12. Finn
TWELVE
Finn
The Copperheads’ rink was electric tonight.
Packed to capacity, the crowd was loud, enthusiastic, and relentlessly supportive.
Connor practically vibrated with excitement beside me, leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide, entirely absorbed by the game.
He was still in shock that my after-hours art therapy clients had gifted me season tickets, but he didn’t ask me questions about who was in the class or why I’d been given them.
“So they’re for me?” he’d asked, confused.
“Us,” I said with a grin. “I’m getting into hockey.”
“You are? Why? What changed?”
And that was where I changed the subject, and now we were here, and we’d stopped at the concession store to get T-shirts.
I wasn’t ready to wear my Walker jersey—yet.
I’d bought a generic Copperheads jersey, and Connor had opted for Arnaud’s jersey number because, according to him, goalies were gods.
“Did you see that save?” Connor shouted over the crowd, slapping my knee enthusiastically. “Arnaud is a freaking legend!”
“Yep,” I agreed, not that I’d noticed anything beyond Walker’s graceful, powerful movements across the ice. He was mesmerizing as he skated, the confidence behind every quick turn and sharp pivot. It wasn’t just athletic—it was art.
“Earth to Finn,” Connor teased, nudging me with his elbow. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?”
I grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, hockey overload.”
“Bullshit. You’re watching number 10 like he’s the only one out there.” Connor raised an eyebrow knowingly, smirking. “Want to tell me what’s really going on here?”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Sure. Totally believable.” Connor scoffed, turning back toward the game. “I’ve been trying to get you interested in hockey for years. Walker Hannan shows up, and suddenly, you’re a superfan?” His eyes narrowed. “Was it him that gave you the tickets?”
“No.” I wasn’t lying. After all, it hadn’t just been Walker who’d handed over the tickets. “Maybe, I finally appreciate the game,” I muttered weakly, avoiding my brother’s skeptical gaze.
Connor laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, right.”
On the ice, Walker moved effortlessly, his presence commanding.
I found myself tracking him as he positioned himself perfectly to intercept passes, defend his goalie, and, as Connor said, “read the play” like a master strategist. I might not have fully understood all the rules yet, but I knew excellence when I saw it, and Walker was undeniably excellent.
“If he keeps playing like this, the Vipers might come calling again,” Connor yelled after another shot on goal from my man.
My man.
The thought of Walker heading back to New York City made me worry.
The idea of him returning to the relentless pace of the NHL worried me, not just because of the distance, but also because of the pressures he’d have to face there.
I pushed those thoughts away quickly, choosing instead to join in the crowd’s roar of approval as Walker sent another opponent crashing into the boards.
For now, I wanted to enjoy these moments, these nights where Walker was right here, close enough to touch.
The Copperheads had control now, and I loved to see my art guys out on the ice.
There’d been a foul or something, and Connor reliably informed me that the Copperheads were on a power play and that Walker anchored the line going over second.
Chip and Taft were out there now, and they passed it one to the other, with Taft sending it speeding toward Walker.
Walker caught it cleanly and skated swiftly toward the net, shoulders hunched in concentration.
My breath caught, heart pounding as Walker feinted left, then snapped his stick hard, firing the puck past the goalie’s outstretched glove.
“YES!” Connor jumped up beside me, pumping his fist. I rose to my feet too, clapping and cheering with the rest of the crowd. Walker’s teammates swarmed him, slapping him on the helmet and shouting praise.
Amid the chaos, Walker turned, scanning the crowd until our eyes locked through the glass.
A brilliant smile spread across his face, vulnerable and boyish in its pure joy.
My pulse stuttered, warmth spreading through my chest as I returned the smile, my heart tripping over itself like I was fifteen and hopelessly crushing again.
Connor nudged my shoulder, breaking the connection. “Yeah, totally just here for the hockey,” he teased, laughter dancing in his eyes.
“Shut up.” I laughed, sinking back into my seat.
But Connor was right. I was here for Walker, for the man who skated with grace and smiled at me like I’d just given him the world. And maybe, I thought, as the game resumed, I really was becoming a hockey fan. Or at least a Walker Hannan fan, and honestly, that felt pretty amazing.
After the game, I dropped Connor at home, drove to what I called our café, and sat in the car wrapped up like a burrito in my thickest coat.
