4. BAILEY #2
He just grabs a napkin, crouches down beside the mess, and says something too low for me to hear.
The boy looks at him, then down at the cookie.
Finn points solemnly at one broken piece, then the next, like he is explaining a very serious strategy. The kid’s shoulders lower by a fraction.
Then Finn picks up the pieces, tosses them into the trash, and hands him a new cookie from the tray.
No fuss.
No audience.
No big, charming performance.
A Ravens staff member, Carla, calls everyone to attention, and the room settles.
She explains the program in practical terms: weekly clinics, equipment support, beginner skate sessions, mentorship blocks, check-in tables, snack stations, transportation coordination, volunteer guidelines, background checks, and mandatory training.
It’s a lot.
It’s also exactly the kind of structure a program like this needs if it’s going to be more than a feel-good announcement after a hockey game.
I listen, take notes on my phone, and try not to look at Finn every time he shifts.
I fail enough to be embarrassing, though thankfully only internally.
Finn speaks after Carla, keeping it short.
“Most of these kids are walking into a rink for the first time. Some of them will be excited. Some of them will act like they’re too cool to care.
Some will be scared and mad about being scared, and honestly, I get that.
Skates are weird. Ice is cold and hard. Hockey gear smells like a crime scene. ”
A few kids laugh.
A few adults do too.
Finn’s grin appears, but he doesn’t push for more. He lets the laugh happen and moves on.
“So we keep it simple,” he says. “We don’t force enthusiasm. We don’t make a kid feel bad if they need a break. We help them learn where to go, what to do, and who they can ask when they’re overwhelmed. That’s the job.”
Something about that shifts quietly in the room.
Not dramatic. Just real.
Gavin steps up next, and somehow the room gets even quieter.
“If they fall, don’t make it a big deal,” he says. “Everyone falls. Let them get up if they can. Help if they ask. If they don’t want help, stay close.”
That’s it.
That’s his whole speech.
Jade slides in next to me and whispers, “I think I’m starting to get Gavin.”
I nod, still watching the front. “Yeah.”
After the meeting breaks into smaller groups, volunteers start moving to different stations. Emerson goes to talk with Carla about scheduling, and I end up near the edge of the room, reading through the volunteer packet.
A group of kids gathers around Finn and Gavin near a pile of sample gear. Gavin holds up a goalie glove, and one little girl stares at it like he has produced an artifact from another planet.
“You catch pucks with that?” she asks.
Gavin nods.
“Does it hurt?”
“Sometimes.”
She considers this. “That seems like a bad idea.”
“It is,” he says.
Finn laughs under his breath. “And yet, he keeps doing it.”
The girl smiles.
Another kid asks how fast the puck goes. Finn gives a real answer, then adds, “Fast enough that if you’re not paying attention, you’ll learn a life lesson with your shin.”
A boy snorts.
Finn points at him. “That laugh tells me you already know exactly what I’m talking about.”
The boy shrugs, but he’s smiling now.
That’s the thing I notice.
Finn doesn’t make the kids perform for him. He doesn’t demand big reactions. He doesn’t need them to think he’s hilarious every second. He jokes just enough to loosen the room, then gives them space to decide whether they want to step closer.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
I glance down.
Jade: You’re staring.
I look across the room and find her by the cookies, eyebrows raised.
I type back with more force than necessary.
Me: I’m observing the program.
Her reply comes fast.
Jade: Sure. That very handsome program.
I lock my phone.
Nope. Not happening.
I am here because this matters. Because kids need steady adults. Because I am very bad at ignoring a sign-up sheet attached to something worthwhile.
Not because Finn O’Malley looks good with kids, or because his smile is different here.
And not because every time he stops performing, I find myself wanting to know what’s underneath.
Finn looks up then, like he feels the weight of my attention.
Across the room, his eyes meet mine.
For once, he doesn’t grin right away.
It only lasts a second.
Then a kid asks him something, and Finn looks away, his smile coming back for them.
That’s when I notice the boy near the back wall.
He’s maybe twelve or thirteen. Thin, dark-haired, wearing a gray hoodie with the sleeves tugged down over his hands.
He isn’t with the group of kids around the gear table.
He isn’t eating cookies with the others either.
He stands half behind a folding chair, close enough to see everything, far enough away to make sure no one can pull him into it.
His name tag says Carter.
I don’t mean to stare.
I just recognize the posture.
Closed shoulders. Chin down. Eyes moving. Not scared exactly, but ready. Like he’s already decided he doesn’t need this place, these people, this room, or anything they’re offering.
I’ve seen that look in exam rooms.
Kids who won’t answer questions until they know who has the power. Kids who say they’re fine before anyone asks. Kids who brace for disappointment so early that it has become part of how they stand.
Carla starts toward him with a gentle smile.
Carter sees her coming and shifts back.
Finn sees it too.
He doesn’t rush over. He doesn’t call Carter’s name or make the kid the focus of the room.
He just rises from where he’s helping with helmets, says something to Gavin, then picks up a stick from the pile and walks a few feet away from the other kids.
Not to Carter.
Just nearby.
