Chapter Five
FINN
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, FIRST GAME (OCTOBER)
Growing up on a farm, I worked my ass off, all day, every day.
Thank fuck, because NHL training camp—even though I only experienced one week of it—was brutal.
Brutal, but worth it, because I received the most incredible news of my life, an offer from the NY Rush.
I did my absolute best, and I got the contract.
Sel even referred me to his agent, and with everything signed, I’m ready for my first professional game.
Which happens to be tonight…
I keep asking myself, is this real? What if camp was a fluke? What if I can’t freaking do this? What if I screw up and make a fool of myself out there in front of all those people?
Nerves hit me fast and furiously, and a queasy wave in the pit of my stomach makes me wonder if my dinner is about to make a reappearance.
Sitting in front of my stall, my hands shake so hard I can barely get my skates on, never mind tie my laces.
I’m sure every rookie goes through this, so I remind myself that this kind of anxiety is normal.
Isn’t it?
When I first arrived at the Apex, also known as the Rush arena, in my brand-new navy pinstriped suit, I was confident, and a little cocky.
Until I spotted the scores of media lined up, shouting and taking pictures, and reality smacked me in the face.
My teammates walked in like they were strutting down a red carpet, totally unfazed by the surrounding chaos, but me?
I tripped over my own feet, sweated through my shirt, and completely froze when someone called out my name.
Cocky left the building and I desperately need him back.
This game against Miami is sold out and the place is packed.
You can hear the thunder of the crowd down here in the locker room and it’s more than intense.
The rink is crawling with fans, media, staff, the team owner, hell it sounds like half the Big Apple is here.
We’re televised. People will be watching me. My family, my friends, strangers.
If you fuck up…
No. I won’t let my mind go there. I’ve worked too hard to give up when it matters most. Eventually my nerves will settle… as soon as my defensive partner arrives. I glance around the locker room for the hundredth time, but I don’t see any sign of Sel, and my gut churns harder.
Where is he? And why is he late?
Ever since that night at Sel’s, I’ve wanted to text or call to see how’s he’s really doing.
Sure, I see him at the rink, and we chat a bit, but it’s all about work and I can tell he’s on edge.
No wonder, since Brady and St. Clare keep acting like asshats, either ignoring Sel or giving him strange looks.
Thank fuck the rest of the team is cool, but still.
I also wanted to ask Sel if he’d like to hang out again.
Besides the hockey advice and finding out about his family, we had a chill time.
I don’t think many people get to meet the genuine Selwin Kirkland—not the hockey star or the guy with a quip for everything, but the real deal—and ever since that night, I think of him as a friend.
Because that’s what’s going on here. Sort of.
Or at least, we could be. It seems like that might happen, and why not?
And it sure as fuck wouldn’t affect how we play together.
He’s amazing to work with and I’ve learned so much from him already.
The later he is, though, the more unsettled I get.
Not for me, but for him. I worry something bad’s happened.
It’s his first game as an openly queer player and I can only imagine his nerves are worse than mine.
Or maybe he’s sick? Injured? Wouldn’t the staff have said something?
Trying to clear my head of racing thoughts, I bend over, shove my skates on, and despite trembling hands, finish tying my skates.
When I sit back up, I catch a glimpse of my missing partner.
Relief floods my veins as concern turns to amusement; Sel bolts into the locker room like a Tasmanian devil, and if he runs any faster, he’s gonna rip the tight suit jacket he’s wearing.
Sel’s only an inch taller than me, but bulkier, so the ground vibrates with the weight of his steps.
There’s a quick hand-wave when he spots me, and when he reaches his stall, he wastes no time getting dressed.
Once he’s suited up, Sel plunks down beside me to put on his skates, and I grin when I notice the same ritual from practice; he always ties his left skate first, then right, and then he pulls out a picture of his brothers and his mom, and taps it three times.
“Where’ve you been?” I whisper.
“A minor car accident.”
“An accident?” I blurt loudly, and teammates turn to stare. “Sorry. Nothing. Don’t mind me.”
Everyone ignores my outburst and goes back to getting ready. I look Sel over, but I don’t see any obvious injuries.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he explains. “It was nothing. Some guy sideswiped my car. It’s a scratch but he insisted we exchange information, and I got delayed. Of all the shit timing.”
