2. BAILEY
Chapter two
BAILEY
By the time the final buzzer sounds, my voice is half gone, my cheeks hurt from smiling, and the Ravens have given the entire arena exactly what it came for.
A win.
Not a pretty one. Stockton made them work for it, but that only makes the building louder when the horn blasts and the crowd surges to its feet.
Players pour over the boards, gloves tapping shoulders, grins flashing under the rink lights, and for a few minutes, the whole place feels like one loud, pulsing heartbeat.
Finn is in the middle of it, of course.
Laughing. Chirping. Lifting his stick toward the kids near the glass, like celebration is a responsibility he takes very seriously.
I clap because everyone else is clapping. Because the Ravens won. Because opening night should feel like this.
Not because Finn looks up one more time, finds our section, and tips his chin like we have some private joke between us.
We don’t.
We have banter.
Banter is harmless.
Usually.
By the time we shuffle out with the crowd, Priya has decided she understands at least thirty percent of the game, Jade is already asking whether post-win drinks are mandatory, and Emerson is failing spectacularly at pretending Knox Keller hasn’t made her night.
By the time we get outside, the October air feels cool against my face.
I take one deep breath and realize how tired I am.
Not in the bad way. Not hospital tired. This is different. Bright, buzzing exhaustion. The kind that comes from yelling too much and letting something fun pull you out of your own head for a while.
“We’re still going to The Thirsty Raven, right?” Jade asks.
Emerson looks at me. “You’re not bailing.”
“I didn’t say I was bailing.”
“Good.”
***
The Thirsty Raven is packed by the time we get there.
It always is after a home game, but opening night makes it worse. Or better, depending on how much a person enjoys shouting across tables while squeezed between hockey fans, team staff, and bar staff wearing tight little Ravens jerseys.
Warm light spills over dark wood and black-and-purple decor. Framed photos line the walls, old team shots mixed with newer ones. The bar smells like fried food, beer, and too many people celebrating in one room.
It should overwhelm me.
Instead, it feels familiar.
Last summer, when Emerson and Knox were busy trying not to fall in love while doing an absolutely terrible job of it, I spent more time around the Ravens than I expected. Team barbecues. Games. Group nights, post-game drinks.
Now our group of women drifts through the bar like we’ve done this a hundred times.
Maren spots Nico near a high-top table against the back wall and heads that way. Sienna smiles when Beck lifts a hand from across the room. Emerson sees Knox by the bar and tries to pretend her entire body doesn’t tilt toward him.
It does.
Love is embarrassing.
Cute, but embarrassing.
Jade leans close to me. “Do all hockey players stand like they’re waiting to be photographed for a calendar?”
“No.”
She lifts her eyebrow and looks across the room.
I follow her gaze to the group of Ravens near the back.
Fine.
“Some of them,” I amend.
Finn is there.
His hair is damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. He’s changed out of the gear and into dark jeans and a black Ravens quarter-zip pushed up at the forearms. He has a beer in one hand, a grin on his face, and three people around him laughing at something he said.
He looks relaxed.
Loose.
Easy.
Everything about him says no sharp edges, no hard feelings, no quiet places.
And that should be comforting, but it isn’t.
Because I’ve seen him when the smile drops, I’ve seen what’s underneath it on the ice, the focus and calculation and quick intelligence.
That part is harder to ignore.
Finn looks up before I can look away.
His grin shifts when he spots me. Not huge or performative. Just enough to make my stomach tighten.
“Bailey Sutton,” he calls, threading his way toward us with the kind of confidence that assumes the room will make space for him.
Annoyingly, it does.
I lift one hand. “Finn O’Malley.”
“You yelled tonight.”
“It was a hockey game.”
“I heard you.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I have excellent hearing.”
“You were on the ice.”
“And yet, somehow, I felt supported.”
Jade coughs beside me in a way that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
I ignore her.
Finn stops in front of me, his eyes flicking over my face, quick but not careless.
“You have fun?”
“Yes,” I say. “The team was good.”
“The team,” he repeats.
“Yes. That group of men you occasionally help.”
His mouth curves. “Occasionally?”
“You assisted. Beck scored.”
He puts a hand to his chest. “That hurts.”
“Facts often do.”
“I was instrumental.”
“You were useful.”
The word slips out before I think better of it.
For the briefest second, something shifts in his expression. It is gone so quickly, I almost miss it, swallowed by the grin that comes next.
“Useful?” he asks.
I should not have said that.
Useful sounds like something a woman says when she is trying very hard not to say impressive.
“Don’t let that go to your head,” I tell him.
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“Probably,” he admits. “But I’m showing restraint.”
I look him over before I can stop myself. Just a quick glance, but quick still counts when it travels over his shoulders, his forearms, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
Finn notices.
His smile changes again, softer at the edges, almost private.
My pulse gives an irritating little jump.
