4. Finn
FOUR
Finn
I wasn’t usually in the habit of withholding my first name from my adult students. After all, there was enough “Mr. Carter” in my day job to make me shudder at hearing it after hours, but stepping into a chaotic room had sent my walls shooting sky-high.
It wasn’t just the overturned chairs or the canvas boards tossed around like litter.
Bob, a hulking figure, had his large hand wrapped tightly around Arnaud’s throat, face red, veins standing out in anger.
Arnaud’s eyes were wild, and dark curses slipped from his lips in rapid-fire French.
Chip was stimming in panic. Taft being lean and jittery, tried to get them apart, but his fingers, twitching, were caught somewhere between wanting to intervene and bolting from the room entirely.
And then there was Walker.
He’d been apart from it all, arms crossed, exuding a kind of quiet control even amid the bedlam.
His brown eyes had fixed on me when I froze in the doorway, and for a moment, I’d felt pinned by his stare, which made my pulse quicken.
There was a silent dominance in his posture and his sharp gaze, and when he’d gotten in front of Bob, it derailed the big man’s temper in an instant.
He’d radiated authority like he was used to being listened to without question.
His presence alone had settled things, the tension visibly draining from Bob’s clenched fists and the wild panic fading from Taft’s eyes.
He was so capable, and I had a competency kink.
Sue me.
Now, he waited at the stoplight with me. The others having already made it over, hooting and hollering like a bunch of kids. Walker was tall enough that I had to tip my head back to meet his eyes.
“And?” he prompted.
I hesitated again, feeling unexpectedly vulnerable, my pulse quickening with uncertainty.
Why was I withholding my name and turning this simple exchange into some odd game?
Walker had unsettled me in ways I hadn’t anticipated, stripping away layers of practiced confidence I thought I’d perfected since my awkward teenage years.
Maybe it was the intensity of his gaze or the gentle sincerity behind his rough exterior.
A man who’d sketched a cat and quietly spoke of affection as something earned rather than freely given.
He made me question my carefully constructed defenses.
Something about Walker had gotten under my skin, but equally, this attraction—if that is what it was—reminded me of moments in my past when I’d trusted someone a little too quickly, only to regret it later.
So, I deflected.
“Why didn’t you break up the fight?” I blurted out, unable to stop the question hovering on my tongue.
Walker shrugged slightly, looking almost casual about it. “Bob and Arnaud?” he asked as if there might have been another fight. “I did break it up.”
“A bit too late.” I huffed. “They’d been at it a while, but one word from you, and they parted like a cheap wig in a windstorm.”
He fought a smirk. Asshole. “That’s hockey. Coach comes in. The fighting stops. But it doesn’t mean there won’t be fighting.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Look, they do their thing; I do mine.”
I frowned, not entirely convinced. “So, you don’t mind your friends beating each other up?”
He winced, a brief shadow passing through his eyes. “They’re not my friends,” he said quietly, his voice edged with something distant and guarded.
“Teammates, then.”
He crossed his arms over his impressively muscular chest, his biceps flexing briefly beneath the fabric of his shirt. And no, I wasn’t looking.
Or I wasn’t trying to, but jeez…
His expression hardened slightly, a mix of stubborn determination and guarded vulnerability flickering across his face.
“Not my teammates for long,” he said firmly.
Then, he lifted one hand, tapping two fingers against his temple in a casual but revealing gesture.
“Fix what’s up here, and I’m gone. Back to where I belong. ”
“And that is?”
“Back to the Vipers.”
The Vipers were hockey. The New York Vipers. Yep, that sounded like a thing. Sports and I were not a thing. I left that up to my brother with his jock genes, but I wasn’t born under a rock either, and I’d seen games. “Hockey is mostly fighting, right?” I provoked.
“Not all fighting, you know.”
“Well, I guess not, given you have to score touchdowns.” I was going for tongue-in-cheek, but he looked horrified.
