10. Finn
TEN
Finn
It was the last of the ten mandated art lessons with my hockey guys, and I was surprised by how sad I felt that it was ending.
What had started as an awkward, reluctant series of sessions had grown into something I looked forward to.
Sure, I’d have more time for my thesis now, but I would miss the weekly meetings, the easy laughter, the chaotic energy, and the unexpected friendships.
With their jokes and teasing, these guys had become more than just students in my class—they felt like my people.
Even two weeks after Christmas, the room smelled faintly of pine from the garland someone had stubbornly refused to take down.
But the thick snow and the freezing temperatures had inspired today’s project, winter landscapes, and an attempt at mastering impasto painting, thick layers of oil paint sculpted with palette knives to create texture.
Taft had gone wild, slathering bold streaks of icy blue and snowy white across his canvas in chaotic swipes.
Bob was more careful, painting in deliberate strokes of slate gray and shadowy blacks that captured the starkness of frozen branches against a cold sky.
Walker had made something softer, blurry trees fading into snowfall.
Arnaud and Chip had both gone to create a frozen lake.
The conversation turned nostalgic, and they shared childhood memories of pond skating as kids.
Arnaud spoke fondly of his winters in Quebec, where the icy ponds and lakes sounded like a part of daily life. His voice grew tight when he talked about his father teaching him to skate and how they’d race across the frozen surface while his dad laughed and shouted support.
“I wish he still… ” he began, coughing lightly. He forced a smile and changed the subject before the emotion could overwhelm him. “What about you, Chip?”
“Every winter, my brothers and I built bonfires on the shore of the lake. We’d pile up driftwood, get it roaring, warm our hands until they stung, then skate until the stars came out.
It should’ve felt like magic. And maybe it did, for them.
But all I could think about was how fast a fire spreads.
Did you know a house fire can double in size every thirty seconds?
And it only takes about three minutes for a room to be fully engulfed. ”
No one quite knew what to say to that.
Bob leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, voice low and a little gravelly.
“Back home in Minnesota, my dad used to test the ice before we were allowed on it. He’d grab this big-ass branch—like, heavy enough to swing like a bat—and just slam it down on the ice a few times.
” He paused, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Said if the ice didn’t crack under that, it could handle a couple of dumb kids with skates.
We’d be bouncing up and down behind him, dying to get on, but he always made us wait. ”
He looked down at his hands, thumb running over a scar on his knuckle. “Never let us take chances. Said the lake doesn’t care how old you are or if you think you’re tough. You fall through, then you fall through.”
There was a silence after that profound statement from the big man, a stillness that hung for just a moment before someone cleared their throat.
Taft fidgeted in his chair. “I was only three the first time I skated on the pond. My best friend swore up and down it was safe, but I kept freaking out because I could hear the ice creaking. With every step, a horrible cracking sound.” He mimicked the noise dramatically, drawing snorts from Bob.
“Anyway,” Taft continued, his smile faltering just a little.
“I got maybe six feet before I panicked, fell straight on my ass, and somehow managed to drag Mick down with me. We both slid halfway across the pond like two sacks of potatoes.”
He chuckled softly, then looked down at his hands, his voice hitching. “There aren’t enough good things to remember.”
“What about you?” Bob asked Walker, but he showed every sign he didn’t want to talk about the pond because he immediately changed the subject.
“Present time!” he announced. Bob then left the room and came back with a big box wrapped in shiny red paper, topped with a crooked bow.
Scrawled on the side in bold scarlet marker was the word TEACH.
Given his love of anything red and dramatic, I assumed this was Taft’s handiwork. “Open it,” Walker urged.
I tugged at the paper and pulled out a Copperhead hoodie.
“That’s Walker’s number,” Chip announced as I traced his last name, HANNAN, and the number 10.
“You know, only about 8 percent of defensemen in pro hockey wear the number 10 on their jersey. It’s usually a forward’s number, so when a defenseman picks it, it usually means one of two things: they’re honoring someone, or they just really don’t care about position-number conventions.
Statistically, number 10 defensemen block more shots than average.
Like, significantly more. It’s like they’ve got something to prove. ” He subsided. “Sorry.”
