiratorially.
Moose grinned, launching into the story. "So there's Finn, surrounded by empty plates, and he turns to the waiter with the most serious expression and says, 'I think I broke your restaurant.'"
The table erupted in laughter, and I couldn't help but join in, even as I shook my head in mock exasperation.
As the laughter died down, I watched Moose stifle a yawn. The shadows under his eyes seemed more pronounced in the soft lighting of the dining room. A pang of worry shot through me.
"How about you, Moose?" Dad asked, oblivious to my concern. "You play any sports growing up?"
His smile faltered for a split second before he recovered. "Ah, not really. I was more of the science fair type. Though I did have a mean bubble hockey game."
"Bubble hockey?" Mom asked, looking confused.
"Oh, you've got to see it to believe it," I jumped in, grateful for the chance to take some pressure off Moose. "It's like table hockey, but with this big plastic dome over it. Moose is unbeatable."
"Sounds like a challenge," Dad said, a competitive gleam in his eye.
Moose chuckled, but I noticed the laugh didn't quite reach his eyes. "Maybe we can set up a tournament while you're here."
As the conversation flowed, I found myself hyper-aware of every sign of fatigue from Moose. The way his responses grew shorter, how he'd blink hard every few minutes as if trying to stay alert, the slight tremor in his hand as he reached for his water glass.
"So there's Finn, covered head to toe in green slime," Moose was saying, recounting our latest PR stunt. "And he just grins and says, 'Well, I guess I really am a Lumberjack now!'"
My parents roared with laughter, and I felt a surge of pride. Moose had always been able to win people over with his charm and humor. But tonight, I could see the effort it was costing him.
"Honey, that sounds awful," Mom said, still chuckling. "Please tell me there are pictures."
"Oh, there's video," Moose winked, and I groaned dramatically.
"Don't worry, son," Dad said, patting my arm. "We've got plenty of embarrassing home videos to even the score."
"Dad, no," I protested, but I was smiling. It felt good, having the people I loved most in the world all together like this.
As the night wore on, I watched Moose's energy flagging. His animated gestures became less frequent, his booming laugh a little quieter. By the time we were clearing the dishes, he looked ready to collapse.
"Moose?" I said softly as we stood side by side at the sink. "You okay?"
He gave me a tired smile. "Just a bit worn out. It's been a long week."
I wanted to push, to ask what was really going on, but this wasn't the time or place. Instead, I squeezed his hand under the sudsy water. "Thank you for tonight. They love you, you know."
Something flashed in his eyes—doubt? fear?—but it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "I'm glad," he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "They're great. You're lucky."
***
In the wee hours of the following morning, with my parents still jet-lagged and asleep, I slipped out onto the balcony, phone in hand. The city was just waking up, a cool mist hanging over the streets.
I punched in Quinn's number, shivering slightly in the crisp morning air. He answered on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep.
"Finn? Everything okay?"
I took a deep breath. "It's about Moose. I'm worried about him, Quinn."
There was a rustling sound, like Quinn was sitting up in bed. "What's going on?"
I spilled everything—Moose's exhaustion, his forced smiles, how he seemed to be pushing himself too hard. "Has he always been like this?"
Quinn sighed, a static-y rush of air. "Look, there's something you need to understand about him. Remember how he told you he was a chubby kid? Well, it goes deeper than that."
"What do you mean?" I asked, my grip tightening on the phone.
"Okay, so, freshman year of college," Quinn began. "Moose and I were roommates, right? And man, I've never seen anyone work as hard as he did. He'd be up at dawn, hitting the gym before classes. Then he'd study until midnight, sometimes later."
"That doesn't sound so bad," I said, thinking about my own grueling schedule.
"No, you don't get it," Quinn insisted. "He wasn't just working hard. He was... punishing himself, almost. Like he was trying to prove he deserved to be there."
My stomach clenched. "Go on."
"There was this one time," Quinn continued, his voice softer now. "We had this big bio exam coming up. Moose had been studying for weeks, barely sleeping. The night before the test, I woke up at like 3 a.m., and he's still at his desk, muttering formulas under his breath."
I closed my eyes, picturing the scene.
"I told him to get some sleep, that he knew the material. And you know what he said? He looked at me with these... these desperate eyes and said, 'I can't. If I fail this, everyone will see I don't belong here. That I'm just a fat kid who got lucky.'"
"Oh man," I breathed.
"Yeah," Quinn agreed. "And the thing is, he aced that exam. Top of the class. But it didn't matter. It was never enough for him."
I swallowed hard. "Was it always about his weight?"