“Goals,” he sputtered.
“And you have to get the bouncy ball through the teeny-tiny basket, right?”
He narrowed his gaze, and I couldn’t help but smile. After a moment, he returned the smile. “Yeah, yeah, we get the touchdowns in the baskets.”
“And fight,” I added with a nod.
“So much fighting,” he deadpanned. The lights changed, and we crossed over. For a second, he had his hand on my lower back, encouraging me to cross, looking out for God knows what hazards so he could—oh, I don’t know—swoop in. I stopped him with a hand on his arm when we reached the sidewalk.
“My name is Finn,” I said finally, and the admission felt strangely vulnerable, as though I’d handed him a secret instead of just my name.
“Finn,” he repeated, testing it out, lips quirking slightly at the corners. “Suits you.”
“Thanks,” I said awkwardly, then added, half-jokingly, half-seriously, “it’s not a big secret. Just not used to stepping into fight clubs disguised as art classes.”
He chuckled, a warm, low sound that made something pleasantly tighten in my chest. “I wish I could be sorry, but hockey players have too much testosterone, not enough sense.”
“Apparently,” I agreed, sneaking a sideways glance at him.
Walker wasn’t just attractive in an ordinary way.
He was attractive in a monumental, almost intimidating manner, like a mountain you’d admire from a distance but never imagine climbing.
Broad shoulders that looked strong enough to support the weight of the world, eyes that held storms and secrets, and that casual strength that made it impossible not to notice him.
I shook off the distracting thoughts as we fell into a comfortable silence, entering Mabel’s Donut Shop.
The others had already gathered at a table in the far corner.
Arnaud was at the counter, taking charge of ordering in French, accompanied by vigorous hand gestures toward the increasingly bewildered barista.
“Is it wise putting Arnaud in charge?”
“He’s extremely particular about his coffee,” Walker deadpanned, guiding me gently toward the table with that same maddeningly casual touch to my lower back.
Warmth radiated from his palm, making me overly aware of his nearness.
When we reached the table, Walker gave Bob a firm tap on the shoulder, leaning in slightly with effortless authority.
“Go rescue the poor barista before Arnaud traumatizes them. Black coffee for me, and two of those glazed crullers—the big ones.”
I waited for Bob to lose his shit, expecting at least a grumble or a glare, but instead, he turned to me. “What you want, Teach?” Bob asked and glanced at the board and the somewhat frantic barista still struggling to interpret Arnaud’s enthusiastic and entirely French coffee order.
“I’ll have a vanilla latte and one of those maple-glazed crullers, please.”
I pulled out my wallet, but Walker stopped me. “Bob’s treat for losing his shit,” he said and glanced at Bob as if daring him to disagree.
“Yeah, ?course, Teach. My bad,” Bob said gruffly, his expression settling back into its usual irritated frown as he trudged over to Arnaud.
He stood there, arms crossed defensively, grumbling quietly under his breath as Arnaud continued enthusiastically ordering coffee, oblivious to Bob’s increasingly grumpy demeanor.
I slid into the chair, and Walker sat beside me, making the space feel even smaller with his imposing presence.
Taft settled quietly on my other side, his hands folded carefully in his lap, scanning the room with a guarded interest. He seemed cautious and reserved even in this relaxed setting as if he was constantly measuring his environment and calculating how much of himself it was safe to show.
Despite his quiet demeanor, Taft’s intensity suggested he missed very little.
Watching him, I considered the art session earlier and what I’d learned so far, remembering each player’s canvas.
Bob’s painting had been all sharp lines and dark, angry reds, mirroring his constant simmering irritation.
Arnaud’s had been chaotic yet vibrant, full of impulsive energy much like the man himself.
Chip hesitated at every brushstroke, his uncertainty clearly showing in his sparse details, as though he feared making a mistake would cost him dearly.
Taft’s canvas had been precise, careful, and subtly expressive, each stroke purposeful yet restrained.