Walker arrived half an hour later, still radiating excitement from the win, his eyes sparkling when he knocked on my window.
Embarrassingly, I was out of the car so fast I nearly fell on my ass.
Not a good start when he tugged me close to stop me from falling.
We hugged and, as if I suffered from word vomit, I blurted as soon as he stood back.
“You were amazing out there,” I said, unable to keep the admiration from my voice.
“The way you took that puck and got a goal, and the way you did that thing with the knock from your hand and the spin, and the bit when you slid on the wall, and oh my God, when you pushed that big guy into the boards, that was so freaking sexy.”
Walker laughed softly, ducking his head modestly. “Just doing my job. Glad you enjoyed it.”
“It was just… yeah… ”
He gestured to the coffee shop. “Shall we?” We stepped inside together, the bell above the door chiming softly.
The café was warm and scented with coffee and fresh pastries.
We placed our order and then settled into our usual corner booth, comfortable and private, away from the noise and bustle of the busy counter.
It felt weird that it was just the two of us.
I even missed the other guys for a moment until Walker tapped my shin with his foot, and I realized how freaking awesome it was to be here alone with Walker.
He leaned back and relaxed, his smile softer and more intimate now. “If you keep coming to games, you’ll know more about hockey than me.”
I chuckled. “Pretty sure that’s impossible. But I admit, it’s grown on me.”
“Only the hockey?” Walker asked, eyebrow raised and smirking.
My cheeks warmed again. “Okay. Maybe not only hockey.”
He reached across the table, his fingertips brushing lightly against mine and sending a gentle thrill through me. “I’m glad.”
We talked effortlessly about everything and nothing: funny stories from my classroom, Walker’s anecdotes about his teammates, and plans for the weekend.
Each conversation deepened the comfortable ease between us, each laugh bringing us closer.
When we left the café, the night had grown even colder, our breath fogging the air.
Walker walked me to my car, pausing under the gentle glow of the streetlamp.
His eyes met mine, soft, questioning, and I nodded silently, heart thumping as he leaned in to gently brush his lips against mine.
A tender, lingering kiss filled with warmth and promise.
When he pulled back, his eyes searched mine, vulnerable yet hopeful. “See you soon?”
“Absolutely,” I whispered, feeling like the luckiest man alive.
“I’ll message you.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
The following school week dragged by, weighed down by endless meetings and the constant worry about Jamie’s situation.
Every afternoon, a small knot of tension tightened in my stomach as dismissal approached, and the fear of seeing Jamie’s father again lingered in my mind.
The one bright spot away from all that was the messaging with Walker, stupid jokes, hockey things, and stories about the guys from the art group.
My phone buzzed, interrupting my thoughts, and I smiled when I saw Walker’s name on the screen. A quick tap opened the text thread.
Walker: You will NOT believe what Arnaud did to Bob today.
Finn: Oh god, what now?
Walker: Swapped out Bob’s shampoo for some glittery unicorn kid stuff. Bob didn’t notice until he’d lathered it up.
I laughed, imagining Bob’s reaction.
Finn: Please tell me you got pictures.
Walker: Better. Video. Bob went nuclear. Glitter everywhere.
Finn: Poor Bob. I know what glitter is like after the Christmas play. He’ll be sparkling for weeks.
Walker: He’s so pissed. Arnaud might be sleeping in his pads tonight.
Finn: Tell Arnaud I admire his bravery. Or insanity. Either works.
Walker: Pretty sure it’s insanity.
Grinning, I set the phone down and went back to organizing art supplies and tidying up.
I didn’t realize how late I’d stayed but a volunteer donation of one hundred fifty sets of kid-friendly paints wasn’t something I was going to leave in boxes.
When I left the hallway, most teachers had already gone home.
When I finally entered the empty parking lot, it was dark beyond the parking area, and I felt a cold shiver run down my spine.
Just inside the glow of light was Jamie’s father, leaning against my car with a tense posture and a look of simmering anger.
He straightened as I approached my car, his eyes narrowing, and I pulled out my keys and my cell in a smooth move and pressed record.
“Mr. Carter,” he said, voice rough and slightly slurred. “We need to talk.”
