5. FINN
Chapter five
FINN
Practice starts with Ty's pre-practice playlist rattling through the locker room like a personal attack.
“What the hell is this?” Dylan asks, one elbow pad on as he looks toward the speaker.
Ty doesn’t even look up from lacing his skates. “Pre-practice energy.”
“This isn’t energy,” Knox says. “It’s a cry for help.”
“It’s called rhythm.”
“It’s called auditory assault,” Nico says calmly.
I lean back against my stall and listen to whatever is currently blasting through the speaker. It sounds like something designed to make a man skate faster just so he can get away from it.
“I support Ty’s artistic journey,” I say.
Jace looks over at me. “You would.”
“I can respect his process without liking his music.”
Roman, already dressed and silent, reaches over and turns the volume down without asking.
Ty points at him. “That was hostile.”
Roman sits back down. “Yes.”
I just grin.
The room settles into the usual pre-practice mess. Tape. Gear. Trash talk. Someone asking who stole their extra stick wax, even though the answer is almost always Jace. Gavin walks through with his goalie bag and the general energy of a man heading into battle without needing anyone to discuss it.
Home.
I pull my practice jersey over my pads and head toward the tunnel with the guys. The second we hit the hallway, I see the flyer taped to the wall outside the staff office.
Santa Rosa Ravens Foster Youth Hockey Program Volunteer Training and First Clinic Schedule
There’s a picture from sign-up night on it. Me crouched beside a couple of kids in Ravens hoodies, grinning for the camera like that’s the whole story. Gavin stands behind us, calm and unsmiling, looking like he agreed to the photo under duress.
I keep walking.
The word foster follows me. Quiet, but right there.
Not now.
Right now is practice. Skates on ice. Pucks off boards. Body in motion. No space for old rooms, old houses, or the memory of learning not to unpack too much because I probably wouldn’t be there long.
I tap the doorframe twice before I step onto the ice.
Habit.
Ritual.
Whatever.
The ice takes over after that.
Thank God.
Practice is fast from the start. Coach has us moving through transition drills, quick passes, hard turns, bodies cutting close enough to make every inch of space matter.
I let my legs burn, and my lungs work. I chirp Jace when he misses a shot.
I tell Beck he looks slow because I value personal safety less than I should.
I catch a pass from Nico, send it across to Ty, and hear Coach bark, “Again,” before the puck even reaches the boards.
This is easier.
This is simple.
Move. Read. React.
No room for anything else.
Mostly.
Halfway through practice, Coach blows the whistle and sends us into a battle drill along the boards. I get paired against Dylan first, which means I’ll have to work for every inch.
“Try to keep up, O’Malley,” he says.
“I was going to say the same thing.”
“You say a lot of things.”
“And yet people keep listening.”
“Not by choice.”
Dylan shoves me into the boards.
I dig the puck loose anyway.
By the time practice wraps, sweat is running down my back, my legs are heavy, and I’ve almost managed to clear my head.
Almost.
“Clinic starts in twenty,” Coach calls. “If you’re staying on ice, don’t screw around.”
Ty raises a hand. “Define screw around.”
“No,” Coach says.
The room laughs, and I let myself stand inside the sound.
The kids will be here soon.
Bailey might be here, too.
That thought moves through me faster than it should.
I toss my water bottle back onto the bench and push off toward the far blue line.
Twenty minutes until the program starts.
Twenty minutes to get my head right.
Plenty of time.
***
The kids arrive in waves.
Some come in loud, already tugging at sleeves, pointing at the ice, asking if they’re going to get sticks today.
Some hang back near the adults, taking everything in with guarded eyes and hands shoved deep into hoodie pockets.
Some pretend they don’t care, which usually means they care a lot and don’t trust anyone in the room enough to admit it.
Carter is here again.
Dark hoodie. Messy hair. Arms folded. Chin lifted just enough to make sure everyone knows he isn’t impressed.
He looks at the ice, then at me, then at the row of rental skates like all three have personally failed to meet his standards.
“This is stupid,” he says.
Not loud.
Loud would be easier.
He says it under his breath, but he makes sure I hear it.
One of the younger kids near him looks over, uncertain.
I give Carter a quick nod like he made a reasonable observation. “The skates are weird, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m not wearing those.”
“Good to know.”
That gets his eyes back on me. He expected pushback. A lecture, maybe. Something bright and adult about trying new things.
I don’t give him one.
A volunteer helps him with sizing anyway, and Carter acts like every step of the process is beneath him. He complains about the skates. The helmet. The gloves. The fact that the ice is cold, which is hard to argue with.
