20. FINN
Chapter twenty
FINN
The youngest kids are the best part of clinic night.
Not because they’re good at hockey. They are absolutely not good at hockey.
At six, seven, eight years old, most of them are still negotiating with gravity, and gravity is winning by a humiliating margin. They skate with locked knees, stiff arms, and sticks dragging behind them like forgotten luggage.
It’s beautiful chaos.
Tonight, the greatest threat to rink safety is named Milo.
Milo is six, missing one front tooth, and completely convinced he is the fastest person in the building.
“Coach Finn,” he calls, wobbling toward me with deep determination and no measurable control. “Watch how fast I can go.”
“Milo, I need you to remember the stopping part.”
“I know the stopping part.”
“You stopped by landing on your butt last time.”
“That counts.”
“It absolutely does not.”
He pushes off anyway.
Carter stands beside me with his stick braced against the ice, watching Milo gather speed with the grim focus of someone witnessing a disaster with a very slow countdown.
“Should we do something?” he asks.
“Probably.”
Milo makes it six feet, realizes he has no exit strategy, and yells, “Wall!”
I skate out, catch him gently under both arms, and turn him before he crashes into the boards.
Milo looks up at me, delighted. “Did you see how fast?”
“I saw a lot of commitment.”
“Was I fast?”
“You were very impressive.”
He beams like that’s better.
Carter snorts under his breath.
I glance over. “You laughing at my coaching?”
“No.”
“That sounded like a laugh.”
Carter looks away, but the corner of his mouth moves.
I’ll take it.
Progress with Carter doesn’t come in big moments.
It comes in half smiles, he tries to kill before anyone sees them, and in the way he stands next to me tonight, pretending helping the little kids is beneath him while tracking every one of them like they’ve personally been placed under his protection.
He thinks I don’t notice, but I do.
Across the ice, Gavin is running goalie drills with his usual blend of patience and quiet terror.
Bailey is near the bench, helping one of the volunteers organize water bottles and extra gloves.
She’s supposed to help with snacks and water tonight, but Bailey still notices every loose helmet strap, an overwhelmed kid, and an adult hovering too close to the glass.
She catches me looking. Her brows lift. I grin.
She rolls her eyes, but she smiles before she turns back to the water bottles.
That smile does stupid things to my concentration.
A whistle shrieks from the younger group’s volunteer, and three little kids immediately put both hands over their ears.
“Too loud,” one girl announces.
“You’re right,” I say. “Whistles are bossy.”
“You’re bossy,” she says.
Carter makes the air sound again.
I look at him. “Still not laughing?”
“Nope.”
The girl points her stick at Carter. “He laughed.”
“Traitor,” Carter mutters.
“What’s your name?” she asks him.
“Carter.”
“I’m Willa. I’m seven. I have two loose teeth, and I can almost whistle.”
Carter blinks. “Okay.”
“Can you skate backward?”
“A little.”
“Show me.”
He looks at me like I caused this.
I lift both hands. “She asked you, not me.”
“I’m not a coach.”
“Never said you were.”
“You keep making me do coach stuff.”
“I asked you to help. You keep being useful.”
Carter glares at me, but there’s less heat in it than there used to be. Then he pushes off, slow and controlled, skating backward in front of Willa while she watches like he’s doing a magic trick.
Carter finishes the glide and turns around.
Willa’s eyes are huge. “I can do that.”
“Not yet,” Carter says.
“Yes, I can.”
“You can barely go forward.”
“I can go forward fast.”
“Yeah. It’s the stopping before you hit something that needs work.”
I press my lips together.
Carter realizes too late that he’s being funny. His ears turn red, and he looks down at his stick.
Willa doesn’t care. She just grins. “Teach me.”
There it is. A trap, but the good kind.
Carter glances toward me again, and this time there’s a flicker of panic under the attitude.
I keep my voice easy. “Start with turning around without falling. Then we’ll get fancy.”
“We?” Carter asks.
“You. Me. Willa.”
Willa wobbles hard on one skate. “I meant to do that.”
“Very convincing,” Carter says.
She laughs so hard she almost falls, and Carter moves without thinking, reaching out to steady her elbow. He lets go the second she’s balanced, like he can pretend it didn’t happen if he’s quick enough.
Bailey sees it from near the bench. I know because when I glance over, her attention is on Carter. She’s filling water cups while taking in the whole picture, but not in a way that makes him feel watched.
Bailey’s expression softens, then she looks at me.
***
We split the little kids into two tiny teams after that, which is generous because positions are mostly suggestions at this age. The rules are simple. Don’t swing sticks too high. Don’t shove. Try to pass once before everyone swarms the puck like it’s the last cupcake on earth.
