14. Finn
Chapter fourteen
Finn
T he antiseptic smell of the clinic hallway burned my nostrils as I waited outside Dr. Chen's office. My fingers drummed an erratic beat on my plastic chair, each tap echoing the worry in my chest. The clock on the wall ticked away, its hands moving with agonizing slowness. I'd been here often enough in the past few weeks that the receptionist, a kind-faced woman with long grey hair, offered me a sympathetic smile.
When the door finally creaked open, Moose emerged, his large frame seeming to fill the narrow hallway. His eyes were red-rimmed but clearer than I'd seen in weeks, like storm clouds finally parting after days of rain.
I stood, my heart doing that familiar flip it always did when I saw him. "Hey, you," I said, my voice softer than I intended. "How'd it go?"
Moose's broad shoulders rose and fell in a heavy sigh. He ran a hand up over his head. "Tough," he admitted, his voice rough. "But good. Dr. Chen's got me digging into some old stuff. It's like... like pulling out splinters I didn't even know were there."
I nodded, wishing I could do more than just listen. The past few weeks had been a blur of worry and helplessness, watching Moose struggle with demons I couldn't fight for him.
"You up for grabbing a coffee?" I asked, gesturing toward the exit. "Or do you need some time to decompress?"
Moose's lips quirked up in a small smile, but it was more than I'd seen in days. "Coffee sounds great. Maybe that place with the ridiculously oversized mugs?"
I chuckled, relief washing over me. "Sounds perfect." I smirked slightly. "My hands always look even tinier holding those things."
As we walked out of the clinic, Moose's hand found mine, his palm rough and warm against my smaller fingers. The simple gesture spoke volumes—it was Moose reaching out, something he'd struggled to do since his breakdown.
"Thanks for being here," he said quietly as we stepped into the crisp Portland afternoon. A light drizzle misted the air, clinging to Moose's eyelashes in a way that made my breath catch. "I know it's not easy."
I swallowed hard, pushing down the lump in my throat. "I wouldn't be anywhere else," I replied, giving his hand a squeeze.
But even as I said it, doubts gnawed at me. Was I enough? Could I really support Moose through this when I was still wrestling with my own insecurities? The press of his hand in mine felt like an anchor, but also a reminder of how much smaller I was, how much less I brought to the table.
We walked in comfortable silence toward the coffee shop, the rhythm of our steps in sync despite our height difference. I snuck glances at Moose's profile, noting the tension in his jaw, the furrow between his brows that hadn't quite smoothed out. But there was something else too—a determined set to his shoulders that hadn't been there before.
I settled into an oversized armchair, my feet barely touching the floor, while Moose sank into the one across from me, the furniture creaking slightly under his weight. The coffee shop hummed with quiet conversation and the hiss of espresso machines.
"So," I started, wrapping my hands around the comically large mug. "Do you want to talk about the session, or would you rather I regale you with tales of Blaise's latest locker room antics?"
Moose's lips twitched. "As tempting as Blaise's drama sounds, I think... I think I want to talk about it. If that's okay?"
I nodded, surprised but pleased. "Of course. I'm all ears."
He took a deep breath, his fingers tracing the rim of his mug. "Dr. Chen had me talk about my dad today. About how I always felt like I was disappointing him by not being... I don't know, more of a 'man's man' or whatever."
"That must've been rough," I said softly, resisting the urge to reach across and take his hand.
"Yeah, it was. But it also felt... liberating? Like I was finally admitting it to myself." He paused, taking a sip of his coffee. "I realized I've been carrying around this idea of what a 'real man' should be, you know? And I've never fit that mold."
I snorted. "Join the club. I think I left that mold somewhere around 5'7"."
Moose's eyes met mine, a spark of understanding passing between us. "Exactly. But Dr. Chen... she helped me see that maybe the mold is the problem, not us."
"That's... wow," I said, genuinely impressed. "That's huge."