“Why 10 then, Walker?” I asked.
He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “Because it used to be this kid Julian’s number. Back on my junior team. Cocky bastard wouldn’t shut up about it and said no one else could wear it after he got drafted.”
Walker looked off into the middle distance, jaw tight.
“So, when I signed with my first pro team and saw 10 was free, I grabbed it. Just to be petty. No deep meaning. No childhood hero. I just wanted him to see it on the stat sheets and know I was still here even if he fucked it all up and ended up an accountant.” He gave a sharp exhale that might’ve been a laugh. “Stupid, really. But I kept it.”
I nodded in encouragement and then met Walker’s gaze. He stared back at me, and we smiled at each other.
Before I could even react, Bob elbowed him hard in the ribs, earning a grunt. Arnaud, perched on the other side of Walker, sniggered and jabbed him with his elbow from the opposite direction.
“Ah, quelqu’un a le feu pour le professeur,” Arnaud teased, his French accent curling the words. “Someone ?as it ?ot for teacher.”
Walker flushed a deep red, scowling at Arnaud while Taft outright cackled from across the room.
I couldn’t help but smile—part amused, part…
something else. The blush crept up Walker’s neck, and the way he ducked his head, looking both embarrassed and oddly pleased, was adorable.
Something warm unfurled in my chest, and I knew I was in trouble.
Beneath the hoodie was a bag of my favorite coffee from the little shop across the road, the one I always joked about being the only thing strong enough to keep me functioning. I smiled at that, already picturing my first cup.
There was an envelope as well, and when I opened it, two glossy season tickets slid out. Copperheads season tickets. “By the glass,” Walker explained, his voice softer as he waited for my reaction.
Chip leaned forward. “You know, they didn’t always use the kind of plexiglass we have now.
Back in the ?70s and ?80s, it was acrylic and rigid as hell.
Didn’t flex much on impact. Players would hit it at full speed and just bounce off like rag dolls.
Concussions, shoulder injuries… it was basically like hitting a wall.
” He tapped his temple. “Nowadays, it’s polycarbonate.
Still strong, but it has give. Absorbs impact better.
Statistically, there’s been a 17 percent drop in glass-related injuries since the switch.
Seventeen. That’s a lot of spared collarbones. And in 1987, they?—”
“Jesus, Chip, enough with the stats!” Bob snapped, and Chip paled and dipped his head.
“Sorry, I just… sorry.”
Bob groaned. “No. Shit, I’m sorry,” Bob said and tapped his head. “My bad. That was interesting about the glass,” he added, and then it was his turn to look embarrassed.
Walker pulled the subject back to the tickets. “So, you and a friend can be right up there watching us… if you want.”
“My brother’s a huge hockey fan, so he can explain it all to me,” I said, my voice catching just a little.
I glanced around at them, my chest tightening with something warm and unfamiliar.
I’d grown used to end-of-year gifts: boxes of chocolates, hand-drawn macaroni art projects, and maybe the occasional friendship bracelet.
But this… this was something else. “You didn’t have to do this. ”
“We wanted to,” Taft said with a shrug. “And anyway… ” He grinned wickedly. “There’s more under the cardboard.” He pointed at the box.
I pushed the corrugated cardboard aside and nestled carefully in crisp white tissue paper was a set of paints, Bagni Venezia Pigmenti, handmade in a small village in Tuscany.
The jars were weighty in my hands, and the pigments inside were like liquid jewels: deep sapphire blue, rich crimson, and buttery ochre.
They shimmered under the light, each one more stunning than the last. Next to them was a set of sleek, wooden-handled brushes, each with delicate bristles that looked almost too fine.
“Fuck,” I muttered and, then, glanced up with an apology on the tip of my tongue.
“Don’t say it’s inappropriate,” Walker said before I could even begin to explain how moved I was and, yeah, how it wasn’t needed.
The rest nodded.
“Tell him… ” Bob said and nudged Chip who was wide-eyed.
“Really?”
“You’re dying to tell him,” Bob encouraged.
“But I don’t have to, I know not everyone?—”
“Tell him,” the other three players chorused, with Walker gesturing for him to carry on as well.