7. FINN
Chapter seven
FINN
By the time I get to the rink the next morning, I already know I’m walking into trouble.
Normal trouble is Ty putting himself in charge of music, Jace taping someone’s stick to the ceiling, or Gavin standing silently in a doorway long enough to scare anyone walking down the hall.
This is different, because this is personal-life trouble.
The second I step into the locker room, Ty looks up from his stall and smiles.
I stop just inside the doorway. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You smiled.”
“I smile all the time.”
“Not like that.”
Dylan glances up from tying his skates. “He does look more annoying than usual.”
“Thank you,” I tell him. “Deeply helpful.”
Ty leans back, one elbow propped against the bench, like he’s been waiting all morning for me to arrive. “So. San Francisco.”
I drop my bag in front of my stall. “A city. Yes.”
“A wedding,” Jace adds.
I look at him. “Wow. Word travels fast.”
“Half of us heard you agree,” Dylan says.
“Because you all inserted yourselves into a private conversation.”
Knox sits across the room, already half dressed, expression flat. “You still agreed.”
“As backup,” I say. “Bailey needed someone in her corner.”
Ty’s grin widens. “And you generously volunteered.”
“I’m a team player.”
Ty’s grin gets worse. “Bailey Sutton’s wedding date.”
“Plus-one,” I correct.
“Wedding date.”
“Backup.”
“Same suit, different lie.”
I pull my hoodie over my head and toss it into my stall. “It’s not a lie. She needs someone there because her ex will be there.”
Dylan pauses. “What’s wrong with the ex?”
I glance at him. “Why do you sound like you’re about to take notes?”
“Because I might need them.”
“He’s not your ex.”
“He annoyed Bailey, and that’s enough.”
Nico sits two stalls down, calm as ever, while he wraps tape around his socks. “Maren said the guy talks down to her.”
I look over. “Maren said that?”
“She used more words.”
Ty sits forward. “So this is a revenge-date situation.”
“No.”
“A protection-date situation.”
“No.”
“A make-the-ex-realize-he-fumbled situation.”
I hesitate for half a second.
Too long.
Ty points at me. “There it is.”
I open my mouth, but Roman speaks before I can.
“You want him to see her with you.”
The room gets quieter in the way locker rooms do when someone says something too accurate, and everyone decides to enjoy it.
I look at Roman.
Roman looks back.
He is already dressed, stick balanced across his knees, expression unreadable. The man says twelve words a week, and somehow every one of them is meaningful.
“I want her to have backup,” I say.
Roman lifts one shoulder. “Also that.”
“Truth,” Jace says, much too happily.
“Not helping.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
I sit on the bench and start pulling gear out of my bag. The problem with the guys knowing is that they are idiots, but not stupid. There’s a difference. Idiots make terrible jokes. Stupid people miss what matters.
The Ravens do not miss much.
Especially not when it comes to women.
Especially not when it comes to a woman like Bailey.
I can still see her from last night, sitting in that warm little brewery, her new scarf wrapped around her neck, eyes steady even when everyone started pushing too hard. She said friends like she could make the word behave if she held it firmly enough.
Friends. Fine. We’re friends.
Friends go to weddings together. Friends wear suits and sit through speeches and keep ex-boyfriends from taking up too much air at cocktail hour. Friends do not spend the evening imagining what the other person will look like all dressed up.
Probably.
I have limited experience with this type of friendship.
Ty snaps his fingers in front of me. “Oh, he’s gone.”
“I’m right here.”
“No, your body is here. The rest of you is picking out a tie.”
“I own ties.”
Dylan glances up from tying his skates. “And you’ve got a nice suit that will make all the old ladies start planning the wedding before dessert.”
Knox looks over. “It’s putting yourself in a situation that is going to cause nothing but trouble.”
I grin at him because it’s easier than reacting to the fact that he’s not wrong. “Relax. Bailey made rules.”
Ty lights up. “Rules?”
I yank my practice shirt over my head. “Basic rules.”
“Which means rules you plan to break,” Ty says.
“I plan to respect them.”
Nico’s mouth twitches.
Ty holds up one finger. “Rule one, don’t sleep with the wedding date.”
I point at him. “That is not what she said.”
“But implied?”
“No.”
“Interesting.”
I pull my elbow pads out harder than necessary. “The rules are simple. Friends only. No making it weird. Separate rooms.”
“Separate rooms?” Jace asks.
“Yes.”
Ty whistles softly. “Ambitious.”
“Why is separate rooms ambitious?”
“Because you look like a man who has already imagined connecting doors.”
Every muscle in my body goes still for one fraction of a second.
Ty catches it because, of course, he does.
His grin turns filthy.
I hate him.