My heart pounded, but I kept my voice steady. “I’m sorry, sir, but any conversations about Jamie must happen through the principal’s office.”
“You think you’re some hero?” he snapped and came closer. Too close. “You watch yourself, Mr. Carter. You keep out of my business, or you’ll regret it. It’s all Jamie can talk about, making Ella think you’re gonna fix everything when there’s nothing to fucking fix.”
Ella? Jamie’s mom, maybe?
I stood my ground, hands trembling slightly. “I’m recording this, and I’m calling 911.”
“Figures.” He sneered, his expression twisting bitterly.
He stumbled away, swaying as he walked backward, his gaze never leaving mine until he turned and disappeared into the growing shadows of the evening.
Only when I had 911 on the line, and he was entirely out of sight, did I release a few shaky breaths that I’d been holding.
I made the report, headed back into the school, filed everything -- dates, times, and what he said -- then returned to my car, locking the doors, anxiety twisting in my gut as I drove away.
Now, the cops had the meeting on file, the school was aware, and Principal Lewis would escalate to family services.
I knew Jamie and his mom were staying with an aunt, but I’d told the cops they needed to check in with them.
They took my opinion seriously as an educator, and I hoped that was enough.
I’d never heard such hatred in a parent’s voice. How was his hate for the world so much bigger than his son’s well-being?
Even at home, I felt unsettled, and sleep was elusive, so I reached for my phone to send a message for Walker to wake up to.
A joke, something not serious, something I could laugh about.
Instead of typing, I hit the call button.
It rang only once before he answered, his voice warm and instantly reassuring.
“Finn, hey.”
I sighed softly, feeling my tension ease slightly at the sound of his voice. “Hey. Were you asleep?”
“Nah, watching game film on the Champlain Fusiliers for tomorrow.”
“Shit, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re never an interruption,” he said firmly. Then, more gently, he added, “You sound tense. What’s wrong?”
I hesitated, unsure how much to share, but Walker’s quiet patience encouraged me. “There’s this kid at school, and there’s some… I can’t… I don’t know where to start… but there was a confrontation with his father and… I just needed to hear your voice.”
Walker’s voice immediately sharpened, protective. “A parent causing trouble? Did he hurt you? Threaten you?”
“No, nothing like that exactly, just… ” I paused, swallowing the lingering anxiety. “He was just there outside school, so I called 911 and reported it, but… ”
“Dammit, Finn,” Walker mumbled, his voice tight. “What do you need? You want me to be outside the school daily? Just tell me, and I will be.”
His protective streak warmed me deeply, calming my racing heart. “No, it’s okay. It’s handled. It just unnerved me that a parent could have so much hate in them for their own family.”
I waited for him to comment, but he was very quiet, and the silence was weird. Had I been cut off? I glanced at my screen. Nope, we were still connected.
“You still there?” I asked.
“Yeah, sorry. Here.”
“So, I wanted to hear your voice,” I said to break the silence and remind him I was there.
“Always,” he said. “You know you can call me anytime, right?”
“I know,” I whispered, smiling despite myself. “How was your day, though? Tell me something good.”
He chuckled, the sound instantly relaxing me. “Well, I spent most of my day helping Bob with glitter and thinking about this art teacher I know. I heard he’s a big fan of hockey now.”
I laughed, the tension finally draining from me. “I think he might just be a big fan of you.”
Walker’s voice grew soft, tender. “Good. Because I’m pretty sure I’m his biggest fan too.”
We talked for an hour, shifting from serious to silly, and by the time we finally said goodnight, I felt calmer.
I’d done everything I could, and I had to rely on the people who could do something by carrying out their jobs.
Jamie was my student, my responsibility, and with the cops and school aware that his dad was a drunken, threatening asshole, there wasn’t much else I could do.
I curled up in bed, and all I could think about was Walker.
I knew I was falling for him—hard and fast—in ways I’d never anticipated.
The idea sent a gentle thrill through me, but it was also frightening.
Walker had a past, his struggles, and the counselor part of me worried about moving too fast or expecting too much.
But as for the part that thought of Walker’s quiet smiles, funny stories, sexy hockeyness —not that this was a word—and steady presence? Well, that part knew this was something real, and I closed my eyes, picturing Walker’s soft expression and the tenderness in his touch.
I knew I was falling for Walker.