Chapter 22 Finn
FINN
LIFTING THE CUP, DROPPING MY GUARD
“The Cup” Moment — The Happiest Play in Hockey
It’s Blake’s day with Lord Stanley, and we’re doing it right.
The sun is overhead, we’re standing with beers in hand, and the music is blaring from the Bluetooth speaker. Blake’s boat—more like a floating condo—rocks gently beneath us as we cast lines and talk trash.
Alexandre is dancing shirtless with a beer balanced on his head. Mikael is reeling in a fish while quoting The Godfather. Blake’s cackling like a madman as he dumps another catch into the Cup like we’re making some redneck bouillabaisse.
Someone snaps a photo—Mikael with a fish tail sticking out of the Cup and Blake mock-toasting it like fine champagne—and posts it with the caption: Greatest day ever. #StanleyShenanigans.
It probably goes viral.
But I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking about how damn fun this is. How rare it is to relax, to laugh until my stomach hurts, not to be anyone but one of the guys.
We drink. We fish. We swear like sailors. And for once, the world doesn’t feel so heavy. By the time I drag my ass home, the sun’s down and my hair is dusted with salt, sun, and beer. I’m hot and tired.
I walk into the house grinning like a fool, expecting to see Kate, but I’m greeted by a quiet house instead, and the disappointment hits me. The house is too quiet.
“Kate?” I call, already knowing she’s not here, because she would have greeted me by now. And when no one answers, I check the kitchen. Nothing. The bedroom. Empty. Her notebook’s gone. So are the shoes she hates and that denim jacket she wears when she’s feeling small.
Then I see it—a note on the counter. This isn’t working. —K.
I freeze. The words, scrawled in her handwriting, hit like a slap.
Shit. I fucked up.
I grab the note with my shaking hands. I read it a second time. Then a third time, and the words finally sink in.
Then it comes rushing back like a dream in slow motion. She has a gig. She reminded me. And I forgot.
I stare at the paper. The air’s too still, like I just stepped off a plane at a high altitude. My jaw’s tight, and my stomach drops into my loafers. Nausea hits, and it’s not from the alcohol or sun poisoning.
Nope. It’s the fact that I fucked up.
She can’t dump me. It’s not because of my ego. It’s because she’s my wife, and I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I have to make this right with her. She trusted me, and I fucked up.
I run a hand through my hair, thinking. Then, I strip off my salt-stained shirt as I storm to the shower. I use cold water, as I don’t want to wait for it to warm up. I scrub fast, and fifteen minutes later, I’m on my way to the hangar.
I’ve got a jet to catch, and when I reach her, I’ll be groveling for the opportunity to make it up to her.
The second the wheels touch down in Georgia, I’m already unbuckling the lap belt. The jet rolls to a stop, and I’m out of my seat, pacing the aisle like I can outrun the guilt pounding in my chest.
I jog down the steps and hit the tarmac, phone in hand, scrolling through texts, nothing. I curse under my breath and dig into my inbox, searching for every update I ignored this week. There it is.
An itinerary Kate sent me days ago. Subject line: Kate’s Connecticut Schedule – UPDATED.
My stomach turns as I scan the dates, the times, and the venue. She’s there. Right now. And I’m thirty minutes late because I was playing fisherman of the year with Lord Stanley and a cooler full of cold beer.
I climb into the car service’s vehicle. The driver is quiet, superseded only by the silence of guilt pressing down on me. I press my head against the window.
Please still be there.
Please let me fix this before she decides she’s done pretending.
Because I’m falling for my wife.