5. FINN #2
I keep my voice low. “You can be done for today if you want.”
“I said I am.”
“I heard you.”
“Then stop talking.”
So I do.
The silence bothers him more than the talking did.
He glances toward the gate, then toward the other kids. A few have gone back to their drills because Gavin, bless his strange goalie soul, has quietly redirected them. He’s got three of them practicing balance near the crease like nothing is happening.
Carter looks back at me. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to decide if you want help getting off the ice or if you want to do it yourself.”
His mouth twists. “I don’t need help.”
“Then I won’t help.”
Another pause.
He doesn’t move.
I don’t either.
My own hands stay loose at my sides, even though every instinct in me wants to fill the space. Joke. Push. Make it easier. Make him laugh before he can feel too much.
But this kid doesn’t need me loud.
He needs me not to make him pay for being embarrassed.
Carter shifts his weight and winces before he can hide it.
Bailey catches it, too. She doesn’t swoop in. She just says, “Your shoulder’s going to be sore. You don’t need to prove it isn’t.”
“I’m not proving anything.”
“Okay,” she says.
No argument. No challenge.
Just okay.
He looks at her like he doesn’t know what to do with that either.
I nod toward the bench by the gate. “You’ve got options. Sit out and watch. Try again later. Call it for today. All of those work.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re not gonna make me?”
There it is.
The test under the attitude.
“No,” I say. “You’re hurt and pissed off. Forcing you back out there won’t fix either one.”
Bailey goes very still behind him.
Carter looks away first.
For a few seconds, the only sounds are skates scraping, kids talking, and a puck knocking against the boards on the other end of the ice.
Then Carter mutters, “I’ll sit.”
“Good call.”
“Not because you said.”
“Obviously not. Fully your idea.”
He glares at me again, but there’s less heat in it now.
I skate slowly toward the gate, not too close, matching his pace without making a thing of it. Carter keeps one hand on the boards, not ready to trust the ice again but too proud to say so.
At the gate, Bailey steps forward and opens it.
Carter gets off the ice with as much dignity as a teenager in rental skates and a bruised shoulder can manage. He drops onto the bench, breathing through his nose, still mad but not spiraling anymore.
Bailey crouches in front of him again. “I’m going to get you an ice pack. Then we’ll check that shoulder once more in a few minutes.”
“Fine,” he mutters.
Which is progress.
Not a thank you.
Not a smile.
But he doesn’t tell her to leave him alone.
I’ll take it.
Bailey stands, her gaze meeting mine for one brief second.
There’s something in her expression I’m not used to seeing aimed at me.
Not amusement.
Not skepticism.
Not the usual, you’re ridiculous, O’Malley look.
Something quieter.
Like she saw exactly how close I came to making a joke and noticed that I didn’t.
I look away first and tap my stick once against the ice.
“Okay,” I call to the rest of the group, forcing my voice back into something easy but not too bright. “Quick reminder. The ice is slippery, so we slow down until our feet catch up with our confidence.”
A couple of kids laugh.
Carter doesn’t.
But when I glance back, he’s watching. Not smiling or joining in.
Watching.
For now, that’s enough.
Bailey gets him an ice pack and checks his shoulder again after a few minutes, keeping her voice low enough that the other kids don’t hear every question.
He answers with one-word grunts, but he answers.
He lets her move his arm a little. Lets her check his grip.
Lets her tell him what soreness might feel like later without snapping at her again.
Progress, in Carter’s case, looks a lot like glaring with slightly less commitment.
I keep the rest of the group moving.
Smaller pushes. Knees bent. Hands apart on the stick. Eyes up. Nobody trying to prove they belong on a highlight reel after eight minutes on rental skates.
The kids settle again faster than I expect. A couple of them are still nervous after Carter’s fall, so I slow everything down. Make the next drill simple. Give them something they can succeed at quickly.
By the time we get off the ice, the room has loosened. Kids are talking over each other near the benches, comparing falls like battle scars. Gavin is answering a question from a boy who wants to know if goalies ever get scared.
“Yes,” Gavin says.
The boy waits.
Gavin does not elaborate.
