1. BAILEY #2
The faceoff happens near center ice, and the players reset. Knox comes over the boards for his shift, all focus and controlled movement. Emerson goes still beside me.
Finn drops onto the boards, breathing hard, cheeks flushed from the shift. Ty says something to him, and Finn laughs, quick and bright, already back in that easy skin he wears so well.
But I saw the way he turned serious the second the puck touched his stick.
Plenty of men are good at their jobs. I work with surgeons who can repair a body while being absolute disasters in every other category of human interaction.
Competence is attractive, sure, but it’s not a personality.
It is definitely not a reason to forget that Finn flirts like it’s a community service.
Still, there is something about watching him play that makes him harder to dismiss.
Finn O’Malley off the ice is all loose smiles and quick comebacks.
Finn O’Malley on the ice is calculation wrapped in speed.
The game surges on. Stockton gets a shot on goal, and Gavin blocks it with his chest, dropping into position like a wall with reflexes. The crowd chants his name. Gavin doesn’t acknowledge this because Gavin, as far as I can tell, considers public affection a mild inconvenience.
“Is Gavin always that calm?” Priya asks.
“Yes,” Maren says.
“Even when people are launching frozen rubber at his face?”
“Especially then,” Sienna says.
Jade takes a slow sip of beer. “Terrifying job choice, but it makes sense.”
The Ravens clear the puck, and a line change sends Finn back over the boards.
The crowd responds before he even gets near the play.
He has that thing some athletes have. Not just skill.
Presence. People look for him. Kids press closer to the glass when he passes.
Women in the lower bowl sit up a little straighter.
Men in Ravens jerseys yell his name like they know him personally.
Finn feeds off it, or at least he looks like he does.
He taps his stick once against the ice, calling for the puck. Ty sends it his way. Finn catches it, pivots away from a hit, and sends a pass across the slot so clean that even Priya makes a sound.
Beck gets the shot off.
This time, the puck slams into the back of the net.
The arena erupts.
Everyone is on their feet before I even decide to stand. Emerson grabs my arm. Jade screams directly into my ear. Priya yells, “Holy shit!”
The goal horn blasts through the rink, deep and loud enough to vibrate in my chest.
On the ice, Beck gets mobbed first, but Finn is right there, grinning now, all that focus cracking open into pure satisfaction. He throws both hands up like he scored it himself.
The guys immediately shove him.
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Maren shakes her head, smiling. “He is such an attention whore.”
“Why?” Priya asks.
“Because he just assisted,” I say. “He didn’t score.”
Priya watches Finn accept an aggressive helmet shove from Ty while still looking delighted with himself. “Does he know that?”
“Oh, he knows,” Emerson says.
Finn turns toward the crowd, still laughing, still lit up from the play.
Then his eyes find our section again.
No, not our section.
Me.
For half a second, the noise drops behind my pulse.
He points his gloved hand toward the ice, then toward Beck, like he’s very generously clarifying that yes, he knows who actually scored.
I shake my head despite myself.
Finn grins.
My body reacts before my common sense can file an objection.
Heat slips up my neck. Small. Annoying. Completely unnecessary.
Priya leans forward. “So Finn didn’t score, but he helped make it happen.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“That’s an assist?”
“Yep.”
She nods like she’s filing it away. “Okay. That makes sense.”
On the ice, Finn is still getting shoved by his teammates for celebrating like he personally saved the franchise. Beck leans in and says something to him. Finn puts one gloved hand to his chest, offended, then gestures toward the scoreboard as if the replay has clearly proven his importance.
Ty laughs and sprays water in his direction.
Finn dodges it without even looking.
Jade watches him with open amusement. “He must be exhausting.”
“He is,” Emerson says.
I keep my eyes on the ice. “Also effective.”
Emerson turns her head toward me.
I immediately regret speaking.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“That was a hockey observation.”
“Of course.”
“Because he assisted on the goal.”
“Right.”
The game resets, and Finn’s line stays out for another shift. He skates past the bench, taps his stick against the boards once, then points at Beck like he’s generously allowing him to enjoy the goal he actually scored.
