Chapter Ten
FINN
Monday’s game against Eastlake begins badly and gets worse.
They score on the first shot.
The puck changes direction off Theo’s skate and slides beneath my pad. No technical failure. No bad read. A bad bounce.
My body does not care.
Eight thousand people react at once.
Sound drops through the arena like a physical weight.
The scoreboard changes. Zero–one.
The Eastlake bench slams sticks against the boards.
My chest tightens.
I skate behind the net and reset the puck for the official. Normally, I use the motion to erase the goal. Tonight, my lungs refuse the next breath.
Feet.
I press my blades into the ice.
Three sounds.
Crowd. Referee whistle. Theo’s voice.
“Finn.”
He has skated into the crease without looking directly at me.
“What do you need?”
The question is part of our new system. Coach knows only that I may call for an equipment adjustment if symptoms rise. Maeve watches from the bench. Dr. Patel helped me build the plan.
I hate all of it.
I also remain upright.
“Thirty seconds,” I say.
Theo turns to the official. “Mask strap.”
I lift the mask, adjust a strap that does not need adjusting, and breathe out for six counts.
The crowd noise becomes sound instead of danger.
“Ready?” Theo asks.
“Yes.”
Truth.
Eastlake sends twenty more shots in the first period.
I stop all twenty.
By the third, Stoneharbor leads three–one. Jace scores twice and celebrates the second by pointing toward the radio booth, where Mara is conducting between-period commentary even though she is no longer assigned to interview me.
I know exactly where she sits.
I do not look.
With two minutes left, Eastlake pulls its goalie. Six attackers crowd the zone. A shot from the point hits traffic, drops near the post, and disappears beneath three bodies.
I find it by sound.
Stick blade. Skate edge. Jace swearing.
I seal the ice.
Whistle.
The arena rises.
This time, the noise moves through me without becoming threat.
After the final horn, Theo taps my helmet.
“Good reset.”
“Bad first goal.”
“Both.”
In the locker room, Coach gives the team two minutes of praise and eight minutes of correction. Jace throws a towel at me.
“Diner date,” he says.
I catch it. “How do you know?”
“The emotional weather board has sources.”
“I erased it.”
“Cloud storage.”
Theo says, “He means he photographed it.”
Jace looks offended. “Do not reveal proprietary systems.”
I shower, change, complete media, and leave through the side entrance at eleven fifty. Mara’s show ends at midnight. The diner is five minutes from the station.
I arrive at twelve oh-three.
She is already in a booth wearing a yellow sweater and black boots with small gold stars across the toes.
“You are early,” I say.
“You stopped forty-three shots. I assumed media would take longer.”
“You counted.”
“It is my job.”
“Tessa covered the game.”
Mara looks at the menu.
I sit across from her.
“You counted,” I repeat.
“Forty-three is a culturally significant number.”
“How?”
“I will discover a reason later.”
The waitress brings coffee without asking. Mara has tea and a plate of fries in front of her.
“You ordered,” I say.
“I feared the kitchen would close before your heroic entrance.”
“Heroic.”
“Your save percentage was excellent.”
The first goal flashes through me.
Mara sees something change.
“Bad bounce,” she says.
“You saw it?”
“I watch the whole game, not just you.”
The lie is almost convincing.
“What happened after?” she asks.
I could give the standard answer. Reset. Next puck. Good team response.
“It started,” I say.
Her fingers still around the teacup.
“Panic?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“Used the plan.”
She smiles, but softly. No celebration.
“How did it feel?”
“Like doing butterfly drills while someone stands on my chest.”
“Effective image.”
“It passed.”
“Did you tell Maeve?”
“She knew.”
Mara nods.
I watch her resist asking more.
“What did you talk about on the show?” I ask.
Her face brightens. “Campus housing has decided mold is an aesthetic feature. We had three callers and one anonymous facilities employee.”
For the next hour, we talk about everything except hockey and panic.
She wants to make narrative radio—long-form audio stories about ordinary people carrying invisible things. I tell her I used to repair radios with my father. She asks whether I can fix the station’s broken turntable. I tell her turntables are not radios. She says this is donor arrogance.
At one fifteen, the waitress turns the chairs onto tables around us.
Outside, the street is empty.
Mara leans against the diner wall while I unlock the truck.
“Date assessment?” she asks.
“Fries were under-salted.”
“Romance is alive.”
“The company was acceptable.”
She folds her arms. “Acceptable?”
I step closer.
Her smile fades.
“The company was distracting,” I say.
“Better.”
“I missed two things you said because I was watching your mouth.”
Her breath catches.
“Much better.”
I touch the gold star on the toe of her boot with mine.
“Twenty-four?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.”
I kiss her against the brick wall while snow begins to fall.
She slides both hands beneath my coat and grips my waist. Heat cuts through every layer. I move closer, fitting one thigh between hers, and the sound she makes destroys the last of my control.
My hand moves into her hair. Her mouth opens under mine.
A car passes at the end of the street.
Mara pulls back first, breathing hard.
“Finn.”
I force my hands to still.
“Too much?”
“No.” She looks at me. “But I do not want our first night to happen because adrenaline is still in your bloodstream after a game.”
The distinction matters.
I rest my forehead against hers. “Okay.”
“And I have a six-page ethics paper due at eight.”
“That is less romantic.”
“I contain multitudes.”
I drive her home.
At her building, she kisses my cheek and says, “Next date, no game.”
“Wednesday.”
“I have production until nine.”
“Nine fifteen.”
“You really do plan like a siege.”
“I like clear objectives.”
Her hand rests on the door handle.
“What is the objective?”
The honest answer arrives before the safe one.
“You.”
She looks at me for a long moment.
Then she smiles—not bright, not performed, but private.
“Wednesday,” she says.
After she leaves, I sit in the truck and feel the alarm system search for danger.
There is risk everywhere.
Her job. My money. My mind. The season. The fact that wanting someone creates angles no training can cover.
But fear is not always instruction.
Sometimes it is only information.
I start the engine and drive home.