"Not always explicitly," Quinn said. "But it was always there, you know? Like this shadow hanging over him. I remember another time. There was this party sophomore year. Some girl—I think her name was Tiffany—she was flirting with Moose all night. He was so confused, kept looking around like he thought she was talking to someone else."
Despite the seriousness of the conversation, I couldn't help but smile a little. That sounded like Moose.
"When she finally asked him out, you know what he did? He laughed. Thought she was joking. It took me and two other guys to convince him she was serious."
My heart ached. How could Moose not see how amazing he was?
"And now, with this marketing gig..." Quinn trailed off.
"What about it?" I prompted.
"I wonder if being in the public eye is wearing on him," Quinn said slowly. "He's always been more comfortable behind the scenes. Remember how nervous he was before his first press conference?"
I did remember. He had been a wreck, convinced he was going to make a fool of himself. But once he got up there, he was brilliant, charming the reporters with his quick wit and genuine passion.
"Finn," Quinn's voice pulled me back to the present. "Moose doesn't always see himself clearly. In his mind, he's still that chubby kid no one really liked. No matter how much evidence there is to the contrary."
"But that's not true at all," I protested, my voice cracking. "Everyone loves Moose."
"I know," Quinn said softly. "But he doesn't always see it. Just... be patient with him, okay? And maybe... maybe talk to him about seeing someone. A therapist, I mean. It helped me a lot after my injury."
As I hung up, my mind was reeling. The Moose that Quinn described was so at odds with the confident, charismatic man I knew. And yet, it explained so much.
The sliding door opened behind me, and Mom stepped out, two steaming mugs in hand. "Thought you could use this," she said, handing me a coffee.
I took it gratefully, the warmth seeping into my cold hands. "Thanks, Mom."
She settled into the chair next to me, wrapping her robe tighter against the morning chill. "Want to talk about it?"
I looked at her, really looked at her, and suddenly I was a kid again, scraping my knee on the ice and needing my mom to make it better. "Yeah," I said, my voice small. "I really do."
I stared out at the city skyline, gathering my thoughts. "It's Moose," I finally said. "I'm worried about him."
Mom nodded, waiting for me to continue.
"He's been working so hard lately," I explained, my words tumbling out. "I mean, you saw him last night. He looked exhausted. And it's not just physical tiredness. It's like... he's wearing himself down from the inside out."
"I did notice he seemed a bit strained," Mom admitted. "Is it the new job?"
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Partly, maybe. But I think it goes deeper than that." I recounted what Quinn had told me about Moose's college days, about his struggles with self-image and self-worth.
Mom listened intently, her brow furrowed in concern. When I finished, she reached out and squeezed my hand. "Oh, honey. That must be so hard for both of you."
"I just don't know how to help him," I confessed, feeling a lump form in my throat. "He's always been the strong one, you know? The one who has it all together. And now..."
"Now you're seeing a different side of him," Mom finished for me. "A more vulnerable side."
I nodded, blinking back tears. "I love him, Mom. All of him. I just wish he could see himself the way I see him."
Mom was quiet for a moment, sipping her coffee. Then she said, "You know, this reminds me a bit of your dad."
I looked at her, surprised. "Dad? But he's always been so confident."
She chuckled softly. "Now, maybe. But when we first met? He was a mess of insecurities. Full of energy on the surface, sure, but underneath? He was constantly second-guessing himself, worried he wasn't good enough."
This was news to me. I'd always seen my dad as an unshakeable pillar of strength. "What changed?"
"Time," Mom said simply. "Patience. Love. And eventually, therapy." She gave me a knowing look. "It wasn't easy for him to admit he needed help, but it made a world of difference."
I mulled this over, thinking about how I could broach the subject with Moose. "How did you convince Dad to go?"
Mom laughed. "Oh, I didn't. His boss did, actually. Sometimes it takes hearing it from someone outside the relationship."
An idea began to form in my mind. Maybe Dr. Chen, our team psychologist, could help.
"The most important thing," Mom continued, "is to be there for Moose. Let him know you see him—all of him—and love him just as he is. But also that you support him in becoming the best version of himself."
I nodded, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders. "Thanks, Mom. I don't know what I'd do without you."
She smiled, pulling me into a one-armed hug. "That's what I'm here for, sweetheart. Now, how about some breakfast? I think I saw some eggs in your fridge that are just begging to be turned into an omelet."
As we stood to head inside, I felt a renewed sense of hope. The road ahead might be tough, but with Mom's wisdom and my love for Moose, I felt ready to face whatever challenges came our way.
"Oh, and Finn?" Mom said as she slid open the balcony door.
"Yeah?"
She turned to me, her eyes twinkling. "When you and Moose work through this—and you will—I expect a proper family dinner. Your father's dying to challenge him to that bubble hockey game."