They immediately ignore the passing rule.
The puck drops, and six small bodies move after it with more enthusiasm than direction. Willa yells, “I’m open,” while standing directly behind Carter. Milo skates past the puck entirely and looks thrilled with himself. Theo taps it forward, then stops to celebrate before anyone has scored.
“Keep going,” Carter calls.
Theo looks back. “I did it.”
“You did. Now do it again.”
That’s better than anything I could’ve told him to say. Because Theo listens.
Carter sees it happen, and something shifts in him. Not much. Just a little straightening through his shoulders. A little less tension in the way he holds his stick.
He matters to these kids right now. Not because I said he does. Because they’re proving it.
Willa gets the puck, points herself at the wrong net, and freezes when Carter calls, “Other way.”
Milo crashes into her very gently, which sends both of them down in a slow-motion heap.
Nobody cries.
Willa pops up onto her knees. “I meant to do that.”
“Sure,” Carter says. “Great strategy.”
“What does strategy mean?”
“It means you meant to.”
I skate by Carter. “Strong coaching.”
“Shut up.”
“Can’t. I’m inspired.”
He gives me a look, but it’s not the old look. Not all armor and sharp edges. There’s something under it now. Something that wants to believe this could be fun and hates that wanting anything still feels risky.
The mini scrimmage ends when Milo finally scores on the correct net, mostly because the goalie is busy looking at his glove.
The celebration is immediate and excessive.
Milo drops to his knees and slides about eight inches with both arms in the air. Willa tries to hug Carter and nearly takes them both down. Theo bangs his stick on the ice until Gavin, from the other end, turns his head slowly.
Every little kid freezes.
Gavin says, deadpan, “The ice heard you.”
Milo whispers, “Sorry, ice.”
Even Carter laughs at that.
I don’t point it out. I learned a long time ago that some things disappear if you stare too hard.
After the kids rotate off, Bailey steps in to help, crouching to tighten a little girl’s skate and reminding Milo to drink water.
Carter stays on the ice with me, watching the little kids clomp toward the bench in their skates.
“You were good with them,” I say.
He shrugs. “They’re easy.”
“Are they?”
“They listen.”
I glance over. “They listen to you.”
His jaw tightens. Compliment detected. Shields up.
I let the silence sit for a second.
Across the rink, Gavin’s goalie group cheers when one kid makes a save and immediately falls backward into the net. Gavin helps him up with the solemn patience of a priest conducting a sacred ritual.
Carter watches that too.
“Gavin’s good with them,” he says, like the words are an accident.
“Yeah.”
“He doesn’t talk much.”
“No.”
“I like that.”
“I figured you might.”
Carter shifts his stick from one hand to the other. “You talk a lot.”
“Also true.”
He looks at me quickly, maybe checking if that offended me.
It didn’t.
“Some kids need quiet,” I say. “Some need someone talking so the quiet doesn’t get too loud.”
Carter’s attention drops to the ice.
There it is. That little opening.
I don’t rush it. Rushing a kid like Carter will just make him raise his walls even higher.
He scuffs the toe of his skate against a shaved-up patch of ice. “They keep asking if I want rides.”
I know who he means. The program coordinators.
“To clinic?” I ask.
He nods once. “I can get here on my own.”
“Of course, you can.”
His shoulders go tight, like he was prepared for an argument and doesn’t know what to do without one.
“I’m not some little kid,” he says.
“No, you’re not.”
“I don’t need anyone.”
There it is. The lie.
Not because he doesn’t believe it. That’s the worst of it.
Carter probably does believe it, or at least he’s had to.
He’s got the look I know too well. The one that says needing people is a mistake because people leave, or disappoint you, or make you feel stupid for hoping they meant what they promised.
My chest pulls tight, and for a second, I’m thirteen again, standing in a doorway with a trash bag full of clothes and a social worker’s hand light between my shoulder blades, hearing a woman inside the house say, He’s funny, at least, like that made me easier to take in.
I push the memory down.
“I used to say that too,” I tell him.
Carter’s eyes flick up to mine.
I keep my voice low enough that it stays between us. “Sometimes I still do.”
He looks away fast. “I’m not like you.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not.”
That gets his attention.
I lean on my stick, giving him space to breathe. “But I know what it sounds like when someone says they don’t need anybody because needing people has been a bad deal before.”
His throat moves.
He doesn’t answer.
Behind us, Milo yells, “Coach Finn, Willa says she can skate backward now.”
“She cannot,” Carter calls.