He sets a puck on the floor and starts nudging it back and forth with the blade of the stick.
Slow. Easy.
Like he’s bored.
Like none of this matters much.
Carter watches him despite himself.
Finn doesn’t look up.
He keeps moving the puck, making little controlled taps across the rubber flooring. Left. Right. Pull back. Stop. A small shift of his wrist sends it around the leg of a chair and back to him.
It’s quiet enough that most people in the room don’t notice.
I do.
So does Carter.
After a minute, Finn sends the puck a little too far.
It slides near Carter’s foot.
Carter looks down at it.
Finn finally glances over, not smiling too big, not switching on the full Finn O’Malley show.
“Bad pass,” he says. “Happens.”
Carter doesn’t move.
Finn waits like he has all the time in the world.
Not impatient, not trying to coax or charm.
Just there.
Carter nudges the puck back with the side of his sneaker.
It barely makes it halfway.
Finn taps it with his stick, stopping it cleanly. “Solid recovery.”
Carter’s mouth presses together, but his gaze stays on the puck.
“You play?” Finn asks.
Carter shakes his head.
“Skate?”
Another shake.
“Want to?”
Carter’s shoulders lift in the smallest shrug.
Finn nods like that is a complete answer. “I get it. Skating is weird at first.”
That gets a quick flick of Carter’s eyes.
Finn rests both hands on top of the stick. “Everybody acts like you’re supposed to trust the ice immediately, which is ridiculous. It’s frozen water. Very unyielding surface.”
Carter looks at him for half a second.
Still no smile.
But he doesn’t retreat.
I realize I’m holding my breath and force myself to let it out slowly.
Finn doesn’t push him toward the gear. He doesn’t tell him it’ll be fun. He doesn’t say, Come on, buddy, give it a try, in that bright adult voice that makes kids like Carter disappear further into themselves.
He just taps the puck back toward him.
This time, Carter uses his foot a little harder.
The puck slides all the way to Finn.
“Better,” Finn says.
Carter looks at the stick in Finn’s hands.
Finn notices, but he doesn’t offer it right away. He turns it once, blade resting on the floor. “You want to see how it feels?”
Carter’s answer is barely a movement.
Maybe a nod. Maybe not.
Finn holds the stick out, handle first, giving Carter enough space to take it without stepping too close.
Carter hesitates.
Then he reaches.
His fingers close around the tape at the top.
Finn lets go immediately.
No fuss.
No big praise.
Carter stares down at the stick like he’s not sure what to do with the fact that it’s his to hold, even temporarily.
Finn picks up another stick from the pile and stands beside him, angled toward the open floor instead of directly at him.
“Easiest thing first,” he says. “Just move it side to side. Doesn’t have to look pretty.”
Carter copies him.
The first motion is stiff. The second is better.
Finn demonstrates again, slower this time.
Carter follows.
A few feet away, Gavin keeps helping another kid with gear, but his eyes flick once toward Finn and Carter. He sees it too. The tiny shift. The half-step closer. The way Carter’s shoulders aren’t quite as high as they were five minutes ago.
Carla comes to stand beside me quietly.
“He’s good,” she says.
I keep my eyes on Finn. “Yeah.”
“I wasn’t sure how he’d handle this part.”
“Finn?”
She nods. “He’s great with crowds. Cameras. Kids who already want to laugh. This is different.”
It is.
And he’s good at it in a way that doesn’t look like performance.
I don’t know how to reconcile that version of him with the one I thought I knew.
The Finn I know would make the whole room laugh. He’d turn a microphone into a weapon, a bar table into a stage, a simple conversation into something bright enough that no one had to look at shadows.
But this Finn is quiet.
Patient.
He gives Carter space. Attention without pressure. A chance without a spotlight.
Carter taps the puck too hard, and it rolls under a chair.
His whole body tightens.
Finn doesn’t react like it’s a mistake. He just says, “Happens constantly. Chairs are terrible defensemen.”
Carter looks at him.
Then, so faintly I almost miss it, he smiles.
Not for the room.
Not because Finn demanded it.
Because he chose to.
I wish his patience with Carter didn’t make him harder to dismiss.
Finn sees the smile and doesn’t make a thing of it. Smart. He just hooks the puck out from under the chair and sends it back to Carter.
“Again?” he asks.
Carter looks down at the puck.
Then nods.
One small nod.
Finn’s face softens before he can hide it.
Only for a second.
Then he looks back at the floor, taps his stick against the puck, and starts over.
I stand there with the volunteer packet in my hand and feel my opinion of Finn O’Malley shift in a way I can’t neatly explain away.
I was prepared for charming.
I was prepared for funny.
I was even prepared for hot, which is deeply inconvenient but not exactly breaking news.
I was not prepared for this.
For restraint and patience.
For the way he seems to know that some kids don’t need someone louder. They need someone who won’t leave just because they don’t respond right away.
Carla taps the packet lightly. “Sign-up sheet is on the table when you’re ready.”
I look down at the blank volunteer line.
Then back at Finn, still standing beside Carter, giving him room to try again.
“I’m ready,” I say.