6. Finnian O’Connell
Finnian O’Connell
Carter: Why do goalies always sit alone?
Me: we’re thinking
Leo: About?
Me: mostly snacks
***
The drive to my parents’ home feels shorter every time I visit.
It’s that weird, cruel trick of the mind where everything from your childhood shrinks the older you get—the driveway, the trees, the front porch—except for the weight of the stuff that happens inside those four walls.
That stuff only seems to grow more massive, more suffocating, the older I get.
I kill the engine and just sit there for a long moment.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror and wince. Bloodshot eyes, a jawline that looks like it’s been through a blender, and a general, pervasive vibe of needing a very, very long nap.
I look less like a star goalie and more like a guy who’s been on a three-day, life-ruining bender. Which, thanks to Callie’s bachelor-party-gone-goat-cult, isn’t exactly a lie.
I glance down at my left hand resting on the steering wheel, my mind drifting back to the living room floor a few hours ago.
Scottie’s face had been as red as her hair, her jaw tight, her knuckles white as she stared at the fresh black ink on her wrist.
A dollar sign.
She had been so furious, frantically claiming it was a financial symbol or her own initial, desperate to convince everyone in the room that it didn’t, in any universe, mean my name.
I’d laughed it off, leaning over her shoulder to give her hell about it, but the memory sticks in my chest. A dollar sign. Of all the things she could have ended up with, she walked out of that shop with a sign that means cash on her pulse.
The front door bangs open before I can even grab my duffel bag.
“Oh, look what the cat dragged in! And the cat clearly has a drinking problem,” Maeve shouts from the porch.
Maeve is two years older than me, and for the first eighteen years of my life, her sole purpose on earth was to ensure I never grew an ego.
She wasn’t successful, but she never stopped trying.
I hop out of the truck, forcing a grin that barely reaches my eyes. “Missed you too, Mae. You look like you’ve been through a car wash. Without the car.”
“Ha. Hilarious. Get your giant, hungover ass inside before the neighbors see you looking like a vagrant,” she shoots back.
But as I reach the top step, the humor vanishes. She tackles me, squeezing me so hard I actually hear my ribs protest.
Underneath the familiar, aggressive, sisterly rib-crushing, there’s a distinct desperation. She’s holding onto me like I’m the only thing keeping her pinned to the ground.
“You smell horrible,” she whispers into my chest, her voice thick. “How was the party?”
“A nightmare,” I say, pulling back and thumbing the purple-yellow smudge on my jaw. “I escaped with my life and most of my dignity. The bruise? That was just a disagreement with a doorframe. The doorframe won. It was a fair fight.”
She reaches up, her eyes softening as she touches the mark, her expression turning somber. “Most of it, huh?”
“It’s a look, Mae. Very ‘distressed chic.’ The fans love it. It adds mystery.”
I step past her into the hall, and the scent of my childhood hits me instantly—Pledge, old wool, and the distinct, savory, salty aroma of the slow-cooker soup Mom always makes when the world is tilting on its axis.
“Where’s the old man?” I ask, my voice dropping.
Maeve sighs, wiping her hands on her jeans, her posture sagging as the armor she wears for the outside world slips off.
“Sunroom. He’s having a ‘1999’ day, Finn. He thinks he’s supposed to be heading to the rink for your Peewee tryouts. Mom’s in there trying to convince him it’s summer. She’s been at it for two hours.”
Most days, Dad’s at the memory care residence across town. It’s where he’s safest now—where nurses know how to redirect him when the confusion gets too loud. But every few weeks, if he’s had a good stretch, Mom brings him home for a night or two.
Mom insists it helps him remember us.
I’m not sure who she’s trying to convince.
“Right. 1999. I was what, five? I’m pretty sure I cried the whole way to that rink.”
“You did. You threw up in the glove compartment because you were so terrified of the bigger kids,” Maeve says, a small, genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion.
“And he bought you a chocolate shake afterward because you ‘skated like a hungover deer’ but at least you stayed upright. He told you you had the heart of a lion.”
We both look toward the back of the house. The memory is so bright, so violently clear, that it makes the current reality feel like a fever dream.
This house used to be loud.
It used to be full of Dad’s laughter, his work boots stomping through the kitchen, the smell of sawdust following him everywhere. He was the guy who built the deck out back with his bare hands. The guy who could fix anything with a wrench and a well-placed curse word.
He was also the funniest guy I ever knew.
He was the king of the practical joke, the guy who would wear a ridiculous, itchy holiday sweater in July just to see the grocery clerk blink, or tell the restaurant waiter it was Mom’s birthday when it was actually November, just to get her a free scoop of ice cream and watch her turn bright pink.