He nodded, a small smile playing at his lips. "Yeah. It's still sinking in, but... it feels good. Like maybe I can stop trying to be something I'm not."
"I like who you are," I blurted out, feeling heat rise in my cheeks.
Moose's smile widened. "Thanks. I'm pretty fond of who you are, too."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, sipping our coffees. Then Moose cleared his throat.
"Can I ask you something?" he said, his voice hesitant.
"Shoot."
"How do you do it? Deal with all the crap about your size, I mean. You never seem to let it get to you."
I barked out a laugh. "Oh, it gets to me. More than I like to admit. But..." I paused, gathering my thoughts. "I guess I realized somewhere along the way that I can't change it. So instead of fighting it, I decided to use it. Make it my strength instead of my weakness."
Moose leaned forward, his eyes intense. "How?"
"By being faster. More agile. By working twice as hard and being smarter on the ice." I shrugged. "It's not always easy, but it's better than hating myself for something I can't change."
"That's... that's really brave," Moose said quietly.
I felt my face flush again. "Not as brave as what you're doing. Facing your past and working through all this stuff. That takes real courage."
Moose reached across the table, his large hand engulfing mine. "Maybe we can learn from each other, huh? You can teach me about embracing who I am, and I'll... I don't know, teach you how to reach things on high shelves?"
***
The next morning at practice, I felt Moose's eyes on me from the stands. Knowing he was there filled me with a confusing mix of pride and anxiety. I pushed myself harder, my skates carving sharp arcs into the ice as I zipped through drills.
In the locker room after, the guys buzzed about our upcoming game against Michaels' team.
I yanked off my practice jersey, the damp fabric clinging to my skin. There was an undercurrent of tension to the chatter that I couldn't ignore.
"Heard Michaels is on a tear lately," Blaise said, his voice carrying across the room. "Bet that asshole's gonna try to start shit again."
I felt a prickle at the back of my neck, knowing without looking that several pairs of eyes had flicked in my direction.
Sergei's gravelly voice cut through the sudden quiet. "He targets small guys. Thinks it makes him look tough. It's pathetic, really."
"Easy for you to say," I muttered, focusing intently on unlacing my skates. "You're built like a brick wall."
"Doesn't matter," Sergei grunted. "Is not about size. Is about heart."
Coach Fraser strode in, his clipboard tucked under one arm. "Alright, listen up. We've got a tough game ahead of us. The team we play tomorrow plays dirty, but we're not going to stoop to their level. We're faster, we're smarter, and we're going to use that to our advantage."
He turned to me, his gaze intense. "Novak, I want you to stay focused out there. Don't let Michaels get in your head. Use your speed, create opportunities. Make him look like he's skating in molasses."
I nodded, trying to project more confidence than I felt. "You got it, Coach."
As Fraser continued outlining our strategy, I caught snippets of whispered conversations around me.
"Remember last time? Michaels nearly took Novak's head off."
"Yeah, but did you see how Finn made him look like an idiot in the third period?"
"Still, guy's a menace. Someone needs to teach him a lesson."
I gritted my teeth, the familiar mix of frustration and determination bubbling up inside me. Part of me wanted to yell at them, to insist I could handle Michaels on my own. But another part, the part that still felt like that kid always picked last in street hockey, wanted to shrink away from their concern.
Blaise dropped onto the bench beside me, his shoulder bumping mine. "Hey, man," he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "You know we've got your back out there, right?"
I met his gaze, surprised by the sincerity I saw there. "Yeah," I said, managing a small smile. "I know."
"Good," Blaise nodded. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he added, "Because I've been working on some truly spectacular chirps for Michaels. You're gonna love them."
I chuckled. "Can't wait to hear them."
As the guys continued to discuss strategy and trade barbs about Michaels, I found my resolve strengthening. Yes, I was smaller. Yes, Michaels had gotten the better of me before. But I wasn't alone in this. I had a team behind me, and more importantly, I had something to prove – not just to Michaels or the guys, but to myself.
