32. FINN & BAILEY
Chapter thirty-two
FINN & BAILEY
Bailey
By the time we reach the arena, I have cried once because a kid in a Ravens hoodie held the door open for his little sister, and again because Jade said, “You look really beautiful today,” instead of making a joke.
Pregnancy has turned me into a woman who gets emotional over manners, snacks, and sincere compliments.
“You okay?” Emerson asks as we walk through the main entrance with the rest of the women.
“I’m fine.”
Jade looks over her shoulder. “She cried because I told her she looked beautiful.”
“I didn’t cry,” I say.
Priya gives me a calm look. “Your eyes filled dramatically.”
“My eyes are filled with hormones.”
Maren laughs, and Sienna links her arm through mine like I might need physical support if I get too emotional.
The arena feels different today.
Not game-day electric. Not loud with fans and pressure, and the low hum of competition. Today, it’s bright and open and full of people who look like they’re here because they care.
Donation tables line one side of the concourse, stacked with clipboards, flyers, raffle baskets, and a giant sign that reads Ravens Foster Youth Clinic Community Day. Volunteers in team shirts direct the crowd toward the rink.
I rest a hand low on my stomach as we move deeper inside.
I’m showing now.
Not enough that strangers feel entitled to ask questions, thank God, but enough that everyone who loves me notices.
Enough that Finn’s eyes soften every time his gaze drops to my belly before coming back to my face.
Enough that I’ve started standing sideways in mirrors and trying to understand how my body can feel both completely mine and belonging to someone else.
Today, though, I don’t feel exposed.
I feel surrounded.
Emerson walks on one side of me, Sienna on the other.
Jade and Priya are already discussing which raffle basket has the highest “actually useful” value, while Maren spots Nico across the rink and smiles in a way that makes me look away because some couples are adorable in public and annoying about it.
On the ice, the Ravens are spread out among stations for the kids.
Gavin is near the smaller goal, helping young goalies drop into the butterfly position without tipping over.
Beck and Knox are working with older kids on passing.
Dylan is attempting to explain stickhandling to three children who are mostly interested in how fast they can knock cones down.
Roman stands near center ice, arms crossed, looking like he was built in a facility that did not include youth programming in the original design.
Then Willa skates directly up to him, points at his stick, and says something I can’t hear through the glass.
Roman looks down at her.
She keeps pointing.
He looks toward Gavin. Gavin doesn’t rescue him.
A minute later, Roman is skating slowly backward while Willa follows him, copying his footwork with fierce concentration and absolutely no concern for personal space.
Jade presses a hand to the glass. “I would like everyone to appreciate that Roman has been emotionally captured by a child less than half his size.”
Priya nods. “He never stood a chance.”
“He looks terrified,” Emerson says.
I laugh, and it feels easy.
Then I see Finn.
He is near the boards with Carter and a couple of older kids, helmet off, hair damp at the ends, sleeves pushed to his elbows.
He isn’t performing. He isn’t trying to be the center of the event.
He’s listening to one of the teenagers explain something with sharp hand gestures, nodding like the kid is giving him a real scouting report.
Carter stands a few feet away, pretending not to care.
Except he is watching Finn the whole time.
Finn says something to him, quiet enough that no one else reacts. Carter shrugs, but he takes the puck Finn taps toward him and skates into the drill.
My throat tightens.
“Don’t start,” Jade says softly.
“I’m not starting.”
“You’re very close.”
“It’s pregnancy.”
“It’s pride,” Emerson says.
I look at her.
She smiles. “Both can be true.”
On the ice, a younger boy tries to show off by skating backward, immediately loses balance, and lands on his backside with both arms in the air. Before anyone can worry, he yells, “I meant to do that,” and half the kids start laughing.
Ty, who is running the station beside him, skates over and gives him a serious nod. “Advanced technique. Bold choice.”
The kid beams.
I laugh again, harder this time.
This is what the day feels like. Kids falling and getting up. Players who look enormous beside them bend low to tie skates, adjust helmets, and listen. Volunteers passing out water bottles. Donors wandering through the concourse with soft smiles and open wallets.
Social workers chat near the boards, watching their kids be loud and messy and have the time of their lives.
Nobody is fixed by one afternoon, and a hockey clinic doesn’t magically save anyone. But today, these kids are welcomed exactly as they are.