He spent his whole life making sure none of us took ourselves too seriously, constantly embarrassing us with these huge, theatrical bits that always broke the ice, no matter how tense things got.
I took his whole routine because it kept people smiling, kept the air light. But now, seeing the quiet in these hallways, the clown routine feels less like a choice and more like a desperate strategy.
Maeve’s phone buzzes in her pocket, shattering the moment. She pulls it out, her face instantly tightening as she reads the screen.
“Look, Finn, I’ve got to get to the airport. Alex is losing his mind with the kids, and if I don’t get back to Virginia, he might actually sell the toddler on eBay.”
“I got it, Mae. Go. Save the kids from their father. I’m on deck.”
“There’s soup in the fridge,” she says, pausing at the door, her keys jangling in her hand. She stops, her eyes searching mine for a long second. “He’s really confused today, Finn. Just… brace yourself.”
“I’m fine, Mae. Go.”
I watch her leave, her car backing down the driveway, leaving me alone with the ghosts. I take a slow, steady breath, centering myself the way I do before a penalty shot, before heading down the hall.
My mother is sitting on the edge of the wicker love seat in the sunroom, her shoulders hunched, looking smaller than she ever has. She’s wearing a sweater dad bought her a decade ago, and it practically swallows her now.
My father is standing by the window.
His posture is still straight—the ghost of the man who used to run a construction crew, six feet of stubborn muscle—but his eyes are entirely vacant, searching the empty driveway for a car that hasn’t existed since the nineties.
“Finnian! There you are,” he barks. “Grab your bag. We’re late. Coach Miller doesn’t like it when you show up after the whistle.”
I don’t miss a beat. I lean against the doorframe, keeping my tone light, casual. It’s the easiest way to bridge the gap, the script Maeve and I have rehearsed a hundred times.
You don’t argue with the past; you just slide into it with him.
“Coach called, Pop. Rink’s flooded. Pipes burst. Total disaster. Tryouts are pushed back until… well, until further notice.”
He pauses, his brow furrowing into a deep, frustrated V.
He looks at me—really looks at me—and for a second, the six-foot-three pro athlete in front of him doesn’t quite fit the five-year-old he’s expecting. He blinks, the confusion turning into a sharp, painful flicker of fleeting awareness before it slides away again.
“Flooded? In this weather? That’s bush league. They should have the backup generator running. They pay taxes for that.”
“I know. Total amateur hour,” I say, walking over and sitting on the ottoman near his feet, keeping my movements slow so I don’t startle him. “Sit down for a sec. Tell me about that kid you liked. The one with the ‘hands like a surgeon.’”
He sits, his movements stiff, his large, calloused hands resting on his knees. The same hands that taught me how to hold a stick now tremble as he adjusts his trousers.
“Moore. Kid’s a natural. But he’s lazy, Finn. You gotta outwork him. If you give him an inch, he’ll take the blue line. You want that ice? You earn it.”
“He’s getting married in three days, Dad,” I say gently, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.
He lets out a rattling laugh, shaking his head. “He’s six years old. Who’s he marrying? A girl with pigtails from down the street? Don’t get distracted by girls, Finn.”
“She’s amazing,” I tell him, a small, genuine smile tugging at my lips as I think of Ivy. “You’d like her. She’s tough. Reminds me a bit of Mom when she’s mad.”
***
Dinner is a masterclass in pretending everything is fine.
My mother talks about the garden, about the tomatoes that are coming in, but her eyes never leave Dad’s plate. She’s watching his hands, a quiet, heartbreaking vigilance, making sure he’s using the fork and not just staring at the chicken like it’s a foreign object he’s never seen before.
Every time he falters, she smoothly reaches over, cutting a piece for him while continuing her sentence without missing a beat.
It’s a dance they’ve perfected, and it kills me to watch it.
“So, Finn,” Mom says. “Maeve says you’re going on a trip? A van?”
“The ‘Goalie-Mobile,’” I say, tossing a piece of bread into the air and catching it in my mouth, trying to break the suffocating tension.
It makes Dad chuckle, a brief, beautiful spark of the old man I know.
The sudden, sharp sound of his laugh echoes in the small kitchen, and for a split second, the film over his eyes vanishes. He sits up a little straighter, his fork steadying in his hand.
A small victory. I’ll take it.
“I’m taking my agent, Scottie.”
“Scottie,” Dad mutters, his voice clear. “The girl? The redhead you like?”