I stood up, rolling my shoulders back. "Hey," I called out, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. All eyes turned to me. "I appreciate the concern, guys. Really. But let's not give Michaels more credit than he deserves. He's just another player, and we're a better team. Let's focus on winning, not on whatever crap he might pull."
The night before the game, I lay awake, my mind racing. But instead of dwelling on my size or Michaels' taunts, I focused on Moose's journey. If he could face his deepest fears in therapy, I could face mine on the ice.
***
The roar of the crowd faded to a dull hum as I stepped onto the ice, my skates cutting clean lines across the fresh surface. The familiar scent of cold and sweat filled my nostrils, grounding me in the moment. I caught sight of Moose in the stands, his broad frame easy to spot even from a distance. His presence steadied me like a lighthouse in a storm.
Coach Fraser's words echoed in my head as I took my position for the face-off. "Use your speed, create opportunities." I flexed my fingers inside my gloves, bouncing lightly on my skates.
The puck dropped, and the game exploded into motion. From the first shift, it was clear Michaels' team was playing for blood. Bodies slammed against the boards with sickening thuds, sticks clashed with more force than necessary.
Michaels wasted no time zeroing in on me. During our first encounter, he slammed me into the boards, his elbow conveniently finding my ribs.
"What's wrong, little man?" he sneered, his breath hot against my ear. "That big Russian's not protecting you today?"
I gritted my teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. Instead, I channeled my anger into speed, twisting away from him and racing down the ice. The puck found my stick, and I sent a beautiful pass to Blaise, who buried it in the net.
As we celebrated the goal, I caught Michaels' eye and couldn't resist a wink. His face darkened with rage.
The rest of the first period was a blur of speed and tension. Every time I touched the puck, Michaels was there, a looming presence of aggression and taunts. But I was ready for him now, using my agility to dance just out of his reach.
In the second period, things got uglier. Michaels caught me with a high stick, sending me sprawling onto the ice. My vision swam, the taste of blood sharp in my mouth. The ref's whistle blew, and I heard the roar of my teammates' outrage.
As I struggled to my feet, I saw Sergei squaring up to Michaels, looking like he was ready to drop gloves. I skated over quickly, putting a hand on Sergei's chest.
"Don't," I said, spitting blood onto the ice. "He's not worth it."
Sergei's eyes met mine, a question in them. I nodded, and he backed off, but not before growling something in Russian that made Michaels' eyes widen.
The resulting power play led to another goal for us, putting us up 2-0. As I skated back to the bench, I caught Coach Fraser's approving nod.
By the third period, Michaels was fuming. He came at me hard, clearly aiming to take me out of the game. But this time, instead of trying to match his physicality, I used my speed and agility to dance around him.
"What's wrong, big man?" I taunted, skating circles around him. "Can't keep up?"
The frustration on his face was sweeter than any goal. He lunged for me, but I was already gone, streaking down the ice with the puck. I heard him cursing behind me as I set up another beautiful assist.
In the final minutes, with our team up 3-1, Michaels made one last desperate attempt. He charged at me full-speed, clearly intending to crush me against the boards. Time seemed to slow down. I saw him coming, saw the rage in his eyes, the tension in his body as he prepared for impact.
At the last possible second, I sidestepped. Michaels, unable to stop his momentum, slammed into the boards with a resounding crash. The crowd gasped, then erupted into cheers as I scooped up the loose puck and raced toward the opponent's net.
The goalie didn't stand a chance. My shot found the back of the net just as the final buzzer sounded. 4-1. We'd done it.
As my teammates swarmed me, their jubilant cries filling the air, I sought out Michaels. He was still by the boards, being helped up by his teammates. Our eyes met across the ice. There was still anger there, but also something else. Respect, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it. I kept my mouth shut.
In the locker room after, Coach Fraser clapped me on the shoulder, his grip firm. "Smart playing out there, Novak," he said, pride evident in his voice. "You found a way to beat him by playing your own game."
