16. BAILEY
Chapter sixteen
BAILEY
By the time I leave the hospital, I’m worn down in that quiet, end-of-shift way that makes even my car feel too far away.
It hasn’t been a bad shift. Bad shifts are the ones everyone understands.
Car accidents. Injured kids. Families waiting for news that no one wants to give them.
The kind of day that leaves the whole unit moving on instinct because there’s no room to think past the next decision, the next patient, the next voice calling your name.
This shift was just long and needy.
A discharge that took twice as much paperwork as it should have. A patient’s daughter crying in the hall because she was tired and scared and trying not to be either. A man in room twelve apologizing every time he pressed the call button, which somehow made me check on him more often.
By the time I clock out, I’ve answered seventeen versions of Bailey, can you just, and my brain feels like it’s been wrung out and hung over a chair.
I should go home.
I should shower, put on soft pants, eat something that requires no assembly, and stare at a wall until my nervous system remembers I’m off duty.
Instead, I drive to the rink, because I said I’d help, and I’m terrible at backing out once people are counting on me.
It’s youth clinic night, and the rink is already loud when I walk in.
The cold air catches me first, sharp with ice, rubber, and popcorn from the concession stand. Then come the kids’ voices from the ice, bright and chaotic, and my tired body loosens before my brain can argue.
I spot Finn.
He’s on the ice with Gavin, helmet pushed back, stick in one hand, surrounded by a cluster of kids who are all talking at once. He should look outnumbered by the noise, the sticks, and the sheer lack of order.
Instead, he looks like he knows exactly what to do with all of it.
Even the kids ricocheting around him like tiny, padded comets.
I find a spot halfway up the bleachers and set my bag beside me. For a minute, I just sit there with my coffee cooling between my hands, letting the rink noise move around me.
Scrimmage night, apparently.
The kids look more excited than they do during drills, buzzing with the kind of energy that comes from being told they’re actually going to play. Even the adults along the glass seem more alert tonight, phones already out.
Finn blows the whistle, and the kids pull their attention back to him, more or less.
“I know,” he calls, skating backward in front of the older group. “Whistles are terrible. So is listening sometimes, but we’re all making sacrifices.”
A few kids laugh.
He splits the older kids into two teams, gives them positions, and keeps it moving. No long lecture. No complicated hockey terms. Just enough structure to make them feel like they’re playing a real game.
The first scrimmage is messy and fast, sticks clacking, skates scraping, kids shouting for passes.
Finn skates backward along the boards, watching all of them at once.
“Head up, Mia. Good.” He points his stick. “Carter, go meet it. Don’t wait for it.”
Carter.
I spot him near the blue line.
The same older kid from the last clinic, the one who took a hard fall and came up angry because fear was too humiliating to admit. Tonight, he’s skating with more control, shoulders still tense, mouth still flat, but he’s in the play. He takes a pass, misses the shot, and swears under his breath.
Finn hears it.
“Creative language,” Finn calls. “Maybe save that one for when the little kids aren’t listening.”
Carter’s ears turn red, but he doesn’t snap back.
Progress.
The scrimmage ends with a goal that may or may not have happened because Gavin moved out of the way on purpose. The kids celebrate anyway, and Gavin looks personally devastated in a very subtle, goalie-specific way.
Finn skates over to him. “Tough break.”
Gavin stares at him. “The puck was moving four miles an hour.”
“Impossible to track.”
“It was a blur as it flew by me.”
“Could’ve happened to anyone.”
Gavin looks at the kids. Most of them are laughing.
The youngest group takes the ice next.
Chaos arrives in tiny jerseys.
One kid immediately falls backward and stays there, arms spread, staring at the ceiling like a snow angel. Another skates in a slow circle while yelling, “Am I doing it?” A little girl with pink tape on her stick keeps tapping the ice very seriously, like she’s summoning the puck.
Finn skates toward Carter.
Carter straightens like he’s bracing for correction.
Instead, Finn says, “I need help.”
Carter blinks. “With them?”
“With the small ones, yeah.”
Carter looks toward the youngest group with open suspicion. “Why?”
“Because they’ve got no fear, no direction, and no respect for spacing. It’s a dangerous combination.”
Carter’s mouth twitches, barely.
Finn nods toward the kids. “You’re good enough to show them without making it complicated.”
Something shifts in Carter’s face.
Not much, but I see it.
He was expecting to be corrected, maybe managed. He was not expecting to be trusted with something.
“I’m not a coach,” Carter says.
