3. FINN #2
The woman who can call me out with one raised eyebrow and make it sting more than a full team chirp session. The woman who doesn’t giggle because I flirt. Doesn’t melt because I smile. Doesn’t act like my attention is some rare prize she should be grateful to receive.
She gives it right back.
She’s quick. Dry. Calm under pressure in a way that doesn’t look cold. I’ve seen her handle Emerson mid-spiral, Ty mid-monologue, and drunk fans asking ridiculous questions after games. She doesn’t rattle easily.
And she’s hot.
There’s no getting around that part.
Not pretty in a soft, forgettable way. Hot in a way that sneaks up and then refuses to leave. The kind of woman who can wear scrubs, a hoodie, or jeans and still make a man wonder what her skin would feel like under his hands.
Which I wonder all too often.
Bailey glances up then, like she feels me looking.
I should turn away.
I don’t.
Her eyes catch mine across the room, and for one second, the bar drops back. Not gone. Just muted. The laughing, the music, the clink of glasses, all of it fades behind the sharp little pull of her attention.
She lifts her brows.
Not flirty in the obvious way.
More like, Are you done being dramatic over there?
My mouth curves before I can stop it.
I lift my beer a little.
She shakes her head, but she smiles.
Small. Private. Then Jade says something to her, and Bailey looks away.
Probably for the best.
I take a drink and turn back to the table before someone catches me staring like a rookie with his first crush.
Too late.
Knox is watching me.
The man has a gift for appearing at the exact wrong moment with the exact wrong amount of perception.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
His eyes flick toward Bailey, then back to me.
I point at him. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Great. Love the silent judgment.”
Knox takes a drink of his beer, calm as ever. “Just don’t be stupid.”
“Stupidity is one of my core strengths, and the irony of that coming from you can’t be missed.”
He glares at me. “I know I hooked up with Emerson and didn’t tell Dylan, but it’s not the same thing because it snuck up on us, and now we’re together for real.”
“So, for you, it was justified?”
“Just not with Bailey, Finn.”
Not with her.
Yeah.
I know.
That’s the problem.
Bailey isn’t a woman I’d mess around with for fun and then leave tangled in awkwardness. She isn’t a random number in my phone or a post-game distraction or a bad decision I could blame on adrenaline and beer.
She matters to people I care about.
Worse, she matters to me.
More than she should. More than I’ve admitted out loud. Maybe more than I’ve admitted to myself.
I look back across the room because apparently, I have no survival instincts left.
Bailey is laughing again, head tipped slightly toward Emerson, shoulders relaxed. She looks like warmth and trouble and a life I wouldn’t know how to step into without tracking dirt across the floor.
She looks like the kind of woman who expects people to mean what they say.
I’ve made an entire life out of making sure they don’t ask too closely.
Ty bumps my shoulder. “You good?”
I look at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He studies me for half a second, then Jace leans against the table. “We were talking about the program.”
“Then I was definitely listening.”
“Liar,” Dylan says.
I grin because that’s easier than answering honestly. “Selective listener.”
“The foundation of all male friendships,” Nico says, calm as ever.
The table moves on after that, exactly the way I need it to. Ty starts talking about the first clinic. Jace asks whether they’re actually putting Gavin in charge of talking to children. Gavin says no. Beck says that’s probably best for everyone.
I laugh with them, slide back into the rhythm, and let the noise cover the part of me that stays across the room.
With Bailey, and the way she looked at me when she noticed something was off.
With the way she didn’t push, didn’t soothe, didn’t make a scene.
She just looks past the easy parts.
And God help me, I want to let her.
***
The media setup is in the back hallway near the private event room, which is really just a stretch of wall with a Ravens backdrop, two standing lights, and a camera pointed at us like we’re about to say something important.
Gavin stands beside me, looking exactly like a man who would rather block slap shots with his collarbone than answer questions.
I clap him on the shoulder. “Relax. If you freeze, I’ll do the talking.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“See? We’re bonding.”
His only answer is a slow blink.
A team staffer checks her phone, then looks at us. “Just a few quick questions about the game, opening night, and the foster youth program. Keep it warm and community-focused.”
Warm and community-focused.
Easy.
I can do warm. I can do community. I can do focused if someone writes it at the top of the page and underlines it twice.
The reporter from a small local TV station smiles as the camera light turns red. “Finn, big opening-night win. How does it feel to start the season this way?”
I grin because that’s the part everyone expects. “It feels good. Stockton made us work for it, but that’s what you want early in the season. You want to see where the team is, what we can clean up, and how we respond when things get tight.”
Good answer.
Clean.
Professional.
No one can accuse me of being nothing more than a handsome distraction.
The reporter turns slightly. “And you had the assist on Beck Dawson’s goal.”
“The assist of the night,” I say.
Gavin exhales beside me.
The reporter laughs. “You seemed excited.”
“I’m a supportive teammate.”
“Some would say very supportive.”
“Those people are correct.”
That part is easy too. A little charm. A little self-awareness. Give them something they can clip for the team account, something fans can comment on later.
Then the reporter’s expression softens.
“And now you and Gavin are helping represent the Ravens’ new foster youth hockey program. What does that mean to you?”
There it is.
It opens a door I keep closed.
For half a second, the hallway isn’t the hallway. The camera light isn’t there. Gavin isn’t beside me.
It’s a front porch that isn’t mine.
A social worker with kind eyes and tired hands.
A trash bag at my feet because nobody wasted luggage on a kid who might not stay.
Adults smiling while someone official watched. Saying the right things. We’re so happy to have him. He’ll fit right in here.
Then the door closes.
The smiles change.
A house getting colder, the second there wasn’t anyone left to impress.
Me standing there wishing I could disappear before anyone decided I was taking up too much space.
“Finn?” the reporter prompts gently.
I blink once.
The hallway comes back.
Camera. Lights. Backdrop. Gavin’s stillness beside me.
I smile.
“It means a lot,” I say, and my voice sounds normal because I’ve had years of practice making sure it does.
“Hockey gave me structure when I needed it. A place to go. People who expected me to show up, work hard, and be part of something bigger than myself. If this program can give even one kid that feeling, then it matters.”
The reporter nods. “That’s powerful.”
I keep the grin easy, but not too big. Sincere, but not messy. That’s the line. Close enough to the truth that it works. Far enough from it that nobody reaches in.
Gavin answers the next question, short and steady, talking about access to equipment and making the rink less intimidating for kids who’ve never played before.
Solid answer.
Very Gavin.
When the camera light finally clicks off, the reporter thanks us and says the clip was great.
Exactly what they needed.
I step away from the backdrop and take a breath that doesn’t quite fill my lungs.
Gavin looks at me.
I point at him before he can say anything. “Don’t get emotional on me, Rhodes.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Good. It’d be uncomfortable for everyone.”
He studies me for a second too long.
Then he nods once and walks back toward the bar.
I stay in the hallway a moment longer.
Behind me, The Thirsty Raven is loud with celebration. Easy voices. Glasses clinking. Teammates laughing. The version of the night I know how to handle.
I rub a hand over my face, pull the smile back into place, and head toward the noise.
Keep it light.
Keep them laughing.