Behind the Mask (Stoneharbor Ice #2)

Chapter One

MARA

The first time Finn Callahan speaks to me voluntarily, he asks me to lie on live radio.

We are thirty seconds from returning from commercial break.

He stands inside the narrow broadcast booth at Harbor Ice wearing a black suit, a goalie-sized expression of doom, and one drop of blood on his white shirt collar.

I point at it. “Are you injured?”

“No.”

“That is blood.”

“Not mine.”

I look through the booth window toward the corridor. “Whose?”

“Bennett’s.”

“Why is Jace Bennett bleeding on you?”

“He hugged me.”

This explains nothing and somehow everything.

My producer counts down through the headset.

Five.

Finn puts one hand on the desk and leans closer.

“Do not ask about the donation.”

Four.

I smile slowly.

“What donation?”

Three.

His eyes close.

Two.

The ON AIR sign turns red.

“Welcome back to Wolves After Dark,” I say, voice bright enough to power campus. “I’m Mara Bell, and standing beside me is Stoneharbor’s star goalie, Finn Callahan, who has just told me there is something he absolutely does not want discussed.”

Finn opens his eyes.

If murder had a face, it would be unfairly handsome.

“Good evening,” he says into the microphone.

The booth is too small for him. Finn is six foot four without skates and approximately seven feet tall when irritated.

His dark hair is still damp from the game, curling slightly near his ears.

A faint scar crosses his chin. His gray-blue eyes remain fixed on me with the desperate focus he usually reserves for penalty shots.

Stoneharbor beat Westbridge three–zero tonight. Finn stopped thirty-eight shots and became the program’s all-time shutout leader.

He would rather discuss none of that.

“Congratulations,” I say. “Program record. Thirty-eight saves. And, according to unconfirmed reports, a mysterious anonymous donation that saved this very radio station from losing its evening sports block.”

His hand tightens on the desk.

I should not enjoy this.

I do.

“The team played well,” he says.

“Classic goalie answer. Did the team also transfer twenty thousand dollars from a foundation account at eleven forty-seven last night?”

“No.”

“Interesting specificity.”

“Foundations do not transfer money. Banks do.”

I stare at him.

He realizes the error one second too late.

Through my headset, my producer makes a sound like a dying seal.

I lean toward the microphone. “Listeners, for context, the Stoneharbor student station received an anonymous gift last night after the university announced proposed budget cuts. The donor requested that the sports and arts blocks remain funded. Very noble. Very secretive. Very familiar with banking procedure.”

Finn looks toward the booth door.

It is closed.

I locked it because Jace has attempted to interrupt three interviews this season wearing progressively worse disguises.

“Next question,” Finn says.

“Why anonymous?”

“I did not say it was me.”

“Did you make the donation?”

“No.”

He is lying.

Finn is excellent at hiding emotion. He can face six attackers, an empty net at the far end, and eight thousand screaming people without changing expression.

But when he lies, his left thumb presses against the side of his index finger.

I know this because I have watched him do it every time someone asks if he is okay.

“You are a terrible liar,” I say.

His gaze turns cold. “You are a terrible interviewer.”

“Ratings disagree.”

“Your ratings are six students and Lena’s mother.”

“Sofia Ortiz is a valuable demographic.”

The producer signals two minutes.

I should return to hockey. I should ask about rebound control, the upcoming Eastlake game, or what it means to inherit leadership after Owen’s graduation.

Instead, I look at Finn’s hand.

Thumb pressed to finger.

His breathing is too controlled.

The booth has no window that opens. The crowd is still moving through the concourse outside, creating a low vibration beneath the floor. Bright arena lights reflect against the glass.

He did not come here to discuss a record.

He came because the athletic department told him to.

And because, despite months of refusing my goalie lesson, he has never once ignored a direct request from his team.

I remove one earpiece.

“Do you need the door open?” I ask quietly.

His eyes snap to mine.

The question is off microphone.

“What?”

“The booth is hot.”

“It is fine.”

Thumb to finger.

I reach beneath the desk and switch the ventilation fan to high. The hum becomes audible, but the air begins moving.

Finn’s shoulders lower by half an inch.

I put the earpiece back.

“Last question,” I say into the microphone. “Eastlake on Friday. What matters?”

He looks at me for a long second.

Then he answers.

“Staying connected.”

Owen’s language.

But Finn says it like a wish.

We finish the segment. The ON AIR sign goes dark.

Finn steps away from the desk immediately.

I unlock the door.

He does not leave.

“What?” I ask.

“You knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That I needed the fan.”

“You looked uncomfortable.”

“I always look uncomfortable near you.”

“That is because you resist joy.”

His mouth almost moves.

Almost.

Then his gaze drops to the silver boots beneath my desk.

At North Ridge last season, when he could not breathe, he named these boots as one of five things he could see.

He called them ridiculous.

I wore them tonight on purpose.

His eyes lift.

“You did that deliberately,” he says.

“Did what?”

“The boots.”

“They match my jacket.”

“You own twenty pairs.”

“Twenty-three.”

His face closes. “Do not manage me.”

The unfairness of the accusation hits fast.

“I opened a door and turned on a fan.”

“You track my breathing.”

“I notice when someone is struggling.”

“I was not struggling.”

“Finn.”

His shoulders rise.

I lower my voice. “I have never told anyone what happened at North Ridge.”

“Owen knows.”

“Owen was there.”

“Maeve knows.”

“Owen told her because you nearly collapsed after a game.”

His jaw flexes. “Everyone thinks they are helping.”

“Sometimes they are.”

“I did not ask.”

“No. You make asking impossible, then punish people for choosing wrong.”

The words land.

He steps back as if I touched him.

I regret the sharpness, but not the truth.

“Your producer is waiting,” he says.

“Finn—”

He opens the door.

I reach for his sleeve, then stop before contact.

“Did you donate the money?” I ask.

He looks over his shoulder.

“No.”

Thumb to finger.

“Liar.”

“Prove it.”

He leaves.

My producer enters immediately, eyes wide. “Was that flirting or a hostage negotiation?”

“Neither.”

“It had tension.”

“High blood pressure has tension.”

Tessa Wu checks the recording levels. “The anonymous donation clip is already on social.”

I look through the glass.

Finn stands at the far end of the corridor, one hand braced against the wall. Jace approaches. Finn straightens before Jace reaches him.

No visible weakness.

No request.

A mask without straps.

My phone buzzes.

An email from the station director.

Anonymous donor has agreed to a recognition meeting tomorrow. Requested you specifically. Conference Room B, 4 p.m.

I read it twice.

Then I look back at Finn.

He catches me watching.

His phone must carry the same message, because his expression becomes pure resignation.

I smile and hold up four fingers.

Four p.m.

He closes his eyes.

Tomorrow, I will have one honest hour with Finn Callahan.

Whether he likes it or not.