3. FINN
Chapter three
FINN
Imake it three steps away from Bailey Sutton before I remember I’m supposed to be breathing like a normal person, which is apparently asking a lot right now.
Across the bar, Ty calls my name again, louder this time, because apparently giving a man thirty uninterrupted seconds is asking too much.
So I do what I always do. I lift my beer toward her, smile, and make the moment light enough, hoping that nobody looks too closely.
“Try not to miss me,” I tell her.
“I’ll be brave,” Bailey says.
Dry. Steady. Not overly impressed.
Exactly the kind of woman a smarter man would avoid.
I back away before I can say anything else. Before I can stand there too long looking at her mouth or that little crease between her eyebrows, she gets when she’s deciding whether I’m charming or irritating.
The answer is both, obviously.
I’ve built a whole personality around it.
The foster youth hockey announcement still hangs around the room, tucked under the noise. People are smiling about it, talking about it. Pointing toward me and Gavin like we’ve just been handed something important.
I keep my grin easy.
That part is automatic.
A guy in a faded Ravens cap lifts his beer as I pass. “O’Malley. Great game.”
“Great crowd,” I tell him.
He laughs, pleased, and that’s the whole exchange. Simple. Clean. He gives me praise, I give him a line, and everyone walks away with exactly what they expected.
A woman by the high-top near the wall touches my arm lightly. “Congratulations on the program. My sister fosters. It means a lot what you guys are doing.”
There it is.
Program.
Fosters.
Trash bags.
Borrowed rooms.
Adults who smiled too brightly while the social worker stood there, then made you wish you could disappear before you’d even unpacked.
The word gets too close to the one I’m trying not to think about, so I shove it down.
I take a drink to buy myself half a second.
“Thanks,” I say, keeping my voice warm. “The organization’s doing it right. Clinics, equipment support, mentorship. Kids deserve a place where people show up.”
Her expression softens. “They do.”
I nod once because I mean it.
If I didn’t care, I could laugh the whole thing off. I could turn it into another team obligation, another photo op, another smiling quote where I say all the right things and move on to the next game.
But kids needing someone steady?
Kids walking into unfamiliar rooms and pretending they’re not scared?
That’s not something I know how to make small.
So I do what I know how to do.
I smile bigger.
“You’ll have to get your sister to bring them out,” I tell her. “Gavin looks intimidating, but he’s great with kids as long as they don’t expect conversation.”
She laughs. “I’ll tell her.”
“Perfect. Tell her I’m the fun one.”
She laughs again, and I move on before her kindness can press into anything tender.
Halfway across the room, Ty spots me and spreads both arms as if I’ve returned from war.
“There he is,” he calls. “The hero of opening night.”
I point my beer at him. “Finally. Recognition.”
“The man who assisted on Beck’s goal and celebrated as if the arena owed him a parade.”
Beck, standing beside Sienna with one arm resting behind her chair, gives me a flat look. “It was an assist.”
“A beautiful assist,” Finn says.
“You passed the puck.”
Finn lifts his beer. “At exactly the right time.”
Ty claps a hand onto my shoulder hard enough to slosh beer up the neck of my bottle. “That’s why they picked you for the foster program. Natural humility.”
“Obviously,” I say with a laugh. “I’m a role model.”
Nico coughs into his beer.
Dylan mutters, “Jesus.”
Roman, who has been quiet near the end of the table, looks at me for one long second. “No.”
One word. No expression.
The guys lose it.
Even Gavin, who has the emotional range of a locked equipment room, almost smiles. For Gavin, that’s basically a standing ovation.
I put a hand over my heart. “Sokolov, that hurt.”
Roman lifts one shoulder. “Truth hurts.”
Ty points toward Gavin. “And what about you, Rhodes? Ready to inspire the youth?”
Gavin takes a slow drink of water because he believes in hydrating after a game. “No.”
Jace laughs. “Come on. Kids love goalies.”
“Kids love the gear,” Gavin says.
“Same thing,” I tell him. “You’re basically a heavily padded mascot with better reflexes.”
Gavin looks at me.
I smile at him.
He just shakes his head.
The group laughs, and the sound folds around me the way it always does. Warm. Familiar. Safe.
This is the version of me that everyone knows how to handle.
The one with the comeback ready. The one who can take a chirp, turn it, send it back sharper, and keep the mood moving. The one who doesn’t let silence settle long enough for anyone to look beneath it.
I can feel Bailey across the room without turning my head.
I’m not looking at her.
I’m aware of her.
There’s a difference.
