Chapter 6 - Finn
FINN
THE NIGHT WE DIDN’T SLEEP
Overtime Winner—It evokes exhaustion, adrenaline, relief, and joy all at once—the kind of night where nobody sleeps, and everything changes.
You’d think we’d pass out after popping champagne for two hours straight and being soaked in a locker room.
Nope.
We took quick showers and changed into jeans, shirts, and baseball hats that say: Stanley Cup Champs.
It would have been perfect if we had won at home, to the roar of our crowd. And hoisting the Cup in front of all of our fans.
But winning is winning. And we’re in Vegas, where anything and everything is a possibility.
We just won the Cup. And someone — probably Kal — yells, “Let’s get out of here!”
Besides, Lord Stanley deserves a night on the Strip. He’s been stowed away in the Vault long enough. It’s time to make more memories.
We pile into a party bus, our adrenaline surging, still half-dressed, and reeking of sweat and victory. Alexandre has the Cup next to him, like it’s a fragile heirloom. Blake tries to feed it chips. Victor’s already shirtless again, yelling out the window at strangers like we’re on parade.
First stop: The Mirage.
Security doesn’t even blink. We roll through the lobby like we own it — because tonight, we kinda do. Cameras flash. Guests cheer. A man in a suit offers to trade his Rolex for the privilege of holding the Cup for five seconds.
We let him. Then it’s into a sea of people for more drinks and debauchery.
Second stop: Omnia.
A bouncer tries to say no, but Blake lifts the Cup and goes, “We brought a guest.”
The bouncer lets us in after taking a picture of us, saying his wife will never believe him.
We get the best table in the place. DJ shout us out.
Lights swirl. People lose their minds when they realize what's in the booth with us.
Champagne? Flowing. Shots? Endless. Victor fills the Cup with something neon yellow and insists we all drink from it.
It tastes like danger, with electrolytes and moonshine.
Next stop: A dive bar with zero business hosting champions.
It’s got sticky floors, a jukebox, and three locals who don’t even blink when we walk in like a frat wedding exploded.
Kal sets the Cup on the bar and goes, “One round in her. Let’s go.”
The bartender pours whiskey straight into it. We sip it like a holy ritual.
At some point, someone carries the Cup onto the dance floor.
Some tourists twerk on it. Alexandre grabs it back like it’s a baby in traffic.
We chant. We dance. We drink. Kal climbs a stripper pole for his jersey.
How it got up there is anyone’s guess.. Blake arm-wrestles a dude in an Elvis costume.
Victor poses for a picture with a bachelorette.
I lose my voice yelling “STANLEY!” every five minutes.
Next: the rooftop of a random hotel.
I don’t think this is a good idea, but the guys are out of control. I need to manage the situation to ensure no one falls off.
We’re above the Strip. The lights below twinkle. It’s magical—an ephemeral breeze cools me, the moon winks, the stars twinkle, and Lord Stanley in my hands. There’s no music, only the distant hum of Vegas still buzzing beneath us.
And we sit. Sweaty. Drunk. Spent.
Happy. Deliriously happy.
“I’m never coming down,” Blake mutters, looking at the skyline.
“You don’t have to,” I say, tipping the Cup toward him.
Because tonight? We’re legends.
But it’s been a long night and should’ve ended hours ago.
We’d already hit the Strip, drank out of the Cup, danced like idiots, made history, and taken enough blurry photos to get blacklisted from three casinos. But then Kal — dead serious, glassy-eyed, shirt wide open — says, “One more stop.”
I hold my groan. It’s nearly 3 AM when we all pile into the party van. By the time we roll into the third bar, the Cup smells like tequila, glitter, and barbecue sauce. I don’t even want to know how.
We’ve been riding the high since the last puck drop—shoulders loose, spirits high, winning the Cup is so monumental that we can taste it. The Maulers are scattered in the street, laughing, flirting, and drinking like we’re immortal.
We smell of sweat, spilled whiskey, and playoff adrenaline.
But that doesn’t stop us from leaning on each other in the alley behind the last bar.
Someone’s shoe is missing (Blake’s), someone’s singing Celine Dion in falsetto (Kal), and I’m one bad decision away from eating a street taco off the curb.