“But you’re okay to play?”
“Of course. Like I said, it was nothing. But now I need to get on the ice more than ever. I’ve got a lot of pissed-off adrenaline to burn.”
“You and me both. I’m so fucking nervous.”
“You’ve got this, Finn. You’re ready. We’re ready.”
If Sel’s anxious about tonight, he’s hiding it well.
“I wish I had your confidence.”
“Once you get out there, things will click. You won’t think about anything but the game.”
“What about the thousands of people watching me?”
“Imagine you’re back at the college rink.”
“Does that work?”
He shrugs.
“Can’t hurt. Other than that, when you get overwhelmed, picture the crowd naked.” Sel winks and his relaxed expression reminds me of the guy I met in the summer. “Works every time.”
“Promise?”
“Yep.”
“You alright, rookie?” Berg asks as he steps up to us. “Are you gonna puke?”
“I’m freaking the fuck out, Captain,” I admit as I stand up.
“First time nerves,” Berg replies with a nod. “Just picture everyone naked and you’ll be fine.”
I chuckle. “That’s what Sel said.”
“He knows what he’s talking about.”
I turn to Sel and offer a cheeky grin.
“I’ll take your advice, Sel. After all, I was raised to listen to my elders.”
“Hey! I’m only six years older than you.”
“You need a hand to get out on the ice?” I tease.
Sel offers me what I assume is his middle finger. It’s hard to tell with the glove on…
“Come on, rookie, time to hit it,” Berg insists.
I reach up and tap Biscuit’s nose for luck before I grab my stick and follow my teammates.
There are a shit ton of reporters waiting in the hallway, but I keep looking forward as we make our way down the chute.
The closer we get to the ice, the harder my pulse pounds out of control.
It’s almost as loud as the roar of the music, the boom of the MC’s voice, and the cheers from the crowd as our entrance is announced.
The atmosphere is overwhelming and exhilarating, like being at a concert, only I’m not the fan, I’m the one in the spotlight.
Despite my nerves, I take a minute to soak it all in.
Stepping out on the ice as a college hockey player was always exciting, but being here in the Rush rink is next level. And so is having home ice advantage.
Hopefully.
Head in the game, Finn. Come on, head in the game.
I might have made it to the next level of play, but my confidence is still a work in progress. The second my skates hit the ice, though, part of me settles. The icy air snakes into my lungs, and I relish the cool and familiar feeling, along with the weight of my stick.
This is it.
Sel slides up next to me at the end of our warmup, his voice low and steady.
“You got this, Finn. Trust your instincts, trust your team.”
I can only nod in response and wish my body would stop shaking.
The lights dim and I find myself standing between Sel and Berg during the anthem.
I take it all in and desperately try not to cry.
Camera flashes go off like fireworks and fans hold up their phones.
My family are with me in spirit, supporting and watching from Nebraska, not to mention my friends and former teammates in Vermont.
No matter what happens, I relish the fact that I made it this far.
No one and nothing can take that away from me.
“Berg, you’re up!” Coach Range calls out.
That means I’m up too, along with Ranken, Makela, and Sel.
Sorensen is in goal, and one by one, we skate past him and tap his glove six times before taking our positions.
The music cuts off just before the puck drop, and I stare across the ice at our opponents.
Miami has huge, aggressive forwards and I’ve been duly warned by my teammates.
Also, I watched a ton of tape from their recent season.
I repeat Sel’s advice in my head and pray that it— and my training—is enough.
The ref steps up, and when he blows his whistle and drops the puck, Berg manages to snatch it and everything moves at lightning speed.
The first shift plays out fast, a total rush.
I’ve never felt more alive or focused. I chase a Miami forward into a corner, take a hit that rattles my teeth, and manage to chip the puck up the boards.
Sel’s never far from me, and we work together like we did in practice.
When I make a mistake, he’s there with a quick word or a nod, keeping me grounded.
The rest of the period is a back-and-forth battle, 0–0.
But Miami’s relentless in the second.
Every time we get the puck in their defensive zone, they get it right back out.
By accident, I block a shot with my shin, and I feel the sting all the way up my leg, but I grit my teeth and keep going.
Miami scores with only two minutes remaining.
I watch Berg talking to Sorensen, and even though I know our goalie’s frustrated, he doesn’t show any outward signs of stress.