She noticed the moment after the announcement. I know she did. Bailey notices everything. The change in a patient’s breathing. The tone under someone’s joke. The exact second a person tries to slide out of a conversation without making it obvious.
That woman looks at me like she’s not distracted by the smile, which is a problem, because most people stop there.
Most people like the smile.
Most people prefer the version of me that makes them laugh.
Bailey Sutton looks like she wants to know what happens after.
Ty bumps my shoulder again. “You listening, O’Malley?”
“Never.”
“We were discussing your community outreach era.”
“My what?”
“Your rebrand,” Jace says. “Less locker-room menace, more inspirational athlete.”
I shake my head. “I can be both.”
The laugh comes again, and I take it. I always take it.
Because laughter is easy currency. Spend enough of it, and people stop checking what you’re hiding in your pockets.
Knox waits until the guys are distracted before he steps closer.
He doesn’t make a show of it. Knox never does. He just shifts beside me, quiet and steady, holding his beer like he’s got all night and no interest in wasting words.
“You got quiet,” he says.
I glance at him. “I’m wounded you think that’s possible.”
“During the announcement.”
“Big moment. I was being respectful.”
His eyes stay on mine. “Were you?”
I look past him toward the bar, where fans are still laughing, drinking, celebrating. Safe noise. Easy noise. The kind of noise a person can disappear inside if he knows how.
“I’m always respectful,” I say.
Knox gives me a look.
“Fine. Occasionally respectful. When required by law or team policy.”
He doesn’t smile.
I take a drink of beer and lean one shoulder against the high-top. “What exactly are we doing here, Keller? Because if this is your attempt at a feelings circle, I need advance notice and at least one snack.”
“You don’t have to make everything a joke.”
“Sure, I do. People love consistency.”
“Finn.”
One word. Low. Not sharp.
Still, it gets under my skin.
I keep my expression easy because that’s muscle memory at this point. “It’s a good program.”
“I know.”
“Kids need it.”
“I know that too.”
“Then we agree. Historic night for us. Should we hug?”
Knox studies me for a second, and I hate how much he doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
“You looked like you wanted to be anywhere else,” he says.
Something cold and quick moves through my chest.
Not here.
Not in this bar. Not with fans five feet away and teammates laughing behind Bailey and us across the room, looking like the kind of woman who would hear the truth even if I wrapped it in a joke.
I set my beer down. “I looked handsome and community-minded.”
“You looked rattled.”
“Impossible. I’m famously stable.”
“Finn. Cut the bullshit.”
I exhale through my nose, still smiling because dropping it feels too much like giving him something. “It’s fine.”
His jaw tightens slightly. Not anger. Concern, maybe.
“Look,” I say, lowering my voice. “I know how to talk to kids. I know how to smile for the camera. I know how to say the right thing into a microphone. Nobody’s getting shortchanged.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“Then don’t be worried.”
“Easy as that?”
I lift my beer again. “I am a simple man.”
“No,” Knox says. “You’re not.”
For one second, I don’t have a comeback ready.
The silence feels too exposed.
Then Ty calls from the table, “O’Malley, get over here. We need you to defend your crimes against humility.”
I push off the high-top immediately. “Duty calls.”
Knox lets me go, but his eyes follow me.
I grin as I step back into the noise.
Because noise is better.
I make it back to the table and let the guys pull me into the chaos.
It’s familiar.
Easy.
The kind of chaos I know how to live inside.
I say the right thing at the right time, and the guys laugh. Ty flips me off. Nico shakes his head. Roman says one word that cuts the entire table in half. I grin through all of it, play my part, keep the rhythm moving.
And still, somehow, I know exactly where Bailey is.
Across the room, near the bar, standing with Emerson, Jade, Priya, Maren, and Sienna. Her Ravens hoodie is pushed up at the sleeves. Her dark hair falls over one shoulder, a little loose from the night, and she’s holding her drink with both hands while she listens to Jade talk.
She looks tired.
Not worn down. Just real.
Like she spent too many hours keeping other people alive and still showed up here with sharp eyes, a smart mouth, and enough warmth to make everyone around her lean in without realizing they’re doing it.
Then she smiles.
Hell.
I’ve wanted that smile aimed at me for months.
Which is inconvenient, because Bailey is not supposed to be the woman I track across rooms.
She’s Emerson’s best friend. She’s part of this whole tangled team-family thing now. She’s around enough that wanting her feels like putting my hand too close to something hot and pretending I don’t understand the basic science involved.
Also, she’s Bailey.