2. Finn #2
I arrived at the address, a modern community center in an affluent neighborhood, with floor-to-ceiling windows and fresh landscaping that still smelled faintly of mulch.
The parking lot was lined with high-end cars.
Sleek BMWs, a polished Mercedes SUV, and a striking red Audi that looked like it had never seen a muddy road.
Even the less flashy vehicles had a certain gloss to them, the kind of cars that belonged to people who had them detailed every other week.
If the cars were any indication, people with money were here.
I patted the dashboard fondly when I parked my fifteen-year-old Honda Civic with its faded blue paint.
“Don’t worry,” I murmured. “I still love you.”
Flustered and breathless, a young woman was waiting inside the door, her clipboard clutched tightly to her chest as if it might escape if she let go.
Her hair, twisted into a messy bun, had strands rebelling in all directions, and her glasses perched crookedly on her nose.
She looked like she’d just finished wrangling a herd of stampeding children or perhaps something wilder.
“Mr. Carter?” she asked, her voice hopeful yet strained.
I fished out my school ID and held it up.
Relief instantly softened her face. “Oh, thank God,” she breathed, then jabbed her finger down a corridor. “Room seven. Good luck.”
I wanted to ask her what she meant, but she launched out the door and scurried away as fast as her Louboutins would let her. Only her words lingered, carrying just enough weight to make me pause. Not ominous exactly, but enough to make me wonder what I’d walked into.
Okay, what could be worse than a room full of six-year-olds?
I stopped at the door, took a deep breath, and squared my shoulders. My rucksack of supplies dug into my back, so I adjusted the straps. Then, conjuring up my best “I’m ready for anything” smile, I grasped the door handle, steeling myself for whatever lay beyond, and walked in.
The room was in chaos. Five big men—broad-shouldered, muscled, and towering—filled the space. Each wore some variation of sweatpants and jerseys, but nothing was relaxed about the tension crackling in the air.
Two of them were locked in a struggle, shoving and swearing, their voices rough and sharp.
The scrape of shoes against the floor was loud, and a chair skidded sideways with a loud clatter as one man shoved the other back.
They were shouting and cursing—I think one of them in French—filling the room with a tension that made my skin prickle.
One furious man had another pinned against the wall, his arm pressed hard against the other’s chest. Two others tried breaking it up, pulling at the angry guy and speaking urgently.
Near the back, a fifth man leaned against the wall, arms crossed, seemingly unbothered by the bedlam unfolding around him. His expression was impassive as though this was just another Friday.
I stood frozen in the doorway, my rucksack still slung over one shoulder, mouth slightly open in shock. This was definitely not what I’d expected from an art class.
“Coach!” the lounging man shouted, and the tension shifted instantly. The fight snapped apart, the angry one shoving his opponent away, sending him sprawling to the floor in a furious, sputtering crouch. The tension in the air didn’t disappear, though. It just crackled, shifting focus.
The angry guy turned, and his gaze locked onto me. He had blood on his face, a thin trail seeping from a cut above his eyebrow, and his expression was murderous.
I flicked my gaze around the room, taking in the mess of overturned chairs, scattered sketchpads, and the jagged tear in one of the canvas boards. Then, my eyes landed on the sign tacked to the side wall:
NHL/NHLPA Player Assistance Program—Art Class, 1/10.
My stomach turned. Jocks.
Mr. Angry was smirking now, a slow, deliberate smile that spread across his face as a wolf sighting easy prey.
He stalked across the room toward me, each step heavy and intentional.
Three of the other four men fell in behind him, moving as a unit, like soldiers closing ranks, but the man who’d been leaning on the wall pushed his way in front of them, and he was the one I was now facing -- brilliant brown eyes and the build of a linebacker -- and I froze.
My rucksack seemed to gain weight on my shoulder, straps digging into my skin.
My inner bullied child—the one who always found safety in art, the one who’d mastered the art of walking with his head down, slipping through school corridors unnoticed, and escaping into sketchbooks filled with worlds no one could touch—curled up and died on the spot.
Memories flickered back. Sharp whispers, locker slams, and laughter that always seemed to follow me home.
Those feelings prickled under my skin, my breath catching in my throat as five towering figures closed in.
This was way worse than a class of six-year-olds.