Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Finn
The next morning, I woke before dawn. I left Brody’s room before anyone else was awake, creeping back to mine and slipping into bed fully clothed. Leo didn’t move, but when I rolled over, I saw his eyes were open.
He whispered, “I won’t tell anyone.”
“About what?”
He smirked. “You’re not that good at sneaking around.”
I closed my eyes. “Just let me have this, okay?”
He nodded. “You deserve it, Finn.”
Maybe I did. Or maybe I was just lucky.
Either way, I was done pretending. Even if the rest of the world wasn’t ready to see it.
***
The last leg of the trip was a blur. Win or lose, the Stallions bled together—showers, bus, sleep, eat, repeat.
By the time we rolled into Cleveland for the final game, every guy was running on caffeine and hate.
You could see it in the locker room: Nash with his hands taped up like a prizefighter, Leo’s eyes wild from too much Red Bull, even Coach pacing behind the whiteboard like a dog before a thunderstorm.
But it was Dylan who changed the whole thing.
He watched everything. Every glance I traded with Brody, every time my cell buzzed before bed check, every split-second of contact on the bench.
He never said a word, but I felt him. You know how sometimes you feel a hit coming a second before it happens?
Dylan was like that, all the time—an impact on the horizon, winding up for months.
The first period was all bad blood. They sent their goon after Nash and put us on the power play. I posted up at the half-wall, running cycles with Leo, and every time I moved, I saw Dylan on the far side, dead set on me. Not covering, not reading the play, just waiting.
We were up 2-0 when the fight finally dropped.
Nash chirped their third-line center, and suddenly, the gloves were off.
The bench surged, Brody popped up with his kit, and everyone screamed themselves hoarse.
It was ugly and quick—Nash took a punch, but the other guy went down bleeding.
I barely had time to process before we were back on the ice.
Late in the second, a guy ran me behind the net. I heard the crash before I felt it. My head rattled, and I dropped, sliding hard into the boards. The ref blew the whistle, but I didn’t get up right away. I stayed down, the world spinning, until hands found my arms and hauled me to my knees.
Brody, again. He knelt in the slot, eyes wide, lip bitten bloodless.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” I grunted, trying to stand. The pain was bright and everywhere, but I could move.
He hovered a little too long, hands on my shoulders, and I saw Dylan at the blue line, just watching, watching, watching.
I pushed Brody off, harder than I needed to. “I’m fine.”
He flinched, then nodded and let me go.
We lost in overtime. The locker room after was a graveyard—towels, half-empty Gatorade bottles, and the collective stench of failure.
Coach tried to rally us with a speech about "learning from adversity," but nobody heard it.
Nash buried himself in his phone. Leo lay flat on his back, a towel over his face.
I sat in my stall, peeling off tape, watching as Dylan packed up. He moved slowly and deliberately, as if he were a bomb tech. When he passed my stall, he stopped.
“You and the nurse. You think nobody knows?”
My mouth went dry.
He leaned in, voice low. “Don’t get comfortable, Koskinen.”
He left before I could answer. I heard his laughter in the hallway, the sound of a stick banging the cinderblock.
I finished dressing and headed to the trainers’ room. Brody was there, cleaning up. He looked at my face, saw the bruise blooming on my temple, and sighed.
“You should’ve let me do a check after the hit,” he said.
I shook my head. “Would’ve looked worse.”
He tossed the towel and ran his hands through his hair. “Dylan knows.”
“I know.”
He turned, pressed his hands to the table, and didn’t say anything for a long time. The hum of the overhead lights filled the room.
“You still want this?” he asked, without looking up.
I stepped closer, enough to touch his back. “Yeah. I do.”
He turned, eyes wet and wild. “Even if it gets us both canned?”
I nodded. “Fuck it. We can find jobs somewhere else.”
He laughed, a broken sound, then kissed me hard, teeth knocking against mine.
We locked the door. He shoved me onto the table, climbing up after me. It was rough and fast, all teeth and hands, both of us half-undressed before I even realized it. He pushed my shirt up, bit my shoulder, then slid his hands under my waistband.
I fumbled with his zipper, desperate to touch him. He gasped when I wrapped my hand around him, his hips jerking into my palm. He clawed at my back, leaving half-moons on my skin.
He kissed down my neck, then lower, pushing my shorts to my knees. He used his mouth, quick and clever, the way only a trainer could. I moaned, one hand in his hair, the other braced on the table.
He jerked me off with both hands, rough and wet, staring up at me with pupils blown wide. I came hard, biting down on the back of my hand so nobody in the hallway could hear.
Once we were finished, we lay tangled on the exam table, shirts half-on, pants twisted around our ankles.
He laughed, breathless. “You think this is gonna last?”
I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I want it to.”
He wiped my chest with a towel, then lay back, arm over his eyes. “I have never done this before. Not with a player.”
“Me neither,” I said, honestly.
He pulled me close, forehead pressed to mine. “Then let’s just do it. Who cares?”
I nodded, too raw to say anything more.
We cleaned up. He threw the towels in the hamper and pulled on his hoodie.
***
That night, I waited until after curfew, then texted him.
Brody: You up?
He sent the room number. I knocked, and he opened the door in boxers and a t-shirt, hair damp from the shower.
He pulled me in and kissed me, hard. I kicked the door shut and pushed him against the wall, kissing down his neck. He let out a low, desperate sound, then bit my lip so hard it stung.
We ended up on the bed, naked and sweaty, limbs tangled. He topped me, slow and deep, holding my face the whole time. He whispered my name when he came, then laughed and buried his face in my neck.
After, we lay in the dark, legs knotted together.
He stroked my chest, soft, then said, “I’m scared.”
“Me too,” I admitted.
He rolled over, pulling the blanket over us. “I want to do this. For real.”
“Me, too.”
He grinned, eyes bright in the darkness. “You keep saying that.”
“It’s true.”
He traced my lips with his thumb, then kissed me again, slowly this time.
We fell asleep like that, curled together, and for once, I didn’t wake up every hour expecting the worst.