9. Finnian O’Connell
Finnian O’Connell
My head is pounding so hard that I’m half-convinced there’s someone hitting drums right behind my eyeballs. When I finally peel my lids open to check, I’m humbled to find it’s just the aggressive rhythm of my own hangover.
I am currently slumped in a patio chair on the terrace, staring down a glass of iced tomato juice like it’s a personal enemy.
I haven’t taken off my sunglasses since I dragged myself out of bed at nine, and I have absolutely no intention of doing so anytime soon.
To my left, Brick makes a low, guttural groaning sound that seems to vibrate the entire table. He is face down on a linen napkin, his forearms framing his plate like a protective barrier around a mountain of cold scrambled eggs and untouched sourdough.
“If anyone clinks a fork against a plate,” Brick mumbles into the napkin, his voice thick and muffled, “I am going to change my name, cut off all contact with humanity, and move to a silent monastery in Tibet. I mean it. I will join a vow of silence just to never hear the sound of cutlery again.”
“Shut up, Brick,” Nico croaks from across the table. He’s slumped so far down in his chair that his spine is basically a hammock. “Your voice is too loud. Your very existence is too loud.”
“We are a broken people,” Marcus observes from the end of the long table, leaning back with a bottle of blue Gatorade pressed firmly against his forehead. “We are a defeated, lawless nation. We peaked at 2:00 AM, and now we’re paying for it.”
I try to move my head to look toward the far end of the terrace where the newlyweds are sitting, but the effort sends a jolt of pain behind my eyes.
Callahan looks like he’s been run over by a Zamboni, but he has this ridiculous, permanent, dopey loop of a smile fixed on his face. Ivy sits right next to him, looking remarkably put together despite the faint, bruised-purple shadows under her eyes.
She is wrapped in an oversized white knit sweater, her feet tucked up onto the seat of her chair, nursing a cup of green tea while Callie mindlessly traces soft, slow circles on the back of her hand.
“They look disgusting.”
I turn my head—very slowly, like I’m diffusing a bomb—and look at Scottie.
“They look happy, Scottie-girl,” I say, my voice raspy. “Don’t be a hater just because your liver is currently staging a protest.”
“Happiness is overrated,” she retorts. “And my liver is fine. It’s my patience that’s the issue.”
Dean slides into the empty chair between Scottie and Ivy, holding a plate stacked high with nothing but strictly organized bacon strips and a bowl of fruit.
He looks entirely too awake. His skin is clear, his eyes bright with that classic, annoying, morning-person energy that makes you want to throw a biscuit at his head.
“Morning, losers,” Dean says cheerfully, dropping a hand onto Ivy’s shoulder and giving it a solid squeeze before leaning over to look at Scottie. “How are my girls holding up? Scottie, you look like you’re about to sue the sun for defamation.”
“I’m drafting the injunction in my head as we speak,” Scottie mutters from behind her sunglasses, though she doesn’t pull away when Dean reaches over and hooks an arm around her neck, pulling her into a brief, lazy side-hug.
“You did great last night, by the way,” Dean says, snagging a piece of bacon. “The speech was beautiful. Even if you did expose yourself as a massive, Grade-A nerd who kept a diary.”
“It was a historical document, Dean,” Scottie says, allowing a small smile to crack her stoic expression. “And it worked. Ivy cried like a baby.”
“I’m still crying,” Ivy chimes in from the end of the table, leaning her head on Cal’s shoulder.
She points a finger at Scottie. “You’re paying for my waterproof mascara replacement, Scottie.
I looked like a raccoon by the time we got the cake back to the room.
It wasn’t a good look for the honeymoon departure. ”
“Speaking of the cake,” I call out, leaning across the table toward Callahan. “Did you two actually finish that entire top tier on the floor, or did you leave some for the cleaning crew?”
Callahan lets out a loud laugh that immediately makes Brick flinch and bury his face deeper into his napkin. “We brought the box up to the suite, man. I think there’s still a corner left. It’s breakfast.”
“You’re an animal, Callahan,” Carter grumbles, not opening his eyes. “A literal beast.”
Cal ignores him, standing up from his chair and grabbing his empty coffee mug. “Cash. Come with. Need a refill.”
I groan as I stand, my muscles tight from hours of terrible dancing and a few too many highballs, and follow him through the French doors into the air-conditioned, blissful quiet of the club’s main dining room.
We stop by the large silver coffee urns, the low hiss of the machine the only sound in the immediate area. Callahan fills his cup, his expression flattening out from the goofy, exhausted grin into something more grounded and serious as he turns to face me.
“You good, man?” Cal asks.
“Yeah,” I say, filling my own mug. “Just a regular hangover. Nothing a three-hour nap and a gallon of water won’t fix.”
“I’m not talking about the booze, Cash,” Cal says, leaning back against the counter. “I saw you last night. During the speeches. And afterward at the bar.”
I tighten my grip on my mug, a sudden, uncomfortable spike of guilt hitting me right in the chest.
He just got married.
Yesterday was supposed to be entirely about him and Ivy, the biggest night of their lives, and I’m standing here realizing my best friend was busy analyzing my expression instead of just enjoying his own wedding reception.
“Callie, fuck, I’m sorry,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yesterday was your night. I didn’t mean to be—I shouldn’t have been checked out. I was just—”
“Hey, drop it, I don’t care about that,” Callahan interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m asking because I watched you looking at Scottie like she was the last person on Earth. And that speech… you weren’t talking to the room, Cash. You were talking right to her.”
I let out a long breath, staring down into the liquid in my cup, unable to deny it.
There’s no point in lying to Callahan.
