Chapter Two
Finn
The Louisville training center looked like a modern-day arena.
In large red letters, HOME OF THE STALLIONS, was written outside the black brick building.
Inside, the front desk lady watched me over a magazine, then made a point of going back to scrolling through her phone.
I didn’t blame her. I looked like every other roster hopeful who’d come through in the last week: bag over one shoulder, suit three years out of style, a bruise that still had its own pulse.
Down the corridor, the walls were covered in action shots—big hits, blood on the boards, a few desperate smiles. None of them was me. Yet.
A knot of guys stood outside the weight room, all buzzcuts and brand logos, arguing about whose deadlift was the biggest. The argument stopped dead when they saw me. Every conversation in a fifty-foot radius sucked out of the room at once. Even the pipes overhead seemed to hush up.
I gave a short, awkward nod. Nobody nodded back. Welcome to the family.
Past the trainers' office, the glass door to the locker room was propped open with a half-crushed energy drink. I ducked inside, and the odor—sweat, ammonia, and something like wet pennies—hit me so hard I almost laughed.
My new stall was at the far end, the nameplate already up. "KOSKINEN" in black letters, the first K sharp as a knife. I set my bag down, ran a thumb over the tape job on my stick, and tried to pretend I didn't notice the kid two stalls down watching me like I was going to shank him.
“Yo.”
The voice came from somewhere behind me, deep and echoing a little in the cinderblock room. I turned. At first glance, he was just another square-jawed slab of a hockey guy, but there was something in his eyes. Something a little too awake.
“Are you the new Finnish guy?” he asked.
I wanted to correct him—my name was Finn, not some new model—but I just said, “Yeah.”
He grinned, but it didn’t go all the way to his eyes. “Welcome to the circus.” He jabbed a thumb toward himself. “I’m Dylan.”
I recognized the name. The power forward, who led the league in major penalties last year, probably bench-pressed SUVs for fun. The roster sheet had “INTENSE” next to his name, which was code for “certifiable.”
His head was shaved smooth, the skull nicked in three places like he’d gotten bored halfway through. His neck looked as thick as my thigh. If he smiled any wider, I was going to see what he had eaten for breakfast.
“Cool,” I said. “You’re the captain, right?”
“Nah,” he smirked. “Just the one who makes the rules.” The words hung in the air, not quite a threat, but more of a warning shot. “Marcus is the team captain. He likes to play Daddy around here.”
I shrugged. “Looking forward to playing with you.” It sounded fake, but I meant it.
Dylan stared, silent for a beat, like he was measuring my bone density. Then he leaned in, voice lower. “You keep your head up, Koskinen. Nobody likes a show-off. We already have that in Leo.”
I could smell the coffee on his breath, or maybe it was Red Bull. “Copy that.”
He tapped my shoulder—harder than necessary—then moved on, bellowing at some rookie to hurry the fuck up. The tension melted as soon as he left. A couple of guys on the other side of the room started talking again, but it was all in code.
I sat. Stared at my hands. Let the blood come back to my fingertips.
A text from Nash pinged. “Don’t let the ogre get to you. See you on the ice.”
I grinned, just a twitch, then started unpacking. New gloves, still stiff. Practice sweater with a number I hated (it would change if I played well enough). A plastic cup in a Ziploc bag, labeled with my name in black marker. The small humiliations of the game.
I could hear Dylan’s voice in the hallway, loud enough to cut through a fire alarm. He was making jokes about “team diversity hires” and “How fast can we swap out a guy if he fucks up?” I caught the echo of laughter, then the silence that came after. I’d lived in that kind of silence before.
I peeled the tape off my old pads and replaced it with fresh tape . Let my mind go blank, just for a second, until I heard the heavy stomp of boots and the trainers yelling for everyone to get their asses to orientation.
Outside, the team clustered in a semicircle on the ice. The lights were brutal, sharp reflections off every surface. Coach gave the usual pep talk about “fresh starts” and “Everyone is equal; nothing’s guaranteed.” Nobody listened. Their eyes were on me.
I skated a few slow laps, trying not to look up at the empty seats or at Dylan, who was grinning every time he cut me off. I’d been the new guy before, but never like this. Not with the press, the rumors, and the extra layer of “What if he makes us look bad?”
After the first hour, I was soaked. Not just sweat but with some kind of adrenaline poison, sticky and cold. I missed the last stretch in the old rink, the tiny comforts. I missed knowing what people thought of me.
