31. FINN
Chapter thirty-one
FINN
Itap the doorframe twice on my way out of the locker room.
Same as always.
Two taps with the edge of my glove, quick and familiar, the kind of ritual I’ve done so many times, my body usually completes it before my brain catches up.
Tonight, I notice it.
For years, I told myself that tap kept me steady. Two quick touches above the door before every game, like the right rhythm could lock everything into place before I stepped onto the ice.
Tonight, the ritual is just a ritual.
I look toward the ice, then up at the friends-and-family section as we skate out for warmups.
I find Bailey immediately.
I always do now.
She’s sitting with Emerson, Jade, Priya, Maren, and Sienna, wrapped in one of my old Ravens jerseys, one hand resting low on her stomach.
She isn’t showing much yet, not enough for strangers to know, but I know.
My body knows. My heart knows. Every part of me that used to brace for good things to disappear is still there, but it’s not as loud as it used to be.
Bailey is teaching me that good things can stay, and I’m finally starting to believe her.
She sees me looking and lifts her fingers.
One small wave. Just for me.
My chest eases.
In front of the women, two rows are filled with the foster youth hockey clinic kids, their social workers, and a couple of volunteers.
The team arranged the seats. No ceremony.
Just tickets, pizza vouchers, and a chance for the kids to watch a real game from seats close enough to feel the boards shake.
Willa has a foam finger almost as big as her body.
Milo is wearing a Ravens hat backward and leaning so far forward that a social worker has a hand ready at the back of his sweatshirt.
Carter sits at the end of the row, arms folded, face carefully bored.
But he’s here, and that matters.
I skate past the glass, and Willa starts waving both arms like she’s trying to guide an airplane onto a runway. I lift my stick. Milo grabs Carter’s sleeve and points.
Carter doesn’t wave.
He does, however, look directly at me for one second before pretending he didn’t.
Dylan glides up beside me during warmups. “You staring at your fan club?”
“I have several.”
“You have one tiny one trying to take flight.”
“That’s Willa. She’s a character.”
He looks up toward the section, then back at me. His expression softens for half a second before he ruins it by being Dylan. “Don’t get sentimental before puck drop. You get reckless.”
“I’m mature now.”
He laughs. “That is not what anyone is saying.”
I smile despite myself and circle back toward the line for shooting drills.
On the other side of the ice, Gavin stretches in the crease, calm as always. Ty is arguing with Nico about whether changing his stick tape after the last game’s two-point loss is tempting fate. Knox is quiet, focused, and already locked into the game. Beck skates by and taps his stick against mine.
I think about what Dylan was trying to say. Stay smart. Stay steady. Don’t chase hits that aren’t there or force plays because I’m trying to prove something no one asked me to prove. Don’t skate like fear is wearing the other team’s jersey.
Basically, no being a dipshit.
When the puck drops, the first few minutes are fast. San Luis Obispo comes out pressing, trying to force mistakes early, but we’re ready.
Our defense moves the puck cleanly. Gavin handles the first shot with an easy glove save, and the arena settles into that live-wire hum that only happens late in the season, when every point matters and everyone in the building knows it.
This game matters.
We’re trying to secure a playoff position. They’re trying to catch us. Every loose puck feels a little sharper because of it.
But I don’t feel frantic.
That’s the difference.
On my first shift, I take a pass from Dylan along the boards and chip it behind their defense instead of forcing something through the middle.
Smart play. The kind Coach Reese has yelled about since October.
I chase it down, win the battle in the corner, and send the puck back to Knox at the blue line.
He shoots low through traffic.
The puck bounces off a shin pad, kicks loose near the crease, and Ty nearly buries the rebound before their goalie gets a pad on it.
The crowd groans.
Ty looks like he might cry.
On the bench, Coach claps once. “That’s the shift. Again.”
Again.
That’s all hockey is, really. Not one perfect play. Not one grand moment that proves you belong. Just shift after shift, choice after choice, showing up again.
Bailey would probably say that’s the point.
She would also probably tell me not to make a whole life philosophy out of dumping the puck deep.
I love her enough to hear both.
Halfway through the first period, San Luis Obispo scores on a screened shot from the point. Gavin never sees it. Their bench comes alive, the crowd in our arena drops into a frustrated buzz, and for one breath, I feel the old instinct flare.
