15. FINN
Chapter fifteen
FINN
Practice should fix this.
Practice fixes almost everything.
Too much noise in my head? Skate harder. Too many feelings crawling around where they absolutely don’t belong? Get on the ice. Take a hit. Give one back. Chase the puck until the only thing that matters is timing, speed, and whether my lungs can keep up with my legs.
That’s the theory.
Today, the theory is garbage.
“O’Malley,” Coach snaps from the boards. “Again.”
Fantastic.
My favorite word.
I circle back to the line, breathing hard, sweat already cooling under my gear. The drill is simple. Ty carries through neutral, drops the puck to me at the blue line, I cut wide, pull the defender, and feed Dylan through the slot.
Except I’m half a second late.
Again.
Ty glides past me with his stick tucked under one arm, looking delighted in the way only a terrible friend can look when your life starts becoming visible. “Need me to slow it down for you, Finn?”
I glare at him. “Need me to tape your mouth shut?”
His grin widens. “That’s better. I was worried you’d been replaced by a quiet, tragic version of yourself.”
“I’m not tragic.”
Dylan skates up beside us. “You are quiet.”
“I’m focused.”
Knox arrives last because he always has something to say. “You missed the same read three times.”
“I’m aware.”
“You don’t usually miss that.”
“I’m expanding my skill set.”
“Better,” Jace calls from the next line. “Still weak.”
I flip him off without looking.
Coach blows the whistle again. “Less commentary, more hockey.”
That should be easy.
It’s hockey.
My actual job.
The thing I know how to do when every other part of my life has turned into one long unsolved problem with dark hair, sharp eyes, and a mouth I can still feel when I close my eyes.
Which I absolutely shouldn’t be doing during practice.
The puck drops into motion again. Ty takes off, skates cutting hard into the ice. I force my attention to narrow. Blue line. Defender’s angle. Dylan’s stick. Gavin’s read from the crease.
For three seconds, I’m fine.
Then Bailey slips into my head.
Not even the hotel room this time, which would at least make sense. Not the dark, or her dress on the floor. Not her body under me and her hand locked in mine like she’d chosen the moment right along with me.
No.
It’s Sunday morning.
Her standing by her suitcase, trying to look calm while holding herself together with coffee and sheer stubbornness. Her voice when she said brunch, like it was a lifeline. Her eyes when I told her I wouldn’t pretend the night was nothing.
That’s what I told her.
Like an idiot.
The pass comes.
I’m late.
The puck taps off the heel of my stick and skitters wide.
Dylan stops short and looks at me. “Seriously?”
“Don’t start.”
I skate toward the boards, jaw tight, while Coach gives me a look that says he’s deciding whether to bench me or send me to a therapist. The first one is more likely. The second one might be more effective.
Knox comes in beside me, keeping his voice low. “You good?”
The same two words I’ve said to Bailey at least ten times in the last week, coming back at me like karma.
“I’m fine.”
Knox’s expression doesn’t change.
“You’re not.”
“I missed a couple passes.”
“Three.”
“Thank you, official scorekeeper.”
His gaze stays on me. “This about Bailey?”
I look at him.
He doesn’t blink.
I should deflect. I’m good at that. Easy answers. Pretty ones. The type that keep a room from leaning too close.
Instead, I look back toward the ice. “It’s about me playing like shit.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Knox lets it sit for a second. Then he nods once, like he’s willing to let me keep the dodge for now.
Coach sends us into a small-area battle drill next, which is better. Less thinking. More contact. More muscle. More boards rattling hard enough to shake the noise out of my head.
I throw myself into it.
Dylan shoulders me off the puck. I dig in, pin him long enough to kick it loose, then take a shove from Jace that would’ve annoyed me yesterday. Today, I welcome it. Pain is simple. Ice is simple. Your body either holds or it doesn’t.
After practice, the locker room is loud in the usual way. Tape ripping. Showers running. Guys chirping about missed shots.
I sit at my stall and pull off my gloves.
For once, I don’t jump in.
Dylan is giving Nico grief about a missed shot. Knox is texting Emerson with the faintest smile on his face, which he probably thinks no one sees.
I see it.
Of course, I see it.
I notice things. That’s part of the problem.
I noticed Bailey at brunch, trying to keep her voice normal. I noticed the way she smiled at her cousin and dodged her mother’s looks. I noticed the way she laughed in my truck, but kept her eyes out the window whenever the quiet got too honest.
