20. FINN #2
Willa shouts, “I almost can.”
“You turned sideways and stopped moving.”
“That’s closer than before.”
Carter snorts, but it doesn’t fully break the moment.
It helps, though. Sometimes a laugh is a doorstop. Keeps the heavy thing from closing all the way.
“I’m not trying to make you need me,” I say. “Or Gavin. Or Bailey. Or anybody here.”
“Then why do you care if I come?”
“Because I know what it’s like to be welcome somewhere and still not trust that you’re allowed to want it.”
His fingers tighten on the top of his stick.
I’m close. Maybe too close. So I back off without moving my feet.
“You don’t have to make this mean anything,” I say. “You don’t have to call it family or support or whatever word makes your skin crawl. All you have to do is show up if you want to. Help the little kids if you want to. Let people offer rides if you need one. Say no if you don’t.”
His mouth twitches like that one caught him.
“But don’t call it independence if what you really mean is you’re scared someone might matter.”
Carter goes very still.
For one sharp second, I think I pushed too far.
Then he says, so quiet I almost miss it, “People leave, or decide they don’t want to deal with me anymore.”
The words crack something open in me.
Not visibly. I’m too practiced for that. But inside, yeah. Inside, they go straight where they’re supposed to.
“I know,” I say.
He looks up.
No joke now. No attitude. Just a kid trying to hold it together.
“I know,” I say again. “And I’m not going to stand here and tell you they don’t. Some do. Some shouldn’t, and they still do.”
I still have his attention, so I keep going.
“But not everybody,” I say. “And not every offer is a trap.”
He swallows.
From the bench, Bailey says something to Willa, then looks toward us. She doesn’t come over. Doesn’t interrupt. Just watches from a distance, like she understands this isn’t a moment that needs rescuing.
I love that about her.
The thought comes fast, but I don’t stop to examine it.
Carter wipes the blade of his stick over the ice. “I can help with them next time.”
I keep my face steady.
“Yeah?”
“The little kids,” he says, like I’m slow. “They need help.”
“They definitely do.”
“Milo’s going to break his face.”
“Probably not his whole face.”
Carter gives me a look.
I nod. “Fine. His face is at risk.”
“I can help.”
“I’ll put you on the list.”
He frowns. “There’s a list?”
“There will be. Bailey likes lists.”
His gaze flicks toward her. “She’s the nurse?”
“Yeah.”
“She looks like she knows when people are lying.”
“I’m sure she does.”
Carter almost smiles.
Then Willa yells, “Carter, are you on my team next time?”
He looks toward her. For a second, he seems caught between wanting to refuse because it’s safer and wanting to say yes because somebody asked, even if it’s just a little girl.
Then he calls back, “Maybe.”
Willa pumps both fists. “That means yes.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It kind of does,” I say.
Carter points his stick at me. “Don’t help.”
“Too late. I’m invested.”
He rolls his eyes, but his shoulders are looser when he skates toward the bench.
Bailey meets my eyes over the top of Willa’s helmet.
There’s something in her expression I can’t look at for too long. Softness. Understanding. Maybe a little worry. Like she saw more of me than I meant to show.
I skate toward the bench, slow enough to buy myself a second.
The rink goes on around me like nothing major just happened. Kids yelling. Skates thudding over rubber mats. Milo explaining to anyone who will listen that he almost died from going too fast.
But Carter is coming back next time, and Bailey saw exactly why I needed him to.
And some old, hidden part of me is standing in a doorway again, holding a trash bag, hoping like hell that being funny is reason enough to let me stay.
Clinic cleanup always takes longer than anyone thinks it will. Gloves end up on benches. Water bottles tip sideways. One helmet sits by itself near the gate.
Willa tells Bailey very seriously that next time, she is going to skate backward and not fall once.
Gavin hears this from ten feet away and pauses with a stack of cones in his hands.
“Ambitious,” he says.
Willa nods. “I know.”
“Start with stopping forward,” Gavin says.
Her face falls. “That’s not as fun.”
“Do it anyway,” he says.
Bailey presses her lips together, trying not to smile while she helps Willa zip her coat. She waits until the rink noise thins out and most of the kids are gone before she comes over to where I’m stacking pucks into a bucket.
“Coffee?” she asks.
