32. FINN & BAILEY #2
“So thank you,” I say, my voice lower now. “To everyone who helped make this something these kids can count on. That matters. More than you know.”
I stop there.
Before it turns into too much.
Before I try to polish the raw edge off it.
For one second, the rink stays quiet. Then the applause starts. Not wild. Not game-night loud. Something warmer.
Gavin claps beside me, and when I hand him the microphone, he gives me a nod.
After that, the event shifts back into movement. Kids get back on the ice. Donors mingle. Volunteers direct people toward the donation tables. The team spreads out again, and the rink fills with the sound of skates, laughter, and pucks tapping against sticks.
Ty ends up on a mini obstacle course with a group of seven-year-olds who take the word race very seriously.
Dylan is at the passing station, trying to keep a straight face while one kid insists her stick “doesn’t like directions.
” Beck helps a little boy tie his skates for the third time because the kid keeps untying them to see if Beck will come back.
Roman, somehow, is now kneeling on the ice while Willa explains something to him with both hands.
I skate past Gavin. “You going to save him?”
Gavin watches Roman nod solemnly at Willa. “Nope.”
“Cold.”
“She’s teaching him patience.”
“She’s teaching him fear.”
“Also useful.”
I laugh, and this time it’s easy.
Bailey is near the boards now, inside the rink area but off the ice, talking with one of the social workers. She looks beautiful, her cheeks pink from the cold, her hand drifting to her stomach every so often like she does it without realizing.
I’m across the rink, surrounded by kids and teammates and noise, and still, my body knows exactly where she is.
Carter skates up beside me, stopping a little too hard and sending a spray of ice against my skate.
“Subtle,” I say.
He ignores that. “You coming next week?”
The question is casual. Too casual.
He looks past me when he asks it, like the answer doesn’t matter that much.
It matters.
I know it does.
I also know better than to make the moment bigger than he can stand.
“Yeah,” I say. No hesitation. No extra promise. “I’ll be here.”
He nods.
That’s it.
Just a nod.
Then he looks toward the younger kids, where Milo is celebrating knocking down two cones and possibly one volunteer.
“You should teach them how to stop,” Carter says.
“I’ve been trying.”
“Try harder.”
I almost laugh. “You offering to help?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
My chest tightens. Not painfully this time.
Just enough to remind me I’m alive and here and part of something that keeps growing one small yes at a time.
“Maybe works,” I say. “We can start there.”
He looks at me like he regrets offering already, then skates toward Milo and the cones.
Bailey comes up beside me a moment later, staying on the rubber mat near the boards.
“You doing okay?” she asks.
I turn toward her. “Yeah.”
She studies my face, seeing more than I say because she always does.
“That was a good speech.”
“Gavin’s was better.”
“Gavin sounded like a brochure.”
I blink, then laugh.
She smiles. “A very handsome brochure. But still.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Please don’t. He might take it as a compliment.”
“He probably would.”
Her gaze moves out to the ice, where Carter is now showing Milo how to drag one skate sideways to slow down. Milo is listening with the seriousness of a kid receiving state secrets.
Bailey’s eyes fill.
I lean closer. “Is this pride or pregnancy?”
She blinks fast. “Both, probably.”
“Convenient.”
“Very. I plan to blame hormones for everything until at least October.”
“That seems reasonable.”
She looks at me, and there’s so much tenderness in her face I almost forget we’re in public.
“I’m proud of you,” she says.
My throat tightens. I don’t deflect. I don’t joke. I let it in.
“Thank you.”
Around us, Roman gets talked into demonstrating a turn for Willa while pretending this was his plan all along. Ty loses an obstacle course race to a seven-year-old and accepts defeat with dramatic dignity. Gavin watches the young goalies like every single one of them has his full attention.
And me?
I stand beside Bailey with her hand in mine, watching Carter help Milo stop before he crashes into the boards.
I think about what I said into the microphone. Same rink. Same time. Same people showing up.
I used to think staying meant fighting the urge to run. Now I’m starting to understand it can be quieter than that. Less dramatic. More steady. Showing up next week, and the week after, and the week after that, until the kids stop wondering whether you mean it.
Maybe it’s Bailey’s hand in mine and our baby growing under hers. Maybe it’s Carter asking a question without looking at me. Maybe it’s this team, this town, this loud, imperfect community filling the rink with proof that safe places don’t appear all at once.
People build them.
And for the first time, I’m not just grateful to have found one.
I’m helping build it.
Bailey
I manage not to cry again until Roman lets Willa put a sparkly sticker on his helmet, and that seems like a reasonable breaking point.
“He let her do it,” I whisper.
Priya follows my gaze. “He looks like he’s reconsidering several life choices.”
“He’s not taking it off,” Maren says.
And he isn’t.
Roman keeps skating with a tiny pink star stuck to the side of his helmet, expression severe enough to suggest anyone who comments will regret it. Willa skates after him, glowing with victory.
Jade wipes under one eye. “I’m not crying. The rink air is aggressive.”
“Sure,” Emerson says.
Sienna looks at me. “You’re crying too.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“You’ve used that excuse four times today.”
“And it has been valid every time.”
Across the ice, Finn catches sight of me and raises his brows in silent question.
I wave him off.
He smiles.
Not the old one. Not the bright, easy smile he used to hand out when he wanted the world to move along before anyone looked too closely.
This one reaches all the way through him.
I watch him turn back to Carter and Milo, bending low to say something that makes Milo nod and Carter pretend not to listen.
I watch Gavin patiently reset the goalie station.
I watch Ty let another kid beat him around the cones, though I suspect this time it may not be entirely intentional.
I watch the women laugh beside me, the team move around the ice, the families fill the stands, and the donation table grow crowded with people who want to help.
This is bigger than hockey. Bigger than one clinic.
Bigger than one man learning how to stay.
But Finn is in the center of it for me, not because he needs to be the center of attention, but because I know what it took for him to stand here with an open heart and empty hands. To stop performing long enough to tell the truth. To believe he belongs, then help other kids believe it too.
My hand settles over my stomach.
“Your dad is something else,” I whisper.
Emerson bumps my shoulder gently. “Talking to the baby in public already?”
“Apparently.”
“Very sweet.”
“Don’t tell Jade.”
“I heard that,” Jade says.
“Of course you did.”
Finn looks over again, and this time, I don’t wave him off.
I smile.
He smiles back.
Around us, the rink is loud and warm and full of people showing up for kids who deserve every bit of it.
And watching Finn there, steady and open and so deeply loved, I understand something with a clarity that makes my eyes fill all over again.
This is our family.
Messy. Loud. Untraditional. Built from friends, teammates, foster kids, social workers, women who bring snacks, men who pretend they aren’t soft, and one hockey player who finally knows love isn’t something he has to earn.
I press my palm gently to my belly and let myself cry this time.
Not because I’m scared.
Not because I’m overwhelmed.
Because for once, the future doesn’t feel like something rushing toward us.
It feels like something we’re already building together.