I noticed her trying to make Sunday feel casual.
I let her.
I told myself she needed room, and maybe she did. I told myself pushing would only make her bolt, and maybe that’s true, too.
But there’s room, and then there’s letting her put the whole weekend in a box labeled temporary because it scares her.
I can’t do that.
Not anymore.
A shadow falls over my stall.
I look up.
Roman stands there, towel over one shoulder, expression unreadable.
Fantastic. The human Russian lie detector.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
“It’s strange.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“It’s not concern.”
“No?”
“It’s observation.”
I tug at the tape around my wrist. “Very helpful.”
Roman doesn’t move.
He waits.
I hate the waiting more than the talking. At least Ty fills space with nonsense. Roman just leaves it open until a man starts confessing things to escape the silence.
I refuse.
For about seven seconds.
Then I sigh. “What?”
“You usually joke when you don’t want people to see something.”
My fingers pause on the tape.
Roman looks at me like he has already said everything necessary and now expects me to sort out the rest alone.
I peel the tape off and drop it in the trash. “Maybe I’m tired.”
“You’re not.”
“Maybe I’m maturing.”
“No.”
That almost gets a laugh out of me.
Roman’s gaze stays steady. “Bailey?”
I look away.
Not a question anymore.
A clean shot.
The guys are still loud around us, but for a second, the room narrows to Roman standing in front of me and every truth I’ve been trying to skate past.
“She wants to pretend it was just the weekend,” I say finally.
Roman nods once. “And you?”
I lean back against the stall, staring at the concrete floor between my skates.
And me?
I want the woman who drank bad hotel coffee at brunch and still thanked the server. I want the woman who stood up to her ex without needing me to do it for her. I want the woman who laughed at my stupid emergency cookie text and still texted back like she was letting me keep one hand on the door.
I want the woman who looked at me in the dark like she trusted me.
“I’m done pretending with her,” I say.
Roman studies me for another second, then nods.
“That’s better.”
“What is?”
“You sounding like yourself.”
I huff out a laugh. “That was inspirational. You should do locker room speeches.”
“No.”
“Crowd would love it.”
“No.”
He just walks away.
That actually makes me laugh, low and quick, and Ty’s head immediately snaps up from across the room.
“There!” he says. “I heard joy.”
“Mind your business.”
“This is my business. Team morale.”
But I’m smiling now.
Not because anything is fixed, but because I know what I’m doing after practice.
I’m going to shower. I’m going to get dressed. I’m going to drive to Bailey’s house before I talk myself into giving her more space she never asked for.
Not to pressure her or demand anything.
Just to ask.
Three dates.
And if she still looks me in the eye after that and tells me there’s nothing worth chasing, I’ll back off.
Probably.
No.
I will.
Because Bailey deserves the choice.
But I’m done letting fear make the choice for both of us.
***
By the time I leave the rink, I’ve talked myself out of going to Bailey’s house three times and talked myself back into it before I even reach the parking lot.
The drive to Bailey’s place takes thirty minutes, which gives me plenty of time to come up with a solid plan.
I don’t.
Instead, I replay every version of this conversation that ends with her telling me I’m making too much out of one night, one wedding, one room, one bad decision.
Except it wasn’t a bad decision to me.
Nothing about Bailey in that hotel room felt temporary. Not the way she kissed me, not the way she looked at me when she said she wanted it, and not the way she fell asleep with her hand over my heart like she had no clue she’d found the exact place she’d gotten under my skin.
I turn onto her street and grip the wheel a little tighter.
I’d keep it light. Give her room to dodge without having to look me in the eye. Something about emergency cookies or fake dating terms.
Making it easy is what got me this far, but it’s also the thing Bailey keeps mistaking for shallow.
I park in front of her house and sit there with the engine off.
Her porch light is on. The front window glows warm behind the curtains. It’s early evening, just dark enough that the street has gone quiet.
I get out before I can start the truck again and drive away like a coward.
The November air is cool against my face. My body still aches from practice, but not enough. I could’ve used another hour on the ice. Another set of drills. Another round of getting slammed into the boards until my head had something else to focus on.
No luck.
I walk up the path and knock before I can overthink that too.
For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then I hear footsteps, the door opens, and there she is.
Bailey Sutton in black leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, hair twisted up with pieces falling around her face. No makeup. Fuzzy socks. One hand still on the edge of the door.