Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty One
Finn
Two days later, Dylan made his move.
It started in the locker room, after practice. He cornered Nash, voice low but pissed. I heard my name, heard Leo’s, heard “nurse,” “freak,” and “traitor.” Nash shot me a look across the room, and it was all I could do not to launch my stick at Dylan’s face.
Instead, I waited until everyone else had left, then walked straight up to him.
“You got something to say?” I asked.
He grinned, ugly and wide. “I don’t have to. Everyone already knows.”
“Knows what?”
He stepped close, breath hot and sour. “That you’re a joke. That the only reason you’re still here is that the league wants a headline.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. But at least I’m not still living in the 90s.”
He shoved me hard, but I didn’t move. I just looked at him, waiting.
He blinked first. “Faggot,” he spat.
I smiled, all teeth. “You wish.”
He stared, but the power had drained out of him. He walked away, fists tight at his sides.
When he was gone, Brody came out of the trainers’ office, face pale.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s just noise.”
Brody watched the door, then me. “He’s going to try something.”
I nodded. “Let him.”
He stepped closer and squeezed my hand. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I squeezed back. “I won’t.”
The game that night was a bloodbath. We won in overtime, and the locker room exploded. Nash and Leo dragged me into the showers, singing some dumb fight song I didn’t know the words to, spraying Gatorade, and yelling until our throats were raw.
After, I found Brody in the equipment closet, alone and exhausted.
He said, “You did good tonight.”
I grinned. “You, too.”
He wrapped his arms around me, holding me tight. I felt his heart pounding through his shirt.
“We’re gonna make it,” he whispered.
“Yeah,” I said, resting my chin on his head. “We are.”
Outside, the parking lot was empty, streetlights buzzing overhead. We walked to my car, fingers laced, not caring who saw.
I started the engine, letting the heat kick in. Brody sat beside me, quiet and content.
He said, “What do we do now?”
I put the car in gear, looked over at him, and said, “Now we go home.”
And we did, together.
We hit Louisville on a streak. The season flipped, just like that—one ugly road trip and suddenly we were the team nobody wanted to play.
Coach said it was chemistry. The media said it was “team culture.” I knew the truth: we were stubborn bastards who played better mad, and nothing pissed us off like being told we didn’t belong.
The bus rolled past the practice rink at 3 a.m., engine coughing up one last protest. Nash chucked his empty Monster out the window and yelled, “HOME SWEET HOME!” Nobody shushed him.
Most of the team was already asleep or plugged into their phones, but a few of us watched the city slide by—yellow streetlights, shuttered shops, the same three gas stations in a loop.
We unloaded in the dark, same ritual as always.
Bags to the locker room, sticks to stalls, sneakers squeaking on old linoleum.
Leo was first off, already texting someone—probably the bartender with the pink hair.
I hung back, letting the rookies get first crack at the showers.
I didn’t want to see Brody yet. Not with everyone around.
The next morning, the rink was full of media. Not the usual two guys from local sports, but a whole row of cameras, some out-of-towners with nice shoes and ugly ties. Nash greeted them like old friends, mugging for the lens, but the rest of us played it cool.
Coach corralled us in the tunnel before warmups. “They’re running a profile for SportsNet,” he said, as if we cared. “Let’s not embarrass ourselves.”
Dylan smirked from the back of the pack. “You worried they’ll catch someone crying on the bench?”
Nash snapped back, “Better than getting caught riding pine all third period, huh, D?”
The room went quiet for a second, then everyone laughed except Dylan. I kept my face blank. I didn’t like the way his eyes lingered, or the way he was always in the background, cataloguing.
The press release after practice was a mess.
They shoved me up front, then told me to “act natural.” Nash sat on my left, Leo on my right, all of us in matching jackets and bad hair.
The first dozen questions were softballs: how did we get back on track, what’s it like being the youngest first line in the league, blah blah blah.
Then someone asked about the last road game, and whether the overtime goal “meant more because of who you are.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
The guy smiled, like I was in on the joke. “No, because you’re the third openly gay player in the Stallions’ history. Do you think that’s made a difference?”
There it was. I felt the whole room go tight, like a fight about to break out.
I cleared my throat. “I think we win because we outwork teams. Everything else is just noise. Not sure how our love lives matter in this case.”
Someone else, not a face I knew, pushed in. “Is it true you’re dating someone?” he asked, a smug grin covering his face.
Nash spat water, then tried to cover with a cough. Leo stared at the ceiling. I didn’t flinch.
I looked the reporter dead in the eye. “Is that a question about hockey, or just about who I fuck?”
Coach coughed in the background, as if he might choke. The reporter shrugged, unapologetic. “The fans are curious.”
I smiled, all teeth. “The fans can keep guessing.”
More reporters began to speak up and the podcasters along the wall were going live on their channels. I knew I was going to get in a lot of trouble with Coach and be fined by the NHL, but I didn’t care.
“So, are you not dating someone? Are you not in love?” a woman shouted from the back of the room.
Coach was glaring daggers at me while I could feel Nash and Leo tensing.