I reach for the nearest distraction and find Priya watching us with open interest.
“Priya has hockey questions,” I say.
Finn turns to her immediately. “I have hockey answers. Some of them are even accurate.”
Priya laughs. “I understand offsides now.”
“Strong start.”
“And assists.”
“Even better.”
“And that you celebrated like you scored.”
Finn points at me without looking away from Priya. “She’s spreading misinformation.”
“I’m describing events,” I say.
“I created opportunity.”
“You passed.”
“I created opportunity with flair.”
Jade nods. “That does sound more professional.”
“Thank you, Jade.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t encourage him.”
Finn leans in slightly, his attention sliding back to me. “You smiled.”
“I smile often. I’m a pleasant person.”
“That smile was at me.”
“It was near you.”
“Close enough.”
This is the problem with Finn.
He makes flirting feel like breathing. Easy in. Easy out. No weight. No consequences. If I flirt back, it can be a joke. If I don’t, he grins and moves on. No awkwardness. No pressure.
He gives everyone an exit.
Except tonight, when his eyes hold mine for one second too long, it doesn’t feel like an exit.
It feels like a question.
Before I can decide whether I want to answer it, a loud whistle cuts through the bar.
Not an actual whistle.
Ty Walker, two fingers in his mouth, obnoxiously effective.
“Speech thing happening over there,” he calls from near the back while pointing toward the far side of the bar.
Finn groans.
The room starts shifting in that direction, where a woman in a Ravens blazer stands on a small platform with a microphone in her hand.
A few players gather around. Knox moves beside Emerson, one hand settling casually at her lower back.
Nico wraps an arm around Maren. Beck finds Sienna.
The group tightens into something warm and familiar around me.
Finn stays close, his shoulder almost brushing mine.
The woman taps the microphone, and the feedback squeals once. Everyone winces.
“Sorry,” she says, smiling. “I’ll keep this quick since I know everyone is here to celebrate the win.”
The bar cheers.
Finn lifts his beer. “And what a win it was.”
“Beck scored,” I murmur.
Finn looks down at me. “Still on that?”
“Still true.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and for one stupid second, I forget what I was supposed to be proving to myself.
The woman at the mic continues. “Opening night is always special, but this season we’re also launching something that means a great deal to the Ravens organization. As many of you know, we’ve been building a new foster youth hockey program here in Santa Rosa.”
The air shifts beside me.
Finn goes still.
The beer remains loose in his hand. His smile stays in place. From a distance, he probably looks exactly the same.
He doesn’t feel the same.
I glance at him.
His attention is on the woman speaking, but the easy humor has drained from his face. Not gone completely. Finn is too practiced for that. It’s still there, but something underneath has locked down.
“We’ll be offering clinics, equipment support, mentorship opportunities, and community events throughout the season,” the woman says. “And we’re excited to announce two Ravens players who’ll be helping with on-ice training this year.”
The crowd starts clapping before she says the names.
I somehow already know Finn is one of them.
“Gavin Rhodes,” she says, gesturing toward the goalie, who looks like he would rather take a puck to the chest than be acknowledged in public.
The room cheers. Gavin lifts one hand, painfully brief.
“And Finn O’Malley.”
The bar erupts.
Finn’s smile snaps back into place so fast it almost convinces me I imagined the slip.
Almost.
Ty whoops. Jace claps him on the back. Someone starts chanting his name. Finn lifts his beer, laughs, shakes his head like this is all ridiculous and flattering and exactly the kind of attention he knows how to handle.
The room sees the funny one.
The charming one.
The guy who can turn a spotlight into a punchline before it gets too bright.
But I’m standing close enough to see his fingers tighten around the bottle.
Just once.
Then it’s gone.
Finn catches me looking.
For half a second, neither of us says anything.
His expression doesn’t ask for help. It doesn’t ask for comfort. It doesn’t even admit there’s anything to notice.
If anything, that makes the tightness in my chest worse.
Because I know what it looks like when people hide pain inside competence. I see it every day at the hospital. The patient who jokes while waiting for test results. The mother who says she’s fine because her kid is scared.
Finn smiles the same way.
If he keeps everyone laughing, no one will look too closely.
The microphone moves on with volunteer sign-ups, clinic dates, donation drives, and community involvement. The room hums around us, warm and excited.
I should be listening.
I am, technically.
But mostly, I’m watching Finn pretend this doesn’t matter.
When the announcement ends, applause rises again. Finn bows dramatically toward the room, earning a fresh wave of laughter. Gavin gives him a look so flat it should be framed.
Finn points at him. “Don’t be jealous of my stage presence.”
Gavin says nothing.
“See?” Finn says to the room. “Moved him to silence.”
People laugh.
I don’t.
Not because it isn’t funny.
Because now I can hear the effort under it.
And for the first time all night, I wonder what happens when the lights go off.