Chapter Ten
FINN
THURSDAY
I’ve been working my freckled ass off in preparation for today’s game against Boston.
This time when I enter the Apex, I have my headphones on with music blaring, and it helps me ignore the throng of press that are camped out everywhere.
I’ve got tunnel vision, and the only thing I’m focused on is winning.
It’s only the second game of the season, but it holds a lot of weight, expectations, and pressure, so much so that I can feel it reverberating in my bones.
The locker room atmosphere is more intense too, and there’s no joking around.
We all know what’s at stake. Sel and I stand side by side and share a brief hello as he reaches for his helmet.
I can feel his gaze on me when I reach up to tap Biscuit on the nose and then grab my stick.
Nerves take flight in my belly and they’re not settling anytime soon.
Coach Range enters the room for a pre-game pep talk, and I like the fact he keeps it short.
We’re too amped up to listen to a long speech because everyone’s ready to unleash.
As we line up in the queue for the MC to introduce us, I notice that the crowd’s louder than last time, and it’s not surprising. They want this win as much as we do. Starting out the season with a loss was a letdown, for us, and for the fans, and no one wants to repeat that mistake.
The first period feels like a test.
One we pass with flying colors.
Boston has bigger enforcers, but we’ve got speed and skilled guys like Makela, who scores halfway through the period, thanks to a beauty of an assist by Berg.
And every time I hit the ice alongside Sel, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
It reminds me of playing with Silas back in college.
Only the game here is faster, the crowd louder, the hits harder.
But no matter where I am, or what’s going on, I know Sel’s got my back. And I have his.
It all comes together in the third period.
We’re up 2–1, thanks to a scrappy rebound goal from Makela, his second of the night.
Less than two minutes left, and the crowd’s on edge.
Boston’s fans are sprinkled here and there, and they might be loud, but our fans drown them out.
Every shift is a battle, the air thick with adrenaline and sweat.
Boston’s pushing hard, desperate for a comeback.
Their top line is ruthless, cycling the puck deep, forcing us to chase.
My legs burn, but I track the play. Their winger tries to thread a pass through the slot, but I read it a second before it happens.
My stick snaps out, the puck bounces off the blade.
Our forwards are surrounded, so I’m off.
I cut across the blue line, ice spraying under my skates. The cheers from the crowd swells around me, and my training takes over. Boston’s roughest defenseman, Landry, closes in on me, but I fake left, slip right, and spot Sel breaking free down the wing.
For a heartbeat, everything slows down and I see it.
One clean pass.
I go for it and watch as the puck slides across the ice, perfect weight, perfect angle. Sel snags it in his stride, no hesitation. He pulls back and makes his shot in one fluid motion. The puck whistles past the goalie’s glove and slams into the top corner of the net.
Score!!!
The goal light flashes, the horn blares, and I’m shouting in disbelief. It’s 3–1 for the Rush with only twenty seconds remaining. Sel whoops loudly as he skates up to me, his gloved hands gripping my shoulders.
“You did that!” he shouts.
I laugh, breathless.
“You did that!” I correct him.
“Team effort or it didn’t happen.”
I nod. “Jesus, that was incredible.”
“Sometimes the play opens up like that. Perfect timing.”
There’s no time to savor the moment since there’s only seconds on the clock. We ride it out, and when the final buzzer sounds, it’s game over for Boston.
“We won! What a night!” I shout. “Fucking magic!”
The rest of the team swarms around us, shouting, patting helmets, celebrating the victory that is oh so sweet.
My first NHL win and I’m over the moon. Over the moon, the stars, and into another galaxy.
But despite the on-ice chaos, I feel the weight of Sel’s arm around my shoulders, and when I look over, the fire in his expression.
We stare at each other a fraction too long.
When I blink, he’s turned away, and I think I imagined it.
It’s the buzz of winning.
We’re both riding a tremendous high.
I’m walking on air as we glide off the ice. Jesus, what a fucking game. I’m gonna burst with happiness at any given moment. Reporters crowd the hallway, cameras flashing as Sel and I walk side by side.
“It looks like first-time nerves are gone,” one journalist calls out. “You two were unstoppable out there at the end of the third. Is there a defensive bromance brewing on the ice?”
Bromance? I glance at Sel, watching his face pale. I suddenly don’t know what to say.
“Why do they get all the attention?” Makela hits back, nudging me with his elbow. “I’m the one who scored twice. What about my bromance with the puck?”