Knox looks at me like he is already tired. “Finn.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought loudly.”
I stand and grab my skates. “For the record, Bailey and I are adults who can attend a family event without turning it into a bad decision.”
Roman’s gaze flicks up.
One second.
That’s all.
Then he says, “Can you?”
The room goes dead quiet.
Not because it’s harsh.
Because it isn’t.
I look at him, then at the rest of them.
“I can behave,” I say.
Ty snorts.
Jace coughs into his hand.
Dylan doesn’t bother hiding his skepticism.
Knox just watches me.
I sit down and shove my foot into my skate. “You all have a disturbing lack of faith in me.”
“No,” Knox says. “We know you.”
That should annoy me, and it does, a little.
But under that, there’s something else. Something tight and hot and inconvenient, because the truth is, I’m not worried about behaving around Bailey in public.
Public is easy. I can hold doors, make conversation, smile at relatives, order a drink, compliment a dress, and keep every single line exactly where she drew it.
The problem is the space between public things. The hotel elevator after too much champagne. The quiet outside a ballroom. Bailey turning to me with her hair loose and her eyes sharp, saying my name like a warning.
The thought moves through me low and sharp.
I lace my skate tighter than necessary.
Friends only. No making it weird. Separate rooms.
Good rules. Solid rules. Rules built by a woman smart enough to know that Finn O’Malley in close quarters might be a problem.
***
I text Bailey after practice.
Me: I need wedding details.
Her reply comes while I’m still standing outside the locker room with damp hair, my bag over one shoulder, and the very bad judgment to smile at my phone in public.
Bailey: Hello to you, too.
Me: Hello, Bailey. I hope you are having a lovely day. Your commitment to emotional distance is inspiring. Please send wedding details.
The typing bubble appears.
Disappears.
Appears again.
Bailey: I’m already regretting this.
Me: That feels premature.
Bailey: Give it time.
I lean one shoulder against the wall and grin at my screen like an idiot.
Ty walks past with Jace and glances down. “Texting the bride?”
I don’t look up. “Wrong woman.”
“Texting the date?”
“Still wrong.”
“Texting the woman you’re absolutely not thinking about?”
I lift my eyes. “Keep walking.”
He smiles like I just handed him a gift. “Sure, man.”
Jace laughs as they disappear into the parking lot, and I go back to my phone because Bailey is safer than whatever that conversation was about to become.
Me: Venue? Time? Dress code? Family land mines? Ex-related hazards?
Bailey: That’s a lot of categories.
Me: I take backup duties seriously.
Bailey: Since when?
Me: Since I was hired by a demanding client.
Bailey: You volunteered.
Me: Under emotional pressure.
Bailey: You offered before I even asked.
Me: Because I’m generous.
Bailey: You’re nosy.
Both can be true, but I decide not to say that.
Me: Details, Sutton.
There’s a longer pause this time.
Then my phone rings.
I stare at her name for half a second like an incoming call from Bailey Sutton is a completely reasonable thing to make my pulse change over.
It isn’t.
“Calling me already?” I say. “This relationship is moving fast.”
“Friendship,” she says.
“Right. This friendship is moving fast.”
“I’m driving home from the hospital, and it’s easier than typing.”
“You’re hands-free?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Good. Safety first.”
“I can hang up.”
“Please don’t. I’m invested in the wedding briefing.”
She sighs, but I can hear the edge of a smile in it.
“The wedding is Saturday, November fourth,” she says. “We have to be there on Friday night for the rehearsal dinner. The ceremony is at four on Saturday. Reception starts at six. It’s at the Whitcomb Hotel in San Francisco.”
“Fancy hotel?”
“Very.”
“Rich aunt fancy or more money than God fancy?”
“My Aunt Diane planned most of it, so tasteful without God being involved.”
“Excellent. I do well with terrifying aunts.”
“Do you?”
“I’ve been charming mothers, grandmothers, and women with strong opinions for years.”
“That is unfortunately believable.”
I push off the wall and start toward the parking lot. “Dress code?”
“Formal.”
“Suit formal or tux formal?”
“Suit is fine.”
“Color preferences? Should I avoid clashing with your dress?”
The pause is small, but interesting.
“I haven’t decided what I’m wearing.”
Immediately, my brain becomes a place I should not be allowed to visit unsupervised.
Bailey in something soft that slips over her hips and makes every man in the room wish they were me.
I open my truck door and toss my bag onto the passenger seat.
“Finn?”
“Hmm?”
“You went quiet.”
“Moment of respect for formalwear.”
“Sure.”
“What are you considering?”
“I’m not discussing dresses with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can hear your brain spinning.”
I grin and climb into the truck. “That is an unfair accusation with very limited evidence.”