Beck’s expression doesn’t change much, but he bumps Finn with one shoulder on the way by.
It’s small. Familiar. The kind of thing teammates do without thinking.
The Ravens are like that. They chirp each other, shove each other, steal water bottles, complain about music, and somehow turn all of it into a language. After spending enough time around them last summer through Emerson and Knox, I’ve learned that half their affection sounds like an insult.
Finn is fluent.
He catches Ty circling back toward the bench and says something that makes Ty flip him off without breaking stride.
Priya blinks. “Did he just get flipped off by his own teammate?”
“Yep.”
“Is that bad?”
“No,” Maren says. “That’s friendship.”
“Hockey friendship,” Sienna adds. “Different dialect.”
A whistle stops play near the benches, and the arena camera cuts to a clip from before puck drop.
The screen shows players moving through the tunnel in full gear.
Knox walks through first, head down, focused.
Dylan behind him, jaw set. Ty bouncing slightly to whatever awful song is probably trapped in his head.
Then Finn appears.
The camera catches him at the locker-room door. He stops, taps the doorframe twice with his gloved hand, and steps through.
The arena reacts with a familiar cheer, like everyone already knows the ritual.
Priya points up at the screen. “What was that?”
“His thing,” I say. “He taps the doorframe before games.”
“Every game?”
“Every game I’ve seen.”
Jade glances at me. “You track his rituals?”
“I track team rituals.”
“Uh-huh.”
On the screen, Finn spots the camera and flashes a grin before disappearing down the tunnel. Back on the bench, real-time Finn looks up at the replay, sees himself, and gives the crowd a dramatic little bow from his seat.
The place eats it up.
“He really can’t help himself,” Jade says.
“No,” I say before I think better of it. “He can.”
That earns me a look from Emerson.
I sigh. “He knows exactly when he’s doing it.”
There’s a difference between being charming by accident and using charm like a tool. Finn knows how to pull a laugh out of a room. He knows how to loosen a tense bench. He knows when to wink at a kid, when to chirp a teammate, when to make himself the easiest person in the building to like.
I don’t know why that thought settles uneasily in my chest.
I only know it does.
The faceoff happens, and the game speeds up again.
Stockton gets a rush, two players cutting into the zone with only one Raven back. The crowd noise tightens. Gavin lowers in the crease, tracking the puck with that eerie stillness he has, all calm under pressure.
The pass comes across.
Gavin slides.
The shot fires.
He blocks it with his pad, and the puck kicks out toward the boards.
The crowd roars, and Gavin gets up like none of it raised his heart rate by even a single beat.
Jade shakes her head slowly. “That man’s blood pressure must be incredible.”
“He’s a goalie,” Maren says. “I’m not sure normal rules apply.”
Finn gets the puck after the clear and carries it through the neutral zone, drawing a Stockton player toward him. For one second, he looks like he might try to do too much. Then he pulls back, waits, and sends the puck to Roman, who is exactly where he needs to be.
Roman doesn’t smile. Roman rarely smiles. But he gives Finn the smallest nod as he takes the pass.
Finn taps his stick once on the ice in answer.
It’s quick. Easy to miss, but I see it.
The play moves away from him, but Finn keeps skating hard, circling back to cover space, reading where the danger might come from next. He’s not the biggest guy out there. Not the loudest player on the ice, despite being very determined to be the loudest person off it.
But he keeps showing up in the right place.
A kid near the glass bangs both hands against the boards as Finn passes. Finn glances over mid-stride, just long enough to make the kid light up again, then snaps his focus back to the puck.
A few shifts later, Finn takes a hit near the boards, absorbs it, and keeps the puck moving. A second later, he’s laughing at whatever the Stockton player says to him, already skating backward, already fine.
My stomach still tightens before the laugh comes.
I hate that.
Not him.
The reaction.
The way my body notices before my brain gives permission.
Finn turns during the line change and glances toward our section.
Toward me.
It lasts less than a second.
His grin shifts. Softer. Warmer. Not the one he gives the whole arena.
I look back at the ice and lift my drink to my mouth.
Absolutely not.