I beamed, the praise washing away years of doubt. As I looked around at my cheering teammates, I felt a sense of belonging I'd never experienced before. I wasn't just the small, fast guy anymore. I was Finn Novak, and I'd proven I could stand tall against anyone.
Later that night, the adrenaline of the game still racing through my veins, I found myself on Moose's balcony. The cool Portland air carried the scent of rain and spring around the corner, a fine mist settling on my skin. The city lights twinkled below us, a constellation of urban stars.
Moose leaned against the railing, his broad frame silhouetted against the night sky. "I saw what you did out there today," he said softly, turning to face me. "The way you stood up to Michaels. It was... incredible."
I moved closer, drawn to his warmth like a moth to flame. "I learned from the best," I murmured, letting myself lean into him. "Watching you face your fears... it made me want to face mine."
Moose's arm encircled me, solid and comforting. His hand found the small of my back, and I felt the slight tremor in his fingers. It struck me then how far we'd both come—Moose allowing himself this vulnerability, me no longer flinching at the reminder of our size difference.
"We make a pretty good team, huh?" Moose said, his voice rumbling through his chest.
I tilted my face up to meet his gaze, seeing my own strength reflected in his eyes. "Yeah," I whispered. "We really do."
A distant song drifted up from a neighboring apartment, the melody faint but sweet. Moose cocked his head, listening, then began to hum along softly. I recognized the tune—an old jazz standard my dad used to play.
Without a word, Moose stepped back, keeping one hand on my waist while the other gently clasped mine. His eyes asked a silent question. In response, I stepped closer, placing my free hand on his broad chest.
We began to sway, there on the balcony under the misted sky. Moose continued to hum, the vibrations traveling through his chest to my palm. Our movements were unhurried, a gentle give and take like waves lapping at the shore.
I closed my eyes, letting the moment wash over me. The solid warmth of Moose's body, the tender way he held me, the soft rumble of his humming—it all formed a cocoon of safety and affection I'd never known before.
As we turned slowly, I caught our reflection in the sliding glass door. The sight nearly took my breath away. Moose's large frame curved protectively around my smaller one, but there was nothing diminishing about it. We fit together perfectly, each complementing the other's shape.
The song came to an end, but we continued our slow dance, moving to a rhythm only we could hear. Moose's humming faded, replaced by the soft sound of his breathing and the distant city noises.
"Finn," he murmured, his lips close to my ear. "I'm so proud of you."
Those simple words, spoken with such sincerity, broke something open inside me. All the pent-up emotion from the game, from the weeks of supporting Moose through his struggles, from years of fighting to prove myself—it all came rushing out.
I buried my face in Moose's chest, my shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Moose held me tighter, one hand moving to cradle the back of my head.
"It's okay," he whispered. "I've got you. Let it out."
And I did. I cried for the scared kid I used to be, always picked last and told he was too small. I cried for the rookie fighting to prove he belonged. I cried for Moose and the battles he was facing. But mostly, I cried from relief—relief that I'd found someone who saw me, all of me, and thought I was enough.
When the storm passed, I lifted my head, expecting to feel embarrassed. But the look in Moose's eyes held no judgment, only understanding and something deeper, something that made my heart race.
"Feel better?" he asked, thumb gently wiping away a stray tear.
I nodded, managing a watery smile. "Yeah. Sorry for ruining your shirt."
Moose chuckled, the sound reverberating through his chest. "Pretty sure it's seen worse. Hockey players aren't exactly known for being delicate."
That startled a laugh out of me. "True enough."
We fell silent again, still swaying slightly. The city hummed around us, but on that balcony, we were in a world of our own.
"Moose?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Hmm?"
I took a deep breath, gathering my courage. "I think... I know I've told you I love you, but now I think I'm falling in love with you."
Moose's movements stilled. For a heart-stopping moment, I feared I'd said too much. Then he tilted my chin up, his eyes shining with unshed tears.
"Finn Novak," he said, his voice rough with emotion, "I think I'm already there."