Do something. Fix it. Answer immediately.
I grip my stick and let the feeling pass through me without handing it the wheel.
On the next shift, I don’t force a play.
I don’t chase a hit. I stay in position, support Dylan on the breakout, and make the boring pass that turns into the right one.
Nico carries the puck across the blue line, delays long enough to draw their defenseman toward him, then slides it to Beck coming late through the slot.
Beck fires. Puck goes in, and the arena erupts.
One-one.
Back on the bench, Dylan bumps my shoulder. “Look at you making responsible choices.”
“I’m a changed man.”
He gives me a look.
“Fine,” I say. “Changing.”
“Better.”
The first intermission comes with the score tied. In the locker room, Coach keeps it clean. Keep pressure low. Stop turning the puck over at the line. Win the battles below the dots. Simple, sharp, calm.
In the tunnel before the second period, I glance up at the big screen as the arena announcer’s voice rolls through the building.
“Tonight, the Santa Rosa Ravens are proud to welcome members of the Ravens Foster Youth Clinic.”
The camera cuts to the section where the kids are sitting.
The screen flashes: WELCOME, RAVENS FOSTER YOUTH HOCKEY CLINIC.
Willa loses her mind.
She jumps up with the foam finger, mouth open in a scream I can hear even over the arena music. Milo stands too, waving his hat until a social worker gently pulls him back from the edge of the row. Some of the younger kids grin at themselves on the screen, pointing and laughing.
Carter stays seated, but when the camera sweeps past him, he looks up. For a second, his expression shifts. Not into a smile, not quite, but something open enough that he doesn’t hide from it fast enough. Surprise, maybe. The kind that sneaks past the guard he keeps posted around everything.
Then he folds his arms tighter and looks away, but not before I see it.
***
The second period is harder.
San Luis Obispo plays heavy, clogging the middle and making every clean pass feel like threading a needle through a locked door.
They score again on a power play after Beck gets called for hooking.
The call is questionable enough that Beck has plenty to say about it, and Coach has even more. None of that changes the scoreboard.
Down 2-1.
The old version of me would start reaching now. Skate harder than necessary. Take the extra shove after the whistle. Try to drag the game back by force because force feels better than waiting.
Tonight, I keep breathing.
I look up once during a stoppage and find Bailey.
She is watching me, not the scoreboard.
Her hand is on her stomach.
The baby is still too small for her to feel movement, but that moment is getting closer.
Too small for the kind of visible future people like to talk about.
But that doesn’t matter. The future is already there.
In her body. In the way I love her. In the fact that I can stand on this ice, down a goal in a game we need, and not feel like losing a shift means losing myself.
Late in the second, San Luis Obispo traps us in front of our own net for what feels like forever. They keep passing the puck around the outside, forcing us to chase, turn, block, and reset before we can get enough control to clear it away.
My legs burn, and I can feel the same exhaustion in the guys around me.
Dylan drops in front of a shot. Knox ties up one of their forwards before he can get his stick free near the crease.
Gavin makes the save, but the puck kicks loose in front of him, close enough to make every person on our bench hold their breath.
I get there first.
It’s not pretty, but controlled enough that I dig the puck out along the wall, take one hard shove from their winger, and chip it past him to open ice. Dylan reads it immediately. He’s gone before their defense can turn.
I push after him.
Two-on-one.
Dylan races up the left side with the puck, one defender backing up in front of him and trying to guess whether he’ll shoot or pass. I push hard up the other side, keeping close enough to give him an option if he wants it.
The goalie shifts toward Dylan, expecting the shot.
Dylan waits one extra heartbeat, then sends the puck across.
It comes right to me, fast and perfect.
I don’t overthink it.
I just shoot.
The puck leaves my stick fast and clean, flying past the goalie before he can get across the net.
For half a second, there is only the red light.
Then the arena explodes.
I hit the glass behind the net, and my teammates crash into me. Dylan’s glove shoves against my helmet. Ty is yelling something I can’t understand. Knox grabs the back of my jersey, and Beck slams into the pile like he doesn’t care if he breaks a few ribs.
Tie game.
I look up through the glass and find Bailey.