Chapter Eleven
MARA
Finn repairs the station turntable on our second date.
This is either deeply romantic or evidence that I have developed specialized standards.
At nine fifteen Wednesday, he arrives carrying a red metal toolbox older than both of us. The station is empty except for Tessa, who refuses to leave until she has watched him remove his coat.
“Tessa,” I say.
“I am exporting audio.”
“The computer is off.”
“I am exporting spiritually.”
Finn sets the toolbox on the counter. “Hello, Tessa.”
She blinks. “He knows my name.”
“You produce his interviews.”
“I thought he perceived me as equipment.”
Finn opens the toolbox. “The microphone stand is equipment. You are louder.”
Tessa puts one hand over her heart. “I have been seen.”
I push her toward the door.
When we are alone, Finn examines the turntable. It belonged to the station’s first studio and has not worked since someone spilled an energy drink into the speed control six years ago.
“You said you repair radios,” I remind him.
“I said my father does.”
“You used a screwdriver convincingly in my imagination.”
He removes the bottom panel. “That is why I brought instructions.”
From the toolbox, he produces a folded repair manual.
I lean against the counter and watch.
His hands are precise without gloves. Long fingers, scarred knuckles, one pale line near his wrist. He tests wires, cleans contacts, and explains each step when I ask. He never pretends to know what he does not know.
Competence is attractive.
Honest competence may be fatal.
“Why number thirty?” I ask.
He glances up. “Jersey?”
“No, your age. Yes, jersey.”
“My first goalie coach wore it.”
“Was he important?”
“He let me play.”
The answer carries history.
Finn returns to the wiring.
“My junior coach wanted taller goalies,” he says. “I was short until sixteen. Coach Riley ran the community rink. He let me practice with older players after school.”
“You became six four out of gratitude.”
“Spite.”
“More believable.”
The turntable starts at ten twenty-three.
The platter rotates unevenly once, then settles.
I clap.
Finn looks alarmed by appreciation.
“It spins,” he says.
“It lives.”
“It needs a new belt.”
“Do not minimize the miracle.”
I choose an old record from the shelf. The sleeve is worn, the song one my mother used to play while cleaning on Sunday mornings.
The needle drops.
Static fills the booth.
Then music.
Finn stands very still.
“What?” I ask.
“My mother likes this song.”
“So did mine.”
We look at each other across the turning record.
I hold out my hand.
“Dance with me.”
“No.”
“You move on knives for a living.”
“Different skill.”
“Coward.”
His eyes narrow.
Then he takes my hand.
The booth is too small for dancing. That makes it better. Finn places one palm at my waist and holds my other hand between us. I step onto his shoes because his rhythm is as rigid as the rest of him.
“You are terrible,” I whisper.
“You are standing on me.”
“Corrective intervention.”
He guides us in a slow circle around the microphone cables.
The song crackles.
His gaze moves over my face with an intensity that has nothing to do with panic or hockey.
I feel wanted.
Not useful. Not needed.
Wanted.
He bends his head.
I meet him halfway.
The kiss begins slow and becomes something else. Finn’s restraint has edges; once crossed, it turns into focus. His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back. He lifts me onto the counter without breaking the kiss.
My knees part around him.
The toolbox rattles when his hip strikes it.
I laugh against his mouth.
“Romantic,” I say.
“Quiet.”
“Public broadcast is built on speech.”
He kisses the place beneath my ear.
Speech becomes difficult.
My fingers move beneath his sweater, finding warm skin and hard muscle. His breath changes. Not panic. Desire.
I know the difference.
That matters.
Finn pulls back enough to look at me.
“Still okay?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me if that changes.”
“You too.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Consent is reciprocal,” I say.
“I know.”
“Good. Educational program complete.”
He kisses me again.
We do not have sex in the radio booth.
This is primarily because Helen returns for a forgotten laptop and nearly catches Finn’s hand beneath my sweater.
We separate with enough speed to suggest criminal activity.
Helen stops in the doorway.
Her gaze moves from my swollen mouth to Finn’s inside-out sweater hem to the record turning behind us.
“Mr. Callahan,” she says.
“Finn.”
“Mara.”
“Helen.”
Silence.
She picks up the laptop. “The conflict plan did not address this.”
Heat floods my face.
“We are not discussing station business,” I say.
“Clearly.”
Finn steps away from me. “Is this prohibited?”
Helen studies him.
“No. But it must be disclosed to me, and Mara cannot cover any hockey matter involving you.”
“She already does not.”
“Then document it. Privacy is not the same as secrecy.”
Book One lessons have entered institutional policy.
“I will email you,” I say.
“Tomorrow. Not tonight.” Helen glances at the turntable. “You fixed it?”
Finn nods.
“Good. Carry on responsibly.”
She leaves.
I cover my face.
Finn is silent for three seconds.
Then he laughs.
Not the almost-smile. Not a quiet breath.
A real laugh, low and surprised and so rare I forget embarrassment.
I stare at him.
He stops. “What?”
“Do it again.”
“No.”
“That was beautiful.”
“It was not.”
“You have dimples.”
His expression turns horrified.
I slide from the counter. “Hidden assets. The donor agreement is incomplete.”
He catches me around the waist before I can escape.
“You talk too much,” he says.
“You keep listening.”
He kisses me until the record ends.