A whistle blows, and the kids rotate stations. Willa abandons Roman the second she spots Gavin near the goal again.
Roman watches her go, expression unreadable.
Then, very quietly, he picks up the cone she knocked over and sets it back in place.
Sienna leans close to me. “That man is in trouble someday.”
“From Willa?”
“From whatever woman figures out he’s secretly soft under all that silence.”
I smile. “That may take a very patient woman.”
“Or a very stubborn one,” Priya says.
“That man is going to need a woman who can melt him with one glance,” Jade adds.
Across the ice, Finn looks up and finds me through the glass.
His smile is not the one he gives fans or teammates or kids who need the room lighter for a second.
This one is mine.
Small. Warm. Real.
My hand moves over my stomach again without thought.
His gaze follows, then lifts back to my face.
I mouth, “Proud of you.”
He sees it.
I know he sees it because his expression changes, just enough for my eyes to sting all over again.
I blink fast.
Jade sighs. “There she goes.”
“Shut up. I’m in love with that man,” I say.
Some truths are too obvious to waste energy denying.
Finn
Speaking in front of people shouldn’t scare me.
I can handle crowds. I can handle cameras. I can handle drunk fans yelling advice they absolutely should not be giving anyone. I’ve given post-game interviews with blood on my face and half my front tooth missing.
But standing on a small patch of carpet at center ice with a microphone in my hand and half the town watching?
Apparently different.
Gavin stands beside me, looking annoyingly calm, like public speaking is just another drill he already knows how to run.
“You want to go first?” I ask.
He looks at me. “You asked me that three minutes ago.”
“And you gave the wrong answer.”
“My answer was no.”
“See. Wrong answer.”
His mouth twitches.
The event coordinator gives us the signal.
I look toward the stands first.
Bailey is there with the women, one hand resting over our baby, eyes steady on me. She smiles, and something in my chest settles.
Not all the way, but enough that I might survive this.
Gavin speaks first because he is a better person, and because he probably decided he’d rather get it out of the way so he can enjoy watching me fumble through mine.
He thanks the donors, the volunteers, the social workers, the families, the team staff, and everyone who helped turn the clinic from a conversation into something real.
He talks about access to sports, confidence, and the way learning to skate can give kids a place to put energy, frustration, and pride.
Calm. Clear. Useful.
Very Gavin.
Then he hands me the microphone.
A few of the guys clap too loudly because they are terrible friends. Ty whistles until Nico elbows him. Willa, standing near the boards in full gear, yells, “Finn, don’t drop it like your stick.”
The crowd laughs.
I point at her. “That was one time.”
“It was twice,” Carter says from the older kids’ group.
I look at him. “Your support means everything.”
Carter shrugs, but his mouth does something dangerously close to a smile.
The laugh that moves through the rink takes some of the pressure with it. I breathe once, glance at Bailey, then look out at everyone else.
“I’ll keep this short,” I say. “Partly because Gavin already sounded professional, and partly because if I talk too long, Willa is going to start coaching me from the boards.”
“Hurry up so we can skate some more,” Milo calls.
I close my eyes for half a second while everyone laughs again.
Then I take a deep breath and begin.
“When we started this clinic, I thought it would be about hockey,” I say. “Skating. Passing. Falling in creative ways.”
A few kids laugh.
“But it’s become a lot more than that. Hockey is the fun part.
It’s the excuse to get everyone here. The real part is consistency.
Same rink. Same time. Same people showing up week after week, even when a kid says they don’t care, or acts like they’re too cool for drills, or spends an entire session pretending the cone they knocked over moved by itself. ”
Milo raises his hand. “It did.”
I look at him. “I respect your commitment to the story.”
Another laugh moves through the rink, but this time it fades into something softer.
I look toward Carter without making it too obvious.
“Kids deserve places where they don’t have to be perfect to be welcome,” I continue. “They deserve people who keep showing up, not because they skated great that day or said the right thing or made it easy, but because showing up is the point.”
The rink goes quiet.
My hand tightens once around the microphone.
I think about trash bags. Doorways. Adults looking away.
I think about Bailey asking for me, not the performance.
I think about the baby we haven’t met yet and the kind of father I want to be.
Not perfect. Not polished. Present enough that my kid never wonders whether love has to be earned through usefulness.