Leo leaned closer to me. “Damn, and I thought they were hard on us when we first came out together,” he chuckled.
I remembered watching all of the media frenzy about Leo and Nash and the controversy around their relationship. They didn’t hide away or deny their love. Instead, they took control of the narrative.
I rubbed my jaw and let out a heavy breath.
I looked around the room and decided to say something from the heart.
I may regret this later, but I couldn’t just deny my feelings for Brody.
They didn’t come out and name him specifically, but it was clear who they were referring to.
All of the photos of me lately included Brody and people were already speculating and creating their own stories.
“Look, I play hockey. I go out on the ice each game to win with my teammates. When I am interviewed, I expect the conversation to be centered around the sport I play. My career. But instead, you want to feed into gossip and rumors like we are back in high school. I will say this,” I paused, watching as everyone waited, hanging on my every word.
“There is someone very special in my life. Someone I care about deeply, but I have to respect their wishes for privacy. For now, that is all you are getting out of me.”
The rest of the time spent in the conference room was a blur.
Every third question circled back to it—what was it like in the locker room, did I feel supported, was it hard being a role model?
I said what I was supposed to. That the team was family, that hockey was about winning, that nothing else mattered.
But even the softballs had an edge now. I could feel it in the way the rookies stared at their shoes, and the way Leo put a hand on my back, quiet but steady.
Afterwards, Coach pulled me aside. “You know better than to give into the media whores,” he barked.
I nodded. “I’m sorry. I should be used to it.”
He sighed, old and tired. “I don’t think you are. Expect to be fined for cursing. As for everything else, I hate that they want to make a circus out of my players' personal lives. I’m not mad that you gave them a piece of your mind. Just keep it clean.”
Relief flooded through me. I didn’t mind paying a fine. I was just happy that Coach wasn’t going to punish me.
***
The next morning was worse than I expected.
Reporters lined the rink entrance, blocking the doors like a wall. As soon as I stepped out of my car, a dozen cameras turned my way. I ducked my head, tried to move fast, but they boxed me in. One guy shoved a recorder at my chest, breath reeking of cold coffee.
“Finn, is it true that you and Brody have been seen together outside the team facility?”
I stopped dead in my tracks. Spinning around, I stared at a tall man who appeared to be in his early thirties. “What did you just say?”
“I have confirmation that you and one of the trainers named Brody, are in a relationship. Are you trying to copy Leo and Nash?” he asked, laughing a little.
I wanted to punch this guy, but I knew that would only add more problems for me.
I guess a part of me knew that eventually, people would connect the dots.
Dylan knew and he hated us. Plus, there were too many photos of Brody and I together and I had alluded to being in a relationship during my press conference.
I pushed past. “I’m here to play hockey. Didn’t you listen to my last interview? I don't talk about my love life.”
Another one, a woman this time. “Do you think it’s appropriate for a trainer and a player to have a relationship?”
I ignored her. The rest closed in. “Are you worried about backlash from the league? What do your teammates think? Do you—”
I broke through, jogged for the door, and slammed it shut behind me.
Inside, the silence was almost worse.
Nash found me by the vending machines, holding a bag of stale chips like a peace offering.
“You good?” he asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He shrugged. “They’re vultures. It’ll die down if you don’t feed it.”
I laughed, short. “Have you ever seen anyone hound like this?”
He thought about it. “Not in this league. But you’re the first, right? It’s always the first guy.”
I slumped against the wall. “I’m so fucking tired.”
He punched my arm, not hard enough to do any damage. “You got this. And if you don’t, you got us.”
I smiled, for real. “Thanks, Nash.”
He grinned. “Don’t tell anyone I’m nice. I’ve got a rep to protect.”
He walked off, humming some dumb song, and I felt better.
***
Practice was brutal, as if Coach wanted to punish us for every word in the media. We skated suicides until my vision blurred. Afterwards, I sat alone in the locker room, lacing my shoes, trying to let the world slow down.
A shadow fell over me. I looked up.
It was the reporter from yesterday. The one with the ugly tie.
He stood just inside the doorway, notepad ready. “You got a minute?”
I considered telling him to fuck off, but something in his face said he’d just wait. So, I nodded.
He sat next to me, careful not to get too close. “I’m not here to ruin your life, Finn. But people want to know your story.”
“People want a headline,” I said.
He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s the same thing.”
He flipped his notepad. “I got a tip that you and Brody were at dinner last night. That’s your business, but the league might not see it that way.”
I bristled. “Are you threatening me?”
He raised both hands. “No. But off the record? You’re going to need to get ahead of this. Someone took pictures. They’re going to be online by morning.”
My mouth went dry.
He softened, just a little. “Look, man. Do you want to give me a quote? Say something so it’s your words out there, not theirs?”
I stared at the floor. “What’s the point?”
“Control,” he said. “Or at least the illusion of it.”
I thought about Brody, about the way he kissed me in the dark, like it was the only safe place in the world.
“I’ll get back to you,” I said, voice rough.
He nodded, stood, and left.
I sat there, the room empty, the world closing in.
And for the first time, I was scared. Not for me, but for what it might do to Brody.