I look up. She’s holding her bag now, coat zipped, cheeks still pink from the rink cold. Tired, but not hospital tired. A softer version. Like the clinic took something from her, but gave something back, too.
“You asking me out, Sutton?”
Her brows lift. “Do you need me to make it official?”
“I need clarity before I commit. Tell me you’re not counting this as our third date.”
“No. Just coffee, Finn.”
“Romantic.”
“It’s caffeine.”
“Still in my love language.”
Her mouth curves. “You’re ridiculous.”
Ten minutes later, we’re sitting at a small corner table in a coffee place two blocks from the rink. It’s warm inside, and Bailey gives me a few minutes of easy talk before she wraps both hands around her cup and says, “You were good with him tonight.”
“With Milo? I saved him from smashing into the boards.”
“With Carter.”
I look down at my coffee. “He’s a good kid.”
“He is. And he reminds you of yourself.”
I could deflect. Instead, I nod.
“Some,” I say. “You learn to keep things even. Don’t want too much. Don’t need too much. If you act like you don’t care, nobody gets to see it when they don’t show up.”
Bailey’s voice is soft. “Were you good at that?”
I smile, but there isn’t much in it. “I was excellent.”
She doesn’t take the cue.
“I was funny,” I say. “If I could make people laugh, they were less annoyed. Less uncomfortable. Less likely to remember there was a kid in the room, they didn’t really know what to do with.”
Her eyes stay on mine. “And when it didn’t work?”
I breathe out slowly. “Then I learned a new joke.”
Bailey reaches across the table and touches my hand. “I’m sorry you had to learn that.”
For a second, I have no idea what to do with that. This is Bailey sitting close enough to touch me, saying it like the kid with the trash bag and the too-fast mouth deserved better.
I cover her hand with mine. “I don’t know if I’m doing this right.”
Her eyebrows draw in. “The program?”
“No.” I look at our hands, then back at her. “You.”
Her face changes.
“I asked for three dates like I had some great plan, but the truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. I know how to want you. That’s easy.” My mouth curves a little. “Extremely easy.”
Her cheeks color.
“But the rest,” I say, quieter now. “The staying. The not screwing it up when it starts mattering. I’m not pretending I have a perfect record there.”
“I’m not asking for perfect,” she says.
“What are you asking for?”
“Honest,” she says finally. “And present. Even when it’s easier not to be.”
I nod once. “I can try.”
“When’s date three?” she asks.
I blink, and she takes a sip, watching me over the rim.
I lean back, a slow smile building. “Was that you asking?”
“It was me acknowledging there’s one date left in your little experiment.”
“I prefer date three.”
“Fine.”
I point at her. “That sounded like agreement.”
Her eyes are warm, and she’s not asking me to be funny. She’s asking me to be honest.
Somehow, that feels more terrifying.
***
Thanksgiving at Beck and Sienna’s house is not quiet.
Not with this group of hockey players, friends, and all this food, and every man in the room feeling the need to voice their opinion on how to cook a turkey.
Beck’s house is full when I get there. Lights on. Music playing low. Rain tapping at the windows. The whole place smells like roasted turkey, stuffing, and something sweet coming from the oven that I am immediately committed to investigating.
Dylan opens the door with a beer in one hand and a dish towel thrown over his shoulder.
I stare at him. “Are you hosting now?”
“No. I’ve been assigned to keep people out of Sienna’s way.”
“How’s that going?”
“Poorly. Beck keeps trying to help.”
From somewhere deeper in the house, Sienna says, “Beck, I love you, but if you open that oven one more time, you’re not getting any pumpkin pie.”
Beck’s voice follows. “I was checking.”
“You were hovering.”
Dylan steps aside to let me in. “Marriage looks relaxing.”
One of the kids shrieks with laughter from the living room, followed by the unmistakable sound of a male adult egging him on.
Dylan looks at me. “See? Peaceful.”
I shrug out of my jacket. “Looks like Beck has everything under control.”
“You’re in a weirdly good mood,” Dylan says.
“It’s Thanksgiving.”
“You hate organized events.”
“I tolerate them if they involve turkey and pie.”
Emerson laughs from the living room, and I turn toward her to see Bailey standing beside her near the window, a glass of wine in her hand, dark hair loose around her shoulders, looking gorgeous as usual.
She looks over, sees me, and smiles.
