18. Finn
EIGHTEEN
Finn
Day twenty-nine. Four weeks and a day. A freaking lifetime, and I felt every second in my bones.
My body ached with missing Walker every night I’d gone to bed alone, every time I opened the fridge and saw the stupid chili sauce he liked, or every time I hung up from our daily sitting-in-bed video calls.
He’d been called up to that Buffalo game, and at first, I was too caught up in his excitement and being super supportive—he was finally returning to the show.
But then the Vipers had gone on their Canadian swing, nearly two weeks of back-to-back away games, plus extra time for team bonding in Banff.
Fuck’s sake. I couldn’t visit him, between Walker’s new schedule and the Vipers being out of town.
After twenty-eight days of phone calls and video chats, I couldn’t touch him.
And today, finally, I would get to do as much touching as possible.
I stood at the kitchen counter, a half-eaten piece of toast forgotten on my plate, double-checking my backpack for what felt like the hundredth time.
Main luggage, already in Bob’s car? Check.
Walker’s spare hoodie for the game? Check.
Folded tight at the bottom. Charger, wallet, backup battery, water for the drive? Check.
A ping lit up my phone, then two more in rapid succession.
Walker: Hey sexy, don’t be late. You’re my good luck charm.
Walker: Ps… I love you xxxx
Walker: PPS… I miss you xxxxxxxxxxx
I grinned like an idiot.
Finn: Leaving now.
Finn: Also… I love you X 3
Finn: And also… I miss you X X X X X
Finn: God, I miss you.
“Ready?” Taft’s voice echoed from the hallway.
Bob was already in the car, Taft was in charge of organizing me, and both were as overexcited as kids heading to a carnival that they were coming for the one game.
Then, they had to be back tomorrow for a showdown against their league rivals.
On the other hand, I was on day one of spring break, which meant ten days I could stay at Walker’s rental apartment and focus solely on loving and touching him and getting a refill of my man.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and hurried down to the car.
The drive to New York was all caffeine, banter, and the occasional outburst of hockey trivia of things Taft and Bob thought I needed to know. They weren’t as cool as the stats that Chip threw out, but it made me smile, nonetheless.
“Did you know,” Taft began, his eyes on the road. “That in 1979, the Erie Egrets went an entire season without a single shorthanded goal? I got that from Chip.”
Bob snorted. “Total myth. That stat’s been debunked about five times. You’re thinking of the Albany Anchors, and it was ?81.”
“Fake news,” Taft shot back, delighted at the chance to argue. “I had a vintage card of their goalie, Ned ‘No-Hands’ Hansen. Legendary guy. Stopped a puck with his face once and still kept the shutout.”
“Yeah, and then, he retired with a broken nose and two chipped teeth. Heroic, sure, but not the best strategy.”
I grinned and leaned back, letting the back-and-forth wash over me.
“Also,” Bob added smugly. “Walker’s playing style? Pure ?92 Vultures. Controlled aggression. You can tell he watched those tapes growing up.”
“That’s not history, that’s opinion,” Taft muttered, reaching for another handful of trail mix. “But sure. Let the record show Bob’s hockey hot takes are alive and well.”
They continued bickering for half the drive, trivia flying between them like slapshots. It was ridiculous and completely perfect.
Taft and Bob made it their mission to keep my spirits high, and I appreciated it even if my stomach was twisted in knots the whole way.
We’d barely pulled into the parking structure outside the arena when my phone buzzed again.
Walker: On the ice soon. I’ll find you.
Bob clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go see our boy light up the place.”
Inside, the energy hit me like a wave. Lights, noise, fans in jerseys shouting over each other, the buzz of the Zamboni still smoothing the ice. It was everything I remembered, magnified by the fact that this time Walker was one of the guys skating out.
Bob and Taft got what I jokingly called backstage passes for the three of us.
We didn’t end up behind the bench, but our seats were right behind the glass, close enough that I could see the texture of the ice and feel the vibration of each hit.
People noticed them: Taft with his shyness and Bob trying to act cool but loving the attention. A couple of kids asked for autographs.
I didn’t expect to get noticed, but I caught a couple of nods from people in Walker jerseys, subtle, quick, and maybe they recognized me.
Perhaps they didn’t. Maybe it was just a fan thing, a number thing.
Who knew? But at that moment, I didn’t care.
I was there. He was on the ice. And in a few hours, I’d be in his arms again. That was all that mattered.
When he came out for warmups, wearing number 10 in NY colors—similar to the Copperheads colors, only bolder—with the black viper on his chest, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t yell. Didn’t cheer. I stood at the glass, heart hammering, and watched the man I loved take his place among the best.
Twenty-nine days. And there he was.
During warmups, he skated toward our side of the rink and slowed just enough to glance toward the glass for one perfect second.
I didn’t know if he’d seen me or if it was instinct, but I lifted my hand and pressed it flat to the barrier.
And then, he did it too. Walker’s glove met the glass opposite mine, a heartbeat of contact, and that was it.
That was everything. Every aching day apart, every late-night phone call, every lonely second—worth it.
Before they skated back into the locker room, he came to the glass again, made a heart with his hands, then blew me a freaking kiss.
Fuck my life, I was so gone on this man.
