Epilogue
The jersey was heavier than Finn expected.
Not the fabric. The weight of twenty thousand people watching him pull it over his head, the Fury crest settling across his chest, the hat someone pressed onto his skull before he’d finished blinking.
The flashbulbs went off in a wall of white that turned the audience into silhouettes, and the man at the podium said his name and the number and the city, and the sound of it went through the building like a held breath releasing.
Chicago. The Fury. Seventh overall.
He did not remember the walk back to his seat. Only the handshakes, the cameras, the jersey heavy on his shoulders, and Hayes standing in the aisle with his phone in one hand and the other hand on top of his head like he was trying to keep his skull attached.
“Dude.” Hayes grabbed him by the shoulders. “Dude.”
“I know.”
“Seventh. Seventh overall. I’m going to throw up.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’m so proud of you I might actually cry, and if that happens we never speak of it.”
“Deal.”
His phone was vibrating nonstop in his pocket. His mother. His agent. Petrov. People he hadn’t talked to since freshman year. He pulled it out and the notifications stacked so fast the screen was just a blur of names.
One text sat at the top.
Evan: Chicago.
Finn looked up. Across the arena, past the crowd and the cameras and the scouts in their suits, Evan was in the upper section.
Not hiding in a back row. Sitting with Claire on one side, who was on her feet, a Fury pennant in one hand, her other hand pressed over her mouth.
On Evan’s other side sat a guy Finn didn’t recognize.
Tall, lean, dark curly hair. He was clapping and grinning like he’d been personally invested in the outcome.
Evan was sitting between them with his hands on his knees, and even from this distance Finn could see it. The set of his shoulders. The way he was looking across the arena at Finn without checking whether anyone noticed.
Finn typed back: I know someone there.
Three dots. Then: So do I.
Finn’s chest went tight.
He pocketed the phone.
* * *
He found them in the concourse after. Claire got to him first, the pennant tucked under her arm, pulling him into a hug that was firmer than her frame suggested.
“You wore a shirt,” Finn said to Evan over her shoulder.
“Claire’s advice.”
The guy hung back, hands in his jacket pockets, grinning. Evan nodded at him. “Adrian. Old friend from high school. I get him draft tickets every year.”
“He means I guilt him into draft tickets every year.” Adrian shook Finn’s hand. His grip was warm and his smile was the kind that made you feel like you’d already known him. “Congratulations. Evan has not shut up about you in months, which for Evan is basically a symphony.”
Claire produced her phone. “I have questions.”
“She has a list,” Evan said to Finn. Total resignation.
They stood in the concourse with the crowd flowing around them, programs underfoot.
Claire asked about the program, about Evan’s calendar habits in a way that made Evan close his eyes.
Adrian leaned against the wall and watched the three of them with the easy attention of someone who liked people and didn’t need to be the center of them.
Finn liked him immediately.
Somewhere during Claire’s third question, Adrian straightened up. “Hey. Is that—” He tilted his head toward the crowd. “That’s one of my customers.”
Finn followed his gaze. A man moving through the concourse alone. Dark hair, sharp jaw, the kind of face that looked angry at rest. Built like a hockey player. Jacket zipped to his throat, hands in his pockets, moving through the crowd like he wanted to be somewhere else entirely.
“Comes in alone after bad losses,” Adrian said. “Bourbon, neat. Never talks.”
Evan glanced over. Looked back at Adrian. “He looks extremely straight.”
“He is extremely straight,” Adrian said. “Just a customer.”
Finn watched the guy. Then he watched Adrian not watching the guy. Then he looked at the guy again, who had slowed his stride and was looking back at Adrian with an expression that wasn’t quite nothing.
Finn said nothing. He knew what careful looked like on someone who hadn’t figured it out yet.
The crowd moved on. Claire launched into her next question. Adrian turned back with the same easy warmth he’d had before, and whatever had crossed his face was gone.
Under the noise of the arena emptying, Evan’s hand found Finn’s.
His fingers closed around Finn’s knuckles. Evan was listening to Claire, his head tilted, his mouth soft at the corners. His thumb moved once against Finn’s knuckle. Small. Absent.
Finn looked down at their hands. Evan’s broader, his fingers laced through Finn’s, steady and warm.
He looked back up. Claire was talking. Adrian was laughing at something she’d said. Evan was listening. The arena was emptying around them and outside the night was just beginning.