My chest does the thing it’s been doing a lot lately, turning stupidly hopeful before I can stop it.
Bailey steps away from Emerson when she sees me, crossing the living room with that small smile that has been messing with my balance for weeks.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.”
One of Beck and Sienna’s kids races past us in socks, holding a dinner roll like evidence in a crime scene. Sienna calls from the kitchen, “You two better not be filling up with rolls. You have to eat your dinner or no pie.”
The kid yells, “We’re not eating anything,” which is exactly what a guilty person would say.
Bailey laughs and shifts closer to me to avoid the second kid chasing after the first. Her shoulder brushes my arm, quick and warm.
“Full house,” she says.
“Yeah.”
She looks around, taking in the noise, the food, the kids, Knox and Emerson tucked together on the couch, Maren talking to Nico near the dining room, Dylan pretending not to hover by the appetizer tray. “It’s nice.”
I know she means the house. The dinner. The whole loud, messy scene.
I’m thinking more about her being here than the food. Because she looks right here. Comfortable enough to laugh when the kids almost take out the coffee table, lean into the chaos, and stand beside me like this could be more than one holiday dinner.
Dangerous thought.
Bailey looks toward the dining room. “What are the odds there’s apple pie?”
“Low if this group has any respect for Thanksgiving.”
Her eyes come back to mine. “So, you’re a pumpkin pie person?”
“I’m a traditionalist.”
“Apple pie is traditional.”
“Apple pie is traditional for the Fourth of July. Not Thanksgiving.”
She laughs, and I lose the room for a second. Just Bailey, that smile, and the very inconvenient fact that we’re surrounded by witnesses.
Then Emerson calls from the couch, “Bailey, come help me convince Knox that cranberry sauce from a can is not a crime.”
Knox turns. “It holds the shape of the can.”
“That’s not helping your case,” Emerson says.
“It has ridges.”
Bailey gives me a look like this is exactly why she likes these people.
I lean closer. “Welcome to team Thanksgiving.”
Dinner takes another half hour because Beck insists the turkey needs time to settle before cutting it, Sienna threatens him with a carving fork, and Nico keeps eating olives off the appetizer board until Maren moves it away from him.
When we finally sit, the table is crowded in the best way. Plates are too close. Elbows bumping. Someone passes rolls before anyone asks. Rain is still ticking against the windows while the room feels warm around us.
Bailey sits beside me, close enough that her knee brushes mine under the table when she reaches for the butter.
Dylan ends up at the far end with an empty chair beside him.
He looks at it. “This feels pointed.”
“What does?” Beck asks.
“This.” Dylan gestures to the chair. “Everyone paired off, and me with the ghost of Thanksgiving in the empty chair.”
Emerson grins. “Maybe we should find you someone.”
Dylan goes still. “Absolutely not.”
Maren’s eyes light. “That was too fast.”
“No matchmaking.”
“Interesting,” Bailey says, reaching for her water. “That sounded like fear.”
“It was experience,” Dylan says. “I’ve seen what happens when this group gets ideas.”
I lift my glass. “To Dylan’s future mystery woman.”
“No,” Dylan says.
Everyone else lifts their glasses, and Bailey bumps my knee under the table, laughing with them.
“To Dylan bringing a woman to next year’s Thanksgiving dinner,” Knox says.
Dylan points at him. “You used to be my friend.”
“I still am,” Knox says. “That’s why I’m ready to help.”
The table breaks into laughter, and the conversation shifts before Dylan can accuse anyone of betrayal again.
Beck asks if I want more potatoes. Sienna tells me to try the green beans.
Nico makes one dry comment that sends Maren into a fit of giggles.
Knox reaches for the rolls and passes one to Bailey without being asked, then another to me.
The kids are quiet for once as they stuff themselves with turkey and cranberry sauce.
I look at the table. The food. The faces. The noise. Dylan is arguing with Beck about whether mashed potatoes need gravy. Emerson is stealing a bite off Knox’s plate. Bailey is laughing beside me like she belongs here.
And maybe she does.
Maybe I do too.
Bailey notices me looking around the table, and her fingers find mine beneath it.
It’s quick and quiet, hidden where no one else can see.
Her fingers stay linked with mine under the table, and something in me settles.
This isn’t the kind of family I wished for as a kid.
But it’s mine.