He’s known me since we were four years old; he can read my defense before I even set my skates on the ice. He’s seen me through every failed trade rumor, every locker room disaster, and every stupid decision I’ve ever made.
But instead of giving me a teasing smirk, he just studies my face, his arms crossing over his chest. He doesn’t look convinced—he looks concerned.
“Cash, come on,” he says. “Are you actually serious about this? Or are you just messing around because it’s the off-season and you guys have been bickering for three years?”
“What? No. I’m not messing around.”
“Because it looks a lot like your usual routine,” Callahan presses.
“You love a challenge. You love pushing her buttons and getting a rise out of her. I need to know if this is just you playing a game because you’re bored and she’s a tough nut to crack.
Because if you’re just joking around and you mess with her head in that van for two months, Ivy will actually castrate both of us. ”
“I’m not playing, Callahan,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m entirely in. She thinks it’s a joke, too. She thinks it’s just some physical fixation and that I don’t know her. But I want to know every single piece of her. I want the real version, not the agent.”
He searches my eyes for a long, quiet beat. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders drops, and he nods, believing me.
“Good,” Cal says. “But Scottie’s tough, man. You realize you’re walking into a legal battlefield.”
He reaches out, his massive hand coming down on my shoulder, giving it a heavy, solid squeeze. “You’ve got, like, two months in that orange van of yours. If you can’t convince her it’s real by the time training camp starts, you’re a worse goalie than I thought.”
“Hey,” I mutter, a faint, relieved grin breaking through the seriousness. “I’m an awesome goalie, Callie.”
“Prove it off the ice then,” he says, turning back toward the terrace. “Come on. Let’s get back before Brick passes out into the butter and causes a scene.”
When we walk back out onto the terrace, the conversation has shifted toward the logistics of the upcoming week. The road trip is officially on the horizon, the reality of the off-season setting in as the wedding festivities draw to a close.
“So, when are you guys actually hitting the highway?” Marcus asks, looking between me and Scottie.
“Tomorrow morning,” Scottie answers for us. “The first stop is in Philadelphia.”
“Why Philadelphia?” Nico asks, leaning forward, his interest piqued. “You guys scouting?”
“Cash wants to visit some specific goalie development coach up there,” Scottie says, glancing at me. “Something about his lateral movement.”
I nod, taking my seat again. “Yeah. If I can shave half a second off my post-to-post recovery time, it changes everything. It’s the difference between a save and a highlight reel goal against me.”
Nico frowns. “You really think that the front office could trade you? Like… you’re really doing all this because you think the Reign are going to move you before the deadline?”
The table goes quiet for a second, the lighthearted wedding vibe dropping away to reveal the cold, hard reality of the business we all work in.
Before I can answer, Scottie’s voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and definitive.
“They will not trade him,” she says. “The front office might be looking at their cap space, and they might be taking meetings with other general managers because that’s their job, but as long as I’m managing his representation, Finnian is staying in a Reign jersey.
His contract has a limited no-trade clause that kicks in on July first, and I’m already structuring the leverage we need to lock him down long-term.
They’d have to give up three first-round picks and a starting defenseman just to clear the baseline value he brings to the roster. ”
The guys all look at her, a few of them letting out low, appreciative whistles.
I watch her from the side, my chest tightening with that same, familiar heat from last night. She looks so small against the backdrop of the massive athletes, but the room is undeniably hers.
“That’s great, Scottie,” I say. “And I appreciate the legal muscle. But even if the contract is safe, I still have to try to be better. The league doesn’t care about last year’s stats.
The second you get comfortable, some twenty-one-year-old kid comes in and takes your net. I’m not losing my spot to a rookie.”
“Well, if you visit any Canadian coaches,” Dean says, breaking the mood with a grin as he reaches over and blatantly steals a piece of bacon from Scottie’s plate, “make sure you bring back some of that maple syrup candy. The good stuff. Not the tourist trap crap.”
“Touch my food again, Dean, and I’ll sue you for emotional distress,” Scottie warns, though she doesn’t actually move to stop him.
The conversation drifts back into safer, lighter territory—complaining about the upcoming preseason schedule, arguing about who had the worst dance moves last night, and Cal and Ivy’s flight to their honeymoon in Greece later this afternoon.
It’s the kind of chatter that keeps us grounded, a reminder that underneath the contracts and the pressure, we’re just a group of people trying to keep our lives on track.
By one o’clock, the brunch is wrapping up. The players are starting to stand, stretching their massive frames and exchanging hugs with Cal and Ivy as people begin to head toward the parking lot to catch their flights and start their drives home.
I stay back for a second, helping Callahan load a few remaining bags into the back of his car while Ivy and Scottie say their goodbyes by the club entrance.
“This is it, then,” Cal says, slamming the trunk shut and turning to face me. “Next time I see you, you’ll be smelling like two months of highway diners.”
“It’s a classic aesthetic, Callie,” I grin, pulling him into a tight hug, slapping his back hard. “Take care of her, man. Don’t do anything stupid in Greece.”
“Never,” Cal says, pulling back with a wide smile. “See you in September, Cash. Don’t make me come up there and bail you out of anything.”
I walk back toward the entrance just as their car pulls away, leaving Scottie standing on the gravel driveway alone. She’s checking her watch, her hair catching the breeze.
“You ready, Sharky?” I ask, stopping a few feet away.
She turns her head to look at me, her eyes unreadable behind the dark sunglasses. “Don’t be late tomorrow. I’m not waiting for a goalie who can’t keep time.”
“I won’t,” I say, a slow, confident smile spreading across my face as I watch her turn and walk toward her car. “I’ll be exactly where I need to be.”