“Great. Neither am I. We’ll pretend together.”
Carter looks at the little kids again.
A tiny boy waves both arms at him. “Are you on my team?”
Carter freezes, and Finn just waits.
After a second, Carter skates over. “Maybe. Depends on if you listen.”
The little boy nods hard enough to almost lose balance. “I listen.”
“No, you don’t,” the pink-tape girl says.
Finn coughs into his glove.
Carter looks like he has no idea what to do with any of them. Then he lowers his voice and points his stick at the ice. “Okay. You stand here. Not on his skates. Beside him.”
The little boy moves half an inch.
Finn watches from a few feet away, hands resting on top of his stick, giving Carter the space to figure it out. He doesn’t praise him. Doesn’t make a moment of it. Doesn’t look over at the bleachers to see if anyone notices.
He just lets the kid be good at something.
The youngest scrimmage starts, if scrimmage is the correct word for six small children following the puck like a trail of ducklings with sticks. Carter skates behind them, redirecting, pointing, occasionally catching a kid gently by the elbow before they slide into a full traffic jam.
The little boy from his team gets the puck, taps it forward twice, and looks up at Carter.
“Shoot for the goal,” Carter says. “You’ve got this.”
The kid moves forward slowly and takes a shot.
When the puck drifts over the line and into the net, he throws both hands up and immediately falls down.
Everyone cheers.
Carter laughs before he can stop himself.
It’s quick. Small. Gone almost immediately. But it happens.
Finn doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just lets Carter have the win without putting a spotlight on him.
And somehow, that gets under my skin more than any charming line ever could.
The clinic ends twenty minutes later, with kids tired, loud, and sticky from whatever snacks someone handed out during their break.
Foster parents and volunteers collect equipment.
Gavin stacks cones. Carter helps one of the younger kids find a missing glove, then pretends not to care when the kid thanks him.
Finn skates off last.
By the time he comes through the gate, hair damp, cheeks flushed from the cold, he looks tired too. The good kind. The kind that comes from using yourself up for something that matters.
I head down to meet him near the gate.
“Nice scrimmages,” I say.
“Thanks.”
“I wasn’t sure where you needed my help tonight, so I just watched.”
He nods, his expression turning thoughtful. “That’s on us. Next clinic, we’ll have actual volunteer jobs listed out.”
“That would help.”
“Check-in, gear help, water breaks, crowd control for the tiny ones.”
“Crowd control?”
“You saw them.”
I look toward the youngest kids, several currently trying to climb over a bench instead of around it. “Good idea.”
I glance toward the bleachers, where Carter is unlacing his skates with the younger boy still talking at him. “That was smart.”
Finn follows my gaze. “What was?”
“Giving Carter the little kids.”
He shrugs, but it’s not dismissive. “He needed a role so he could get out of his head.”
I look back at him. He says it so simply, like noticing what someone needs is the easiest thing in the world.
“You’re good at that,” I say.
“At what?”
“At knowing when someone needs a role instead of a speech.”
His expression shifts. “Thanks, Bailey.”
The way he says it makes my chest feel oddly tight.
His mouth curves. “Tomorrow.”
I blink. “Tomorrow?”
“Date one. I’ll pick you up after practice.”
I glance down at my scrubs under my coat, then back at him. “You’re not trying to drag me somewhere tonight?”
His gaze moves over my face, and for once, he doesn’t hide the fact that he’s reading me. “You’ve been at the hospital all day, then came here. You’re tired.”
He’s right. My body is exhausted. My feet hurt. The coffee from the concession stand is the only reason I’m still vertical.
“Tomorrow,” he says again. “Your day off. I’m not wasting date one on a version of you that needs dinner, a shower, and ten hours of sleep.”
I grip my coffee cup a little tighter. “That’s very reasonable of you.”
“Seemed like the right move.”
His eyes warm at that.
“What time?” I ask.
“Four.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a date. There should be some mystery.”
“I don’t like mystery.”
“I know.”
“And yet?”
“And yet, wear something warm and comfortable.”
My eyes narrow. “That is not enough information.”
“It’s enough to keep you from wearing heels.”
“I wasn’t going to wear heels.”
“See? We’re already communicating.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling before I can stop myself.
“I’ll text you,” he says.
“Fine.”
“Try to sound less excited.”
“I’m exhausted. This is all the enthusiasm I have left.”
His smile softens into something that makes my stomach do an irritating little turn. “Then go home, Bailey. Get some rest.”
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“Tomorrow.”