Everyone around us laughs, and I offer my teammate a nod in thanks for diverting the reporters. Not that it stops them from lobbing more questions at Sel.
“Sel, how does this win feel? Have you turned a corner?”
“A win is why we’re here and it feels awesome. Everyone on the team worked hard and we’re not letting up.”
“And what about your on-ice chemistry with the rookie?”
“His name is Finn. Finn Baran. And we’re doing what we’re paid to do,” Sel adds. “Next.”
Reporters throw out more questions, but I hardly hear anything.
The word “bromance” repeats like a loop in my head and I can’t get it to stop.
After the questions are done, and the exhilaration of the win starts to cool, reality kicks in, and we make our way to the locker room.
Berg invites us to go out to a club, but I beg off.
We have a long road trip coming up, and I want to be prepared to play every game like I did tonight.
But that’s not the only reason I decline.
That one I prefer to keep to myself.
“You need a lift home?” Sel asks me quietly as I reach for my bag.
Despite the warning in my head, the one that tells me to say no, I nod.
I’m all up in my feels and I don’t know that I’m ready to be vulnerable in front of my teammates.
Only Sel, because I trust him. I’m not sure I can separate our friendship from work, and why should I have to?
If I’m too much, he’s free to tell me to get lost. My mind’s made up.
“Thanks.”
The rest of the guys are still celebrating with each other when Sel and I quietly slip out of the locker room. I make it to the parking garage, but when I slide inside Sel’s car, the enormity of tonight’s win hits me like harder than the opposition.
“You okay, Finn?”
I nod and blink quickly, shaking off the tears that threaten.
Sel’s going to think I’m losing it.
No, he wouldn’t. That’s why I’m here, now, with him.
“After my first win in the league, I called my mom, and when I heard her voice, I bawled my fucking eyes out,” he admits. “It’s okay to be emotional about it. It’s what we spend our lives working for. It’s a huge day and you need to feel it.”
I sniff and wipe my eyes. There are so many people I need to call, but my family comes first.
“I should go back and party with the rest of the guys,” I confess. “I just felt, I don’t know, like I needed to be alone with it for a while.”
“I get it.”
“But I’m not alone. I’m here with you.”
We stare at each other, and I feel the rush of winning all over again. Only, this isn’t about hockey. It’s about us. I mean, our friendship.
“Anyway, I want to stay focused and clear-headed,” I insist, breaking the tension. “No partying for me right now. I want to win the next game and the one after that and…”
Sel offers a knowing grin.
“Welcome to the NHL.”
The next afternoon
My home looks, sounds, and smells like a busy pub, but I don’t mind at all. Makela, Kuznetsov, and Sorensen sprawl on my couch, shouting at the football game on TV. A dozen pizza boxes litter the room and icy beer bottles sweat on coasters.
When halftime arrives, we mute the sound and shovel in as much food as we can.
“Man, that unexpected breakaway last night in the third was unreal. Your pass, Kirkland’s goal,” Sorensen says, pointing at Finn. “You and Sel are so in sync already, it’s freaky.”
Makela swats Sorensen on the arm. “What about me?”
“What about you?” Kuznetsov smirks. “You’re freaky all the time.”
“I’m freaky in lots of ways,” Makela waggles his eyebrows. “And hungry. I need more pizza.”
The forward shoves another hot slice in his mouth and devours it in a couple of bites. I glance at the number of boxes and realize I’m probably going to have to order more. Maybe burgers too.
These guys closed out a bar in Tribeca last night, so they’re tired and hungover.
Everyone except me. Honestly, I didn’t get much rest either.
After Sel and I parted ways in the elevator, I stepped into my condo and called my family.
My ears are still ringing from all their excitement for me, and there were a lot more tears, but later, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t sleep.
It had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with my conflicted feelings about my defensive partner.
“Seriously, Finn, you and Sel were fierce,” Sorensen adds. “It was amazing to witness.”
“Stop, you’re gonna give me a big ego like Mats here,” I quip and get a middle finger from Makela. “The whole game was epic. Winning was such a rush. I don’t think anything can top it.”
“I can think of a few things,” Makela shoots back then pauses for a second. “Nah, you’re right.”
“Here’s to Finn and Sel.” Kuznetsov holds up his beer bottle. “May the d-man bromance continue.”
I ignore the heat creeping up my cheeks and raise my glass in turn.
Sel