This new spot’s buried inside a hotel that no tourist ever finds—no name on the front. Just velvet ropes, a line wrapped around the block, and a bouncer who looks at us and waves us in like we’re royalty when he sees the Cup.
Inside are lights. Bass. Heat. The kind of place where the air tastes like perfume and money. Celebs in corners. Performers are just offstage. Everyone is shining.
But me?
I’m scanning the room the second we step inside. I don’t even know what I’m looking for until I see her.
She’s across the room, half-lit by a nearby neon sign and the strobe light. She’s laughing, her head is tipped back, and one hand is holding a drink, the other tugging her friend close like they’re mid-conspiracy.
Her hair’s down, a brunette, with legs that go on for miles under that tiny red mini-dress that’s deadly and cowboy boots that don’t belong in Vegas but somehow belong on her.
The crowd melts. The music fades. My chest does that damn thing again—tightens like it’s been punched and pulled all at once.
“Damn,” Mikael mutters beside me. “Who’s that—?”
“I don’t know. She’s a gorgeous woman, and she’s going to be mine.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. Possessive like, and I don’t know why.
The situation is like every country song I’ve ever loved and every mistake I’ve ever wanted to make.
A woman slides up next to me, pressing in like she’s claiming her territory. Blonde. Tall. Eyes already dragging over me like she wants to fuck me. And I’m sure she would, just for the story to tell her friends.
“Hey there,” she purrs, hand sliding up my arm. “You celebrating or scouting?”
I don’t even blink.
My woman is at the far end of the room, standing under a beam of golden light, as if the universe wants her to be highlighted. Minidress. Legs for miles. And a face that stops me in my tracks. She’s not trying. She’s not posing. She’s just... there. And every part of me says: She’s gonna be mine.
“Sorry,” I say to the blonde who’s trying to grab my arm.“I’m here for someone else.” Then, I step back just enough to make it clear we’re not happening. And then I move.
I don’t walk—I home in. It’s like something in my chest has locked onto her, and I couldn’t stop if I tried. Her laugh hits me halfway there, low and warm and untouchable. She hasn’t seen me yet. She’s too wrapped up in whatever Shay’s whispering in her ear.
But I see everything.
The curve of her waist under that tiny dress. The shimmer of sweat at her collarbone. The way her boot taps to the beat even while she stands still.
She’s magnetic. And I’m steel. She turns, and I freeze.
I’m lost.
The world doesn’t go quiet — the music’s still thumping — but somehow all the noise just turns into background. Like a movie, right before the lead walks across the room.
I stopped walking mid-step. Everything else goes quiet.
I don’t even know her name yet. But I do know I want it on my lips every day for the rest of my life.
I know I want her in my kitchen, in my bed, and in my future.
I want to build a life that makes sense around her laugh.
I want her hand on my chest when I wake up in ten years, with two kids in the next room, brewing morning coffee together with sunlight streaming through the curtains.
Kal bumps into me. “What’re you—”
“She’s it,” I say.
He follows my gaze, then whistles. “Yeah. Good luck, pal. She’s got main character energy.”
“She’s got my last name energy,” I mutter.
The guys hoot behind me. Victor lifts the Cup like a wingman. Blake’s already halfway to the bar, introducing himself to strangers like we’re royalty.
But I remain frozen.
She looks over — just for a second — like she felt me. Then, there’s that shift in the air. And when our eyes meet… and my universe tilts.
It’s her.
The woman I want to bear my children. The woman who just became my future.
Someone grabs my arm — brunette, sultry, eyes like she wants a story for the tabloids. She leans in, palm on my chest.
“Hey, champ,” she purrs. “You celebrating or looking for trouble?”
I smile — not cruel, just honest.
“I’m taken,” I say gently, peeling her hand off my chest.
She scoffs and disappears into the crowd.
But my woman, I’ve yet to meet? She’s a vision.
God, those eyes. Dark, sharp, and smoky, with that little flash of mischief like she already knows exactly how this is gonna go—and she’s daring me to play catch-up.
She’s the only woman who hasn’t given me more than a glance. I’m not even sure what I’ll say to her. But I’m already smiling, and know I’ll come up with something.
I step into her space, my heart beats like I’m still in overtime, and I say, “Hi. I think we just won the same game.”
She turns, and for the first time, our eyes lock. She looks at me, really taking me in, and I hear her inhale.