The boy nods anyway, like this is somehow the most complete answer he’s ever heard.
I’m unlacing my skates near the edge of the bench when I hear Carter’s caregiver speak.
Sheila, I think her name is. Mid-forties, gray cardigan, worried eyes. She came in with Carter and another younger kid, and she’s been watching the entire clinic like she’s trying to decide whether this place is safe enough to trust.
“I’m not sure this group is the right fit for him,” she says quietly.
Not to me.
To Bailey.
I keep my head down, fingers on my laces.
Bailey pauses beside the equipment cart. “Because of the fall?”
“Partly,” Sheila says. “He gets embarrassed easily. Then he gets angry. And before that, there was a lot of joking around.” Her voice tightens with apology before the criticism fully lands.
“I know the players mean well. I do. But Carter needs structure. If he thinks the adult in charge isn’t taking it seriously, he’ll push every boundary in the room. ”
There it is.
The thing people think, but usually dress up better.
Finn is fun.
Finn is good for a laugh.
Finn is fine for autographs, pep talks, and making nervous kids smile.
But when it gets complicated, call someone serious.
Someone steady.
Someone who doesn’t turn everything into a bit before the quiet catches up.
I pull one lace tighter than necessary.
Bailey doesn’t answer right away.
She looks across the room, where Carter is pretending to ignore us while holding the ice pack to his shoulder. Then she looks back at Sheila.
“I understand why you’re worried,” Bailey says. “And you’re right that Carter needs structure.”
My stomach drops a little.
Stupid, because she’s allowed to agree.
“But Finn wasn’t careless with him,” Bailey continues. “He joked with the group before anyone stepped on the ice because half those kids were nervous and pretending they weren’t.”
My hands go still.
Bailey’s voice stays calm. Not defensive. Not sharp. Just certain.
“After Carter fell, Finn didn’t make him get up to save face. He didn’t call him dramatic. He didn’t push him back into the drill because that would’ve been easier for the adults in the room. He gave him choices.”
Sheila is quiet.
Bailey sets a helmet on the cart and keeps going. “For a kid who hates feeling cornered, that matters.”
I stare at the knot in my skate lace like it requires my full attention.
Sheila exhales. “I know Carter can be difficult.”
“He had a hard moment,” Bailey says. “That’s not the same thing.”
Sheila looks over at Carter again. He is watching now, no longer pretending. His face is closed off, but his shoulders aren’t as high as they were earlier.
“I just don’t want him written off,” Sheila says.
Bailey softens. “I don’t think Finn would write any of these kids off. Including Carter.”
For a second, the room feels quieter than it is.
I should say something. Make a joke from where I’m sitting. Turn the whole thing before it gets anywhere near me.
I don’t.
I keep my head down because if I look at Bailey right now, she might see too much.
She already sees too much.
Sheila nods slowly. “Maybe we’ll try again next week.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Bailey says. “If Carter wants to. And even if he only watches for a while, that still counts as showing up.”
I hear Carter shift on the bench.
No comment, or eye roll.
Just the quiet sound of a kid listening when he thinks nobody knows.
Sheila thanks Bailey and walks over to him. Bailey turns back to the gear cart, stacking helmets like she didn’t just reach into the middle of my chest and move something out of place.
I finally look up.
She’s focused on the equipment, hair falling forward over one shoulder, volunteer badge clipped to her sweatshirt, expression calm and practical, like defending me cost her nothing.
Maybe it didn’t.
By the time the clinic ends, volunteers are helping kids out of their skates, and the rink has that after-event mess that always looks worse than it is.
Helmets on the wrong table. Gloves in a pile. Half-empty water bottles everywhere. One abandoned granola bar smashed into the floor near the benches.
I grab a crate and start collecting gear.
Carter leaves with Sheila and the younger kid a few minutes later. He doesn’t look at me right away. Keeps his head down, one hand still holding the ice pack to his shoulder, face locked into that " don’t talk to me " expression older kids perfect when they’ve had too many adults annoying them.
But just before he reaches the hallway, he glances back.
I lift my chin once.
He looks away first, but he doesn’t roll his eyes.
I count that as a win.