The game started, and the score tilted wildly in New York’s favor somewhere between the first faceoff and the end of the second.
Pittsburgh looked tired, sluggish, maybe worn from travel.
Walker was sharp and solid, no nerves to be seen.
The puck came off his stick with a smoothness that made it look effortless.
He’d danced around a defenseman, toe-dragged it like poetry, and sent a crisp pass to his linemate, who buried it in the top corner.
The crowd erupted, the row behind us jumping to their feet like someone had fired a starting gun.
Taft wriggled in excitement beside me, Bob slapped the glass, and I?—
I just stood there stunned, grinning, my heart nearly bursting with pride. He looked up toward the glass again, and I was already there, palm against the barrier, breath fogging the surface, just in case he was looking.
He celebrated with the team, all huddled in a mass of celebration, and then, he deliberately skated by where we sat and nodded with a grin.
“I’m so fucking glad they called him up,” someone said from behind me during the second break. “Did you see that pass? “
“Gonna be a regular if they’ve got sense.”
“Doesn’t play like he’s spent any time in the minors.”
“Fucking A!”
I stared down at the bench where Walker sat, breathing hard. Sweat darkened his jersey at the collar, and he leaned forward, watching the second line do their job.
That was my Walker they were talking about, and I was so damn proud of him.
And after the game -- after the win -- I’d get to hold him again.
The final horn sounded, and the crowd roared, the noise like thunder through the arena. I stood and clapped until my hands stung, my throat raw from cheering. All I saw was Walker.
Helmet off. Hair soaked with sweat. Grinning like a lunatic as he fist-bumped his teammates, his cheeks flushed with exertion.
He looked like he belonged out there, with the speed, the intensity, and the damn glow of it all.
But then, his gaze swept the crowd, and everything shifted when it landed on me.
He didn’t need to wave. That look said it all.
The post-game chaos was a blur of cheers and fans pouring into the concourse, all of it background noise as I stood frozen just outside the private access door, my pass lanyard clenched in a death grip.
Bob and Taft had disappeared somewhere, probably talking hockey with the staff or hitting up concessions for celebratory hot dogs since they were heading back to Rochester tonight.
All I could think about was Walker.
It was a long forty minutes before he was out, but when he exited, his hair still damp from the shower and dressed in his suit, he was sex personified. It wasn’t until his eyes landed on me that I swear the world stilled.
“Finn.”
He said it like a prayer, pulling me into him.
I didn’t care if people were watching. I wrapped my arms around him so tightly it might have bruised him, my face pressed to the curve of his neck, and I breathed him in.
“Jesus,” he whispered into my hair. “I missed you so much. Every night. Every morning. Every second.”
I nodded, words locked behind the lump in my throat. “Same. All of it.”
He leaned in, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that wasn’t hurried or heated—it was home. Slow and sure.
“Fans were talking about you in the stands. Said you should stay up. Said you had presence.”
Walker’s breath hitched. “Yeah?” He sounded so damn torn, but if this was where my man was playing, and I wanted to be with him, then maybe it was on me to move to New York.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling. “But I already knew that.”
He laughed, a low, breathless sound that shook between us. “Did you pack for ten days?”
“Of course. Taft and Bob left it with the team.”
“Then we’d better get moving. I plan to spend every minute I can making up for the last twenty-nine.”
The call came as we sat in a café near the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, sharing a cinnamon bun and drinking overpriced lattes from paper cups that steamed in the chill air.
When my phone buzzed with Detective Aster’s number, Walker was halfway through a story about one of his teammates getting pranked with shaving cream.
I’d been dreading this call, knowing it would mean I’d have to go to court, that it would stir up everything again and put little Jamie in the spotlight. I hesitated, then answered.
“Detective?”
Walker stiffened and placed a hand on mine.
“He pleaded guilty.” His voice was steady, a low rumble of professionalism edged with something softer, relief maybe, or fatigue.
I blinked. “Wait—he did?”
“Yeah. No trial. No drawn-out legal process. The DA struck a deal. A guilty plea on all counts. He’ll serve a full sentence. No parole until after the minimum term is up. It’s solid. No room for appeal.”
“What does that mean for Walker and me?” I asked quietly.
“You’re clear. Both of you. No depositions, no testimony, no appearances. You’re officially disconnected from the case unless something radically changes, which I don’t expect.”
He paused, then added, “You did good, Finn. You and Walker both. You stepped in when it counted. I hope, now, you can both put this behind you.”
When I hung up, Walker watched me carefully. “Finn?”
“Jamie’s dad pleaded guilty,” I said, still trying to process the words. “There won’t be a trial. No testimony. It’s… done.”
Walker leaned back in his chair, quiet for a moment. Then, he reached across the table and took my hand. “That’s good, right? No more dragging it out for Jamie? For his mom?”
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think so. It just… feels sudden.”
He squeezed my fingers. “But it’s done.” He scooted around to sit next to me, pulling me close. I buried my face in his neck, inhaling his scent.
“I love you.” I kissed him soundly to underscore the point. “I love you.”
We stayed like that for a while, and the world kept moving. He was still in New York, I was in Rochester, but for a moment, none of that mattered.
Eventually, he pressed a kiss to my temple. “You okay?”
I nodded into his shoulder. “I will be.”