Across the check-in table, Bailey is helping a little boy zip his jacket.
She’s in jeans and a Ravens sweatshirt, hair down today, volunteer badge clipped near her shoulder. No scrubs. No hospital pace. Still, she has that same calm competence, like if the building caught fire, she’d find the exits, count heads, and somehow remember who had a nut allergy.
She glances up and catches me watching.
I look away first.
Barely.
Once everyone is geared up, we take the older kids onto the ice first. Gavin handles the group near the crease, demonstrating the stance slowly while the kids copy him in various degrees of wobbling. I take the skaters near the boards, starting with the basics.
Knees bent. Hands apart on the stick. Small pushes. Don’t lock your legs unless you want the ice to introduce itself fast.
Most of them listen.
Carter doesn’t.
He keeps one hand on the boards, not ready to trust the ice but too proud to say so.
“You’re leaning back,” I tell him, skating closer but not crowding him. “Bend your knees more.”
“I know.”
“Great. Then do that.”
His mouth tightens.
A couple of kids glance over.
Carter sees them looking, and that makes it worse.
He pushes off too hard, trying to look like he knows what he’s doing.
His feet slide out in opposite directions before he can correct.
One skate catches, his shoulder twists, and he goes down hard enough that the sound cuts through every conversation on the ice.
A sharp crack of pads against ice.
Then silence.
I’m moving before I think about it, but Bailey is already stepping through the gate.
“Stay back,” she says, not loud, but firm enough that the nearest kids freeze.
Carter rolls to his side, face red, breathing fast.
“I’m fine,” he snaps.
Bailey crouches near him, not touching him yet. “I’m a nurse, so I’m going to check to be sure you’re okay.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“I heard you.”
That stops him for half a second.
Her voice stays even. No panic. No babying him. No audience voice.
“Did you hit your head?” she asks.
“No.”
“Any neck pain?”
“No.”
“Shoulder?”
He hesitates.
I catch it. So does she.
“Which one?” Bailey asks.
“It’s fine.”
“That wasn’t one of the options.”
Carter glares at her, but she doesn’t flinch. She waits him out with the kind of patience that makes arguing feel like wasted energy.
“Left,” he mutters.
Bailey nods. “Can you move your fingers for me?”
He does.
“Any numbness?”
“No.”
She checks his arm carefully, talking him through each step. She keeps her body angled so she blocks some of the room from staring at him, which is smarter than half the things I’ve seen adults do around embarrassed kids.
The tension in my shoulders shifts, but it doesn’t leave.
Carter’s breathing slows. His pride is in worse shape than his shoulder, but pain and embarrassment are a nasty combination.
“You’re not bleeding,” Bailey says. “Nothing looks broken. You’re going to be sore, though.”
“No, I’m not.”
I bite back the response on my tongue.
Bailey doesn’t.
“You can be sore and still be tough,” she says.
Carter looks away.
A volunteer helps him up, and Bailey stays close without grabbing him. He gets to his feet, shaky but upright, and the second he realizes the other kids are still watching, his face hardens.
“I told you this was stupid,” he snaps, looking at me now. “I don’t even want to be here.”
The words cut cleaner than he probably means them to.
I keep my hands loose at my sides.
Carter rips off one glove and shoves it against my chest.
“You can keep your stupid hockey clinic,” he says. “I’m done.”
For one second, every adult on the ice does exactly the wrong thing.
They go still.
Not because they don’t care. Because they do. Because a kid just fell hard, snapped at the room, and shoved a glove at my chest like he’s daring someone to make it worse.
Carter sees it.
His face goes redder.
Angrier.
Not because his shoulder hurts.
Because everyone saw.
I look down at the glove pressed against my chest, then back at him.
“Yeah,” I say. “That sucked.”
His glare sharpens, like he expected a different answer.
Maybe a lecture.
Maybe some bright, useless speech about getting back up.
I’ve heard those speeches. I hated every single one.
Carter yanks the glove back. “I’m not doing this.”
“Okay.”
That throws him for half a second.
Behind him, Bailey stays quiet. Close enough to step in if she needs to, far enough away that she isn’t crowding him. Her eyes flick to me once, quick and assessing, then back to Carter.
She’s letting me have the space.
I don’t know why that matters, but it does.
Carter takes one unsteady step toward the gate, his skates sliding just enough to make his jaw lock. He catches the boards hard with one hand.
The kid is terrified of falling again.
And furious that anyone might know it.