“You asked what I was wearing and then stopped speaking.”
“Maybe I was giving you space.”
“You don’t do that.”
“I did at the clinic.”
Another pause, but this one isn’t playful. It’s softer.
“Yes,” she says. “You did.”
The air changes in my truck, which is ridiculous because I am alone in a parking lot with the engine off and my phone connected to the speakers. Still, I feel it. The slight shift. The weight under the words.
I clear my throat. “Family details.”
She lets me have the subject change. “My parents will be there. My mom is nice. She will probably ask you too many questions, all while thinking she’s being subtle.”
“Good to know.”
“My dad is quieter. He watches first. If he likes you, he’ll talk hockey. If he doesn’t, he’ll talk weather.”
“I’ll aim for hockey.”
“My aunt Diane is the wedding general. Do not joke about seating charts. She will hear you.”
“Noted. Respect the seating chart.”
“My cousin Lily is the bride. She’s sweet, a little overwhelmed, and deserves for this wedding not to become about family drama, so no scenes.”
“No scenes.”
“My cousin Hannah will flirt with you because she flirts with everyone and has never met a boundary she couldn’t pretend was meant to be broken.”
“Do you want me to be rude?”
“No. Just boring.”
I wince. “That’s a lot to ask.”
“Try.”
“For you, I’ll attempt dull.”
“Thank you.”
“Painful, but I’m committed.”
Bailey laughs once, and I feel it low, right behind the ribs.
I close my eyes for half a second.
Dangerous woman.
“All right,” I say. “Evan.”
Her silence tells me I picked the right category and the wrong tone.
“What about him?” she asks.
“Full name?”
“Evan Whitaker.”
“Whitaker,” I repeat, because the name sounds exactly like someone who owns loafers and a set of expensive golf clubs.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it in your breathing.”
I smile, but keep my voice even. “What do I need to know?”
“He’s not going to start a fight, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I wasn’t.”
“He won’t be rude in a way people can point to. That was never his style.”
There it is again, that careful tone she uses when she doesn’t want to make something sound worse than it was.
“What was his style?” I ask.
For a few seconds, there’s only road noise.
Then she says, “Polished. Correct. Always reasonable enough that if I got irritated, I looked like the problem.”
My hand tightens on the steering wheel.
“Got it,” I say.
“You don’t have to look like that.”
“You can’t see me.”
“I can hear you looking like that.”
I huff out a laugh because she’s right. “What do you need from me?”
“I told you. Backup.”
“What kind?”
She takes a breath. “If he corners me, interrupt. If my family starts asking too many questions, redirect. If I look like I’m about to agree to something only because it’s easier than arguing, remind me I have a spine.”
“You do have a spine.”
“I know. Sometimes family makes it temporarily less solid.”
“I can handle that.”
“And no macho nonsense.”
I raise my brows. “Define macho nonsense.”
“No glaring across rooms. No territorial hand-on-my-lower-back thing. No calling him buddy in that tone men use right before they become unbearable.”
I pause.
There goes at least three good instincts.
“Finn.”
“I’m adjusting expectations.”
“Adjust faster.”
“I can do that.”
“And no making him jealous on purpose.”
“Then why am I going?”
“Backup.”
“Right. Backup without psychological warfare.”
“Exactly.”
“Very restrictive.”
“It’s a wedding, not a military operation.”
She laughs again, and I feel something in me settle.
I turn the engine on, but I don’t pull out yet.
“Bailey?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll follow your lead.”
Another small silence.
“Thank you,” she says.
Two words, simple and sincere enough to make me regret every joke I’ve ever used to dodge a real moment.
So naturally, I ruin it.
“Unless your lead is bad,” I add. “Then I’ll improvise.”
“There he is.”
“Missed me?”
“Briefly.”
“That’s all I need.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Also helpful.”
She makes a sound that is almost a laugh, almost a warning. “I’ll text you the hotel information.”
“And dress color.”
“No.”
“Worth a shot.”
“Goodbye, Finn.”
“Goodbye, Bailey.”
She hangs up first.
I sit in my truck for a second with the phone dark in my hand, the details already sorting themselves in my head.
November third rehearsal dinner. November fourth, four o’clock ceremony. Six o’clock reception. Whitcomb Hotel. Formal. Aunt Diane. Lily, the bride. Hannah flirts. Evan Whitaker. Polished. Reasonable. Interrupt if he corners her. Redirect family questions. No lower-back thing.
No making him jealous on purpose. No macho nonsense. Friends only.
Backup.
I should be thinking about logistics.
I am thinking about Bailey in a dress.
Bailey in a hotel room.
Bailey looking at me like I’m not a joke.
And now I have just over a week to get that under control.
Plenty of time.