Her eyes are sharp, her lips are perfectly curved, and her posture? Well, she’s not intimidated by me. She has her chest puffed out like she owns the whole damn place — not just the room, the city. And when she doesn’t look away, and doesn’t back down? I know I’m in trouble.
Good trouble. The kind of trouble many men would pay good money for.
She cocks her head, just a little, just enough to let me know she’s heard better... But she’s not walking away.
Then she hits me with: “You sure? ‘Cause I don’t remember inviting you to play.”
It’s not cold — it’s playful, flirty, dangerous. The kind of line that could slice you open or pull you closer, depending on your next move.
I grin. She smirks like she knew I would.
And before I can overthink it, her hand finds mine, and she tugs me toward the dance floor like she made the decision. Like she owns the night.
And I’m in. I’d follow her anywhere.
She dances like she knows I’m watching her every move and dares me to keep up.
I do.
We move into the music — bass heavy, lights flashing, bodies packed tight — and suddenly it’s just us. Her hips fit against mine like we’ve done this before, we’re so close there’s no light between us.
She’s fast, smooth, and unbothered by the chaos around us. For the first time all night, the Cup doesn’t matter. The noise, the cameras, the win — they all fade. It’s just her, fire, and rhythm, laughing when I try to mimic her moves and fail spectacularly.
Eventually, she pulls me by the shirt, weaving through the crowd, and leads me to the bar like she’s known me for years.
We do shots. How many is anyone’s guess.
There are no cheers and no speeches. It’s just the two of us, ordinary people clicking glasses and downing tequila like no tomorrow.
She is watching me over the rim like she already knew the ending to this story.
Shot one burns. Shot two goes down too easily.
She licks salt off her wrist. I might actually die watching her do it. And my cock grows hard imagining what else her lips could be doing right now.
“Still sure we’re on the same team?” I ask, voice lower now.
She smirks, leans closer, and whispers: “I think you’re trying out for mine.”
And right then — somewhere between the tequila, the heat, and the way she’s looking at me — I know one thing.
I’m already in.
She blinks her lashes, and my cock stiffens. She’s gorgeous.
“Are you lost, or are you following me? She teases, voice low and amused, like she just pulled my name from a winning hand.
“I’d follow you anywhere,” I say, before I think better of it.
She lets out a low oof pretending not to watch—but definitely watching.
Kate tips her head, one boot planted wide, hands resting on her hips like she owns the bar and every heartbeat in it. “Careful,” she says. “You sound like a man with an agenda.”
“I am.”
“And what exactly is it?”
I step in closer, pulling her into me. I make sure she feels the heat coming off me. “You.”
For a second, she doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me—really looks—and I swear something shifts between us. Like gravity. Like fate. Like we’re standing too close to a fire and both wondering who’s going to jump first.
Finally, she smiles. It’s not sweet. Not shy.
Something slow and dangerous curls at the edge of her mouth. “Well,” she says, “I hope you brought a backup plan. Because I don’t come easy.”
I lean in just enough to feel her breath against mine. “I didn’t come here for easy.”
She doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
We’re caught there—somewhere between tension and invitation, dare and promise. And I know, deep in my bones, this isn’t going to be a one-night thing. This is something else. Something real.
I just have to survive her first.
Before I can say another word—before I can close the inch between us and find out if she tastes like bourbon and trouble—someone slams into me from the side.
“Finn!” Blake’s voice crashes through the haze like a slap. “There you are, you slippery bastard. We’re doing shots—team rule, everyone for the third round.”
I blink, my jaw tightens, caught somewhere between a growl and a laugh. Kal has one arm around my shoulders before I can stop him, already dragging me back toward the bar like he hasn’t just sucker-punched the best moment of my entire goddamn year.
She raises an eyebrow, amused and infuriatingly unbothered. “Well, Fin, it looks like your backup plan found you.”
“Give me sixty seconds,” I call over Blake’s shoulder, but she’s already turning back to her friend, her lips curling around her straw like she’s won something. I never wanted to be a straw so badly.
The thing is, I’m not mad she’s leaving.
Because that look in her eyes? That wasn’t a goodbye—it was a try harder.
I’m not one to back down from a challenge.
Because she’s not a game, she’s not a trophy. She’s a goddamn perfect storm—and I’ve been playing with fire long enough to know when I want to get burned.