The only artwork I hadn’t yet analyzed was Walker’s, but that would require more thought, and I wasn’t quite ready to unpack everything he stirred in me.
Now was the time for quiet, informal, non-specific discussions built gently upon our art session’s breakthroughs.
But all my practiced opening lines vanished from my head because Walker’s closeness was almost overwhelming.
He was like a magnetic field, pulling at my focus until all I could think about was how his knee accidentally brushed mine under the table and how ridiculously aware I was of every inch of him.
“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Carter?” Chip asked tentatively, his expression earnest but cautious.
“Finn,” I corrected gently, offering a reassuring smile. “Call me Finn.”
“Okay, Finn,” he said, visibly relaxing. “Do you paint yourself?”
“Of course he does not paint himself, Petit Chip,” Arnaud cut in with a playful, heavily accented tone, sliding smoothly into his seat and nudging Chip firmly into the corner.
“If he did, we would all see the paint everywhere—hands, hair, clothes.” He waved dramatically, smiling broadly.
“Mais peut-être, our Finn, he cleans up very nicely, non?”
Chip went scarlet.
“I know what he meant,” I reassured. “I paint in my spare time when I’m not teaching first grade or working on my post-grad.”
He sat forward in his chair. “Can you draw anything you look at? I have a friend who can do that.”
“I wish. I’m more of an abstract artist, though I sometimes paint landscapes.
But I love drawing caricatures.” Taft blinked at me.
“You know, like cartoon impressions of people. Hang on.” I reached into my backpack and pulled out a marker pen, then grabbed a napkin from the holder, hesitating for a moment before sketching a quick doodle of Chip, capturing his mop of unruly curls and wide, eager eyes.
When I turned it around, Chip’s eyes widened even further, and the table erupted into comments.
“Oh, that’s totally you!” Taft said, elbowing Chip in the side.
Arnaud leaned forward eagerly, tapping the table. “Now me, mon ami! You must capture my devastatingly ’andsome features.”
Walker watched quietly, never demanding one of his own.
I felt oddly at ease as I quickly sketched the others in turn.
Arnaud’s cocky smirk, along with the Band-Aid over his cut, Taft’s thoughtful eyes, and Bob’s bullish features.
The arrival of coffee and crullers temporarily distracted everyone, pushing the sketches aside as hands eagerly reached for cups and pastries.
The crullers vanished alarmingly fast. I’d barely taken two bites of my maple-glazed one before noticing the plate was empty except for crumbs.
Walker’s glazed crullers disappeared quickly, the speed almost impressive, while Arnaud and Bob wolfed theirs down in a way that suggested they hadn’t eaten in days.
And there I was, having thought these guys would be anything like the bullies I’d known in school: cold, ruthless, and aggressive. Instead, they were a bunch of testosterone-driven teddy bears, each with their own set of vulnerabilities carefully hidden behind muscle and bravado.
Finally, I glanced up at Walker, pen poised. “Your turn.”
He gave a slow, challenging smile, leaning in even closer. His brown eyes caught the warm glow of the coffee shop lights. “Make it good, Finn,” he said. His deep voice made my pulse race and my cheeks flush slightly under the intensity of his gaze.
What the actual fuck?
I started sketching, my pulse quickening as I carefully traced the strong line of his jaw, the confident slope of his nose, and the faint, teasing curve of his lips.
His eyes never left my face, making it increasingly difficult to maintain my composure.
When I finally finished, I glanced up, feeling more exposed than expected.
“Done,” I said softly, pushing the napkin toward him, unsure whether my rapid heartbeat was due to nerves or the closeness of his presence.
“Ah, Finn, you have made a silk purse from the ugly ear of the big pig!” Arnaud announced.
“Fuck you and the ugly-eared pig you rode in on,” Walker said, which made no sense, then he took the drawing from me before folding it carefully and putting it in his pocket. “Mine,” he murmured.
If only.