I toss two helmets into the crate and reach for a third at the same time Bailey does.
Our hands brush.
Not dramatic. Not movie-moment. Just skin against skin, quick enough that I should barely notice, but I do.
So does she, judging by the way her fingers still for half a second before she pulls the helmet toward her.
“Careful, Sutton,” I say. “You’re getting good at this.”
“I’m putting gloves in a crate.”
“Still. It’s an important part of the job.”
Her mouth curves, but she keeps sorting gloves into pairs. She’s good at that, too, apparently. Making order without making a show of it.
I reach for another crate. “I heard you earlier.”
Bailey glances at me. “That sounds vague enough to be dangerous.”
“With Sheila.”
“Oh.”
She drops the gloves into the right bin and reaches for another pair.
I wait for her to say something else, but she doesn’t.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Defend me.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I just told her what I saw.”
I look out at the ice. “What did you see?”
The question comes out quieter than I meant it to.
She studies me for a moment, not pushing, not softening too much either. “You handled Carter well.”
I huff out a laugh. “He shoved a glove at me and called the clinic stupid.”
“And you didn’t make it about you.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“You’d be surprised how many adults trip over it.”
I don’t have an answer ready for that.
Bailey sets the last pair of gloves in the bin and wipes her hands on her jeans. “He was embarrassed. He was hurting. He wanted someone to either fight him or give up on him.”
I look toward the hallway where Carter disappeared.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You didn’t.”
I force a smile because it’s either that or let the silence get too close. “Look at me. Acting like an adult.”
She shakes her head, but there’s a smile tucked at the corner of her mouth.
Not the nurse smile that probably tells patients they’re safe while she’s mentally cataloguing symptoms and pain levels.
This one is smaller and more reluctant.
I clear my throat and pick up the crate. “For the record, you were good with him, too.”
“I’m a nurse. I’m supposed to be good with injured people.”
“No, you’re supposed to take vitals and tell stubborn men they’re not fine when they’re clearly not fine.”
“That is a surprisingly large part of the job.”
“You made him less embarrassed.”
Her expression shifts. Just a little. “I tried.”
“You did.”
We carry the gear toward the storage area. The hallway is quieter than the rink, all concrete floors, fluorescent lights, and faint echoes from the ice. Everyone else is busy up front, voices drifting in and out, but back here it’s just the two of us and crates of helmets and gloves between us.
Dangerous setup.
A smarter man would keep walking.
I have never been accused of overusing intelligence in my personal life.
At the storage room, Bailey sets her crate down and reaches for the door. “For what it’s worth, I think you surprised Sheila, too.”
“I live to surprise concerned adults.”
Her eyes cut to mine. “You’re doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“The thing where you pretend everything is lighter than it is.”
My grin holds.
Barely.
“That’s just my face.”
“No,” she says. “It isn’t.”
The storage room feels smaller than it did a minute ago.
I could make a joke. I have at least six available. Maybe eight if I include one about my face being a public service.
Instead, I look at her.
Really look.
Bailey Sutton, who worked a full hospital shift, came to a rink, helped with kids, handled a fall, defended me when she didn’t have to, and is now standing in front of me like she has every right to see past the parts I hand out for free.
She says, quieter this time, “You’re better at this than you let people think.”
There it is.
Just Bailey.
Seeing too much.
I reach for the joke because I always do.
“Careful,” I say. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll start believing you like me.”
Her mouth curves. “Maybe I’m just revising my opinion a little.”
“Upward?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
I grin before I can stop myself, because coming from Bailey, that’s practically a confession.
I step back first, because if I don’t, I’m going to do something stupid like ask what else she’s noticed. Or worse, tell her.
“Then I’ll try to stay surprising,” I say.
“You do seem committed to the brand.”
“There she is. I was worried you were getting sincere on me.”
Bailey picks up the last loose helmet and hands it to me. “Don’t worry. It passed.”
I take it from her, our fingers brushing again.
This time, neither of us pretends not to notice.
Then she walks past me into the hallway, leaving me in the storage room with a helmet in my hand and the uncomfortable realization that I want to improve her opinion of me more than I should.