Chapter 36
Finley
You can do this. Just how we practiced.
I stare at the white door in front of me, the hallway silent, except for the low hum of the overhead lighting.
Just knock.
Finally, I raise my hand and rap it twice against Beckett’s apartment door.
There’s no going back now. Not that I want to.
There’s a pause before I hear, “Coming!”
Beckett opens the door. “Fin—Coach Blake?” He scans the hallway behind me like I might be hiding someone else. “Do you want to come in?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “This should just take a minute.”
“Okay. What can I do for you?”
“I crossed a line,” I announce.
“You… crossed a line?” Beckett asks, like he’s having a hard time keeping up.
“Yes. Getting romantically involved with a player was an unacceptable decision. What I did was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
“You’re… sorry?” He raises an eyebrow.
I nod, fighting my desire to ask him if he’s a parrot. “I am. And I know it’s too little too late, but moving forward, I promise to keep everything strictly professional between us.”
He tilts his head. “Professional? Not even friendly?”
“No,” I say, even as my heart is being ripped out of my chest. “I’m your coach. We’re not friends.”
His eyes scan my face, looking for an answer he’s not going to find. One he can’t find. “Are you worried someone is going to find out?”
I take a deep breath, reminding myself of what must be done. “It’s not about that.”
“Oh, really? So, if I could guarantee that no one would ever know about us, would you still do this? Still pretend like I mean nothing to you? That you mean nothing to me? Because I know that isn’t true for me, and it damn sure felt like it wasn’t true for you.”
It’s arrow after arrow straight to my gut. I know what I’m giving up. The future. The happiness. I know that once I answer, there’s no coming back. No changing it.
“Yes.”
Because I would know. Because I would never be able to trust myself again. Because I truly believe in the Yeti’s culture of accountability.
Because the version of me I am supposed to be can’t survive if I let Beckett mean something to me. Because I want him to mean everything to me. And that’s certainly not something I’m allowed to have.
“Look,” I say. “I want you to know this isn’t about you or anything you did. You’re great. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you. And it’s not about people finding out. I know we could hide it if we wanted to. We were always professional at the rink, but we have to go back to being coach and player.”
Beckett swallows hard, and it’s all I can do to force my gaze away from the strong lines of his throat.
“I understand. You’ve always held yourself to a higher standard than the rest of us.
And we both knew what we were doing. It was certainly questionable, even if me being on IR made it a little bit more of a gray area than normal.
But, just so you know, I don’t think you ever treated me differently as a player.
And I never felt like I had to be with you in order to play.
So, while I completely understand why rules like this exist, we broke them in name only: not in spirit. ”
He raps once on the doorframe, as if he’s preparing to leave, and the last threads of control start to splinter within me.
But then he faces me again, a sad smile on his face.
“And just so you know, I don’t think you have to be the perfect Coach Blake who Sabrina and the team have tried to turn you into. You’re more than just a coach.”
The words should make me feel better, but they have the opposite effect.
He doesn’t understand. Coach Blake is Finley.
Finley is Coach Blake. There is no difference between the two at this point.
Maybe when I was alone with him, but never outside of that.
Never with anyone else. The real Finley would’ve never made it to this level. This job would destroy her.
Not knowing how to explain that to him, I simply nod. “Thanks, Kane. See you at the airport tomorrow.”
“See you,” he says. He gives me a final, sad smile before shutting the door, leaving me alone in the hallway.
I suck in a deep breath, battling the sinking feeling of emptiness spreading in my gut, competing with the relief of finally being back in control.
Even if this version of myself willfully chooses survival over joy. Over happiness. At least I can do it with my head held high. Letting myself catch feelings was so far past my moral limits that I don’t know if I can ever find the old version of myself again.
Now that I’ve closed that chapter of my life, I’ve cut myself off from wanting what would destroy me. Even if walking away seems to be breaking me apart piece by tiny piece. At least there’s a chance I survive it.
I walk back into my apartment and drop on the couch. The silence causes my ears to buzz, the light over the table suddenly far too bright. Everything is too much and not enough.
I startle as my phone starts ringing on the arm of the couch next to me. I’m not sure how long I sat there, just staring out the window.
“Hi, Dad,” I say. “Everything okay?” We already had our normal weekly call, and my dad only calls outside of those when I’ve done something that needs to be managed immediately.
Which has never happened on a day when I don’t have a game.
Usually, it’s when I have back-to-back games, and he feels a decision I made was egregious enough that it needs to be stopped before the next game.
Fortunately, those have been decreasing in frequency.
But I suppose we are almost to the playoffs, and things are getting real.
“You should hard-match the second pair against their top line tomorrow.”
Of course. Just wanted to make sure I’d thought of everything.
“Yes,” I reply. “I discussed that with our team, but we decided it wasn’t necessary for this game.”
“You should reconsider.”
“Our lines can handle Braun. We don’t need to hard-match him. Plus, without home ice advantage, I’m not sure we’ll be able to match him without changing on the fly.”
“You have a better chance of winning if you keep your first pair on him. And you need this win, Finley.”
“I know, Dad.” We have to win all three of our final games to make the playoffs, and if we don’t… well, I may be looking for a new job. Though if this guilt keeps eating away at my stomach, I’m going to need a new one anyway.
As if he can read my thoughts, Dad says, “If you don’t win, they’re going to cut you loose, Finley.
They hired you out of desperation and kept you around this year out of some sense of loyalty.
But if you don’t win, I don’t think they’re going to keep you around.
You’ve got to be prepared, Finley. You won’t be at Denver forever, but if you don’t see the writing on the wall, you won’t have someplace to land. ”
“I think we can win these.”
“Finley, you can’t just think. You need to know. This impacts how people see you, and by default, me. This isn’t just your reputation relying on this. It’s mine as well.”
“I know, Dad.”
“Good. Then I’ll let you get back to watching film. Watch the Titans again. You’ll see that I’m right.”
We hang up, and I pull up the Titans film, reconsidering every decision my team made about how we play. That said, I don’t know if I should trust my decision-making right now.
As I sit alone in my apartment that night, watching hour after hour of game film, alone, I can’t seem to ease the hollow feeling that has taken up residence in my chest.