Dylan cross-checked me during a simple puck battle. It was supposed to be light contact, but he made it sting. My lip split on his shoulder pad, a single bright drop of blood on the ice. He leaned in, low enough so only I could hear.
“Watch your lane, princess,” he said.
Did he just call me a fucking princess? Anger roared to life inside of me. I wanted to yell at him, but I knew that it wouldn’t look good.
I let it go. For now.
When practice ended, the guys hit the showers. I hung back, taping my stick slower than normal, making myself small. Dylan laughed about something, and every so often, I caught him glancing my way. He liked the power, the tension. Maybe he wanted me to crack.
I wouldn’t.
By the time the room emptied, I was the last one there. Just me, the hum of the fluorescents, and the way my name looked on that stall. Like I belonged here.
I pressed a towel to my mouth until the bleeding stopped. Then I packed up and got ready for whatever came next.
***
The next thing on my schedule was an “intro session” with the team’s athletic staff, which meant a full-body inventory: poke, prod, check for loose screws. I’d heard the Stallions' new trainer was supposed to be a genius, or a maniac, depending on who you asked.
I followed the signs to the training suite, past a parade of motivational posters and a vending machine full of protein bars and blue Gatorade. The office door was open, and I found myself face-to-face with the only person in the building who looked less excited to be here than I was.
Brody.
He didn’t stand when I came in. He was hunched over a tablet, pencil between his teeth, typing with one finger.
Tall and sharp-edged, he looked like he’d been designed for maximum efficiency.
His hair was a color I’d only ever seen on expensive guitars—light, honey with the kind of wave that didn’t care about humidity.
His eyes flicked up, green and electric.
“Finn Koskinen?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“That’s me.” I resisted the urge to smooth my hair or check if my mouth was still bleeding.
He smiled, small and fast. “You’re early. I’m Brody.” He stuck out a hand, and I took it, surprised at the strength in his grip.
“I got lost,” I lied.
“Congrats, you found the least glamorous part of the building.” He let go of my hand and flicked through my file on the tablet. “Let’s see. You’re six-two, one ninety-eight, left shot, bench max…” He looked up. “Still one eighty?”
“Depends on the time of year.”
Brody shrugged, approving. “You’ll fit right in. Most of these guys think creatine is a food group.”
He motioned for me to sit on the edge of the exam table. I did, trying not to look awkward.
“Any major injuries I should know about?”
“Just a bruised ego.”
He grinned for real this time, and it did something weird to my chest. “That’s every rookie here, no offense.” I wanted to make him smile again.
“I’m not a rookie,” I said, maybe too quickly.
Brody arched an eyebrow. “That’s what they all say.”
He stepped in close, measured my pulse, scribbling notes on a paper chart. His hands were warm, the touch quick and clinical. But when he pressed a thumb to the inside of my wrist, I caught him glancing up, checking my reaction.
“Resting heart rate’s a little high,” he said.
I shrugged. “It’s my first day.” I couldn’t tell him that it was him making my heart race.
He laughed, a low, private sound. “You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t, and we’ll end up here every week.”
He ran through the rest of the physical, working on questions about old injuries, concussion history, and any weird allergies. I answered honestly, mostly because it was easier than keeping up with the lies.
“So,” Brody said, “how are you finding Louisville?”
I shrugged again. “I haven’t really seen it. Just the team, the rink, my apartment.”
He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “That’s the Louisville starter pack.”
I wanted to ask how long he’d been here, if he liked it, but I was afraid of sounding like I was fishing. Instead, I stared at the floor, which was covered in the kind of tile you only saw in hospitals and cheap gyms.
He tapped the edge of the table. “You want a tour?”
I blinked. “You don’t have anything else to do?”.
He grinned. “You’re the biggest name we’ve had all year. My inbox can wait.”
He started with the obvious stuff: weight room, cardio loft, sauna (“nobody uses it, but we pretend”). He walked a half-step ahead of me, voice calm, eyes watchful. I watched the way his hands moved when he talked, like he was conducting an invisible orchestra.
When we passed a team photo, I saw Brody in the back row, arms folded, eyes slightly to the side. He didn’t look happy, but he didn’t look out of place, either.
In the hydro room, he picked up a football and tossed it from hand to hand. “You play anything else?”
I shook my head. “I was always into hockey. Even when I probably shouldn’t have been.”
He nodded. “My parents wanted me to be a swimmer. They said it was less violent.”