31. FINN #2
She’s on her feet now, laughing and crying at the same time, one hand at her mouth. Emerson has both hands in the air. Jade is yelling. The foster kids are losing it. Willa’s foam finger has become a weapon of celebration. Milo is jumping. Even Carter is standing.
Carter is standing.
He isn’t clapping.
But he’s standing.
I tap my glove once against my chest, where Bailey can see.
I skate back to the bench with my heart beating hard, grinning despite myself as gloves slap my helmet and shoulders.
The goal feels good.
But looking up and seeing Bailey on her feet, the kids losing it in the stands, and Carter standing there like he didn’t mean to care so much, that feels even better.
The third period turns into the kind of hockey Coach loves. Hard, smart, and ugly when it needs to be.
Gavin makes two huge saves. Nico forces a turnover. Ty draws a penalty with five minutes left, and on the power play, Knox sends a shot toward the net that Beck redirects past the goalie.
3-2 Ravens.
The last two minutes are all pressure. San Luis Obispo pulls their goalie, giving them an extra attacker. Six of them against five of us. The puck moves around our zone, the crowd rising and falling with every shot, every block, every cleared attempt that doesn’t quite get out.
I get the puck on the boards with twenty seconds left.
My first instinct is to shoot for the empty net.
Risky.
Instead, I pin it along the boards, use my body, and eat up three seconds. Then four. Then five.
Their defenseman digs at it. I hold. Dylan comes in low, helps pry it loose, and finally chips it out to center.
The horn sounds.
The arena roars.
Ravens win, 3-2.
After the handshake line and the first wave to the crowd, I look up one more time.
Bailey is still standing.
So are the kids.
So are the women who have somehow become our own private cheering section and emotional jury.
I lift my stick toward them, and this time Carter lifts his chin.
Not a wave.
A chin lift.
I’ll take it.
***
The Thirsty Raven is packed after the game.
Late-season wins do that. The bar is warm, loud, and full of fans in Ravens gear, old jerseys, and new hats. People at table six retelling the goal like they assisted with it.
Bailey sits tucked into the booth beside me, her shoulder against mine, a ginger ale in front of her. I have one arm stretched along the back of the booth, fingers brushing her shoulder because now that I know how much I like touching her, I have no intention of stopping.
The foster kids aren’t here, obviously. They got to stand by the tunnel as we headed to the locker room before leaving the arena with the social workers, high on popcorn, noise, and the kind of excitement that made Willa ask Gavin if goalie pads came in “sparkle pink.” Gavin apparently said he would look into it, which means he is in serious danger of becoming her favorite person.
Ty has already told me the goal was “future dad instinct with a wrist shot,” and Roman immediately told him never to say that again.
Dylan raises his glass across the table. “Nice goal.”
“Nice pass,” I say.
“I know.”
Bailey leans into my side. “Very humble group.”
“We work on it,” I say.
“No, you don’t.” Her smile tips up, and I bend to kiss her temple before I think better of it.
The table quiets.
Not completely. The bar is too loud for that. But enough.
When I look up, Knox is watching me with a kind of calm approval. Emerson is smiling into her drink. Priya looks deeply entertained. Maren is leaning against Nico, soft-eyed and quiet. Sienna smiles like she saw this coming before either Bailey or me did.
Dylan lifts both hands. “I’m not saying anything.”
“You just did,” Bailey says.
“I said I’m not saying anything. Very different.”
Jade points at him. “This is why we’re finding you a woman next.”
Dylan’s face goes blank. “Absolutely not.”
“Interesting,” Priya says. “Immediate fear response.”
“It’s not fear,” Dylan says. “It’s survival instinct.”
The table laughs, and for once, the sound doesn’t make me feel like I need to jump in and manage the mood. I let it move around me. Let myself be part of it without being responsible for holding it up.
Bailey’s hand finds mine under the table. I look down at our joined fingers. Then I look at her.
“You okay?” she asks softly.
I think about the game. The doorframe. The kids on the screen. Carter standing. Bailey in the stands with her hand on our baby. The way I played steady instead of scared. The way no one asked me to earn this seat, this booth, this woman leaning against my side.
“Yeah,” I say. “I am.”
Her eyes soften.
I turn our joined hands over and bring her knuckles to my mouth. I don’t make a production of it. I don’t stand up. I don’t give a speech. I just kiss her hand where everyone can see because I want them to see.
She is my life now.
Not all of it.
Not in a way that erases hockey or the team or the kids or every part of me that existed before.
But the center is different.
The center is her.
Bailey’s breath catches, and when I lower our hands, she keeps hers in mine.
“You know they’re all watching,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“And you’re still doing it?”
I look at her mouth, then back at her eyes. “Absolutely.”
Her expression shifts in a way that makes the whole bar fade for a second.
Around us, everyone at the table keeps talking, and I sit in the middle of it with Bailey’s hand in mine, realizing I’m not waiting for someone to decide whether I get to stay.
These are my people. This is my family. And Bailey is looking at me like she believes I belong beside her, and I believe it too.