20. Finn O’Connell
Finn O’Connell
“I hope you’re happy,” I say, staring down at the gray pavement with a profound, soul-crushing despair that no man should have to experience.
At my feet, lying face down on the concrete like a fallen soldier, is a double scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream. The waffle cone is shattered into three distinct pieces.
“It’s ruined. This is truly, without a doubt, the single worst day of my life. First Yuri tries to turn my five-hole into a state park, and now the universe steals my dairy. I have nothing left.”
From somewhere over my right shoulder, there’s a sharp, familiar snorting sound.
“Don’t do it, Scottie. Do not find humor in my destruction. A lesser man would cry. A lesser man would call his mother.”
“Cash, it’s just an ice cream cone,” she says.
I cut my eyes sideways.
She’s standing there with her hands jammed into the pockets of her leather jacket, watching the melting puddle of green with a smirk that is entirely too smug for someone who didn’t just lose their only source of evening joy.
Her green eyes are practically watering with amusement.
“It wasn’t just an ice cream cone,” I tell her, gesturing vaguely at the mess. “It was a reward structure. It was an emotional bridge between the trauma of the practice and the future of my hockey career. And now? It’s a sticky patch on the sidewalk.”
“You tripped over your own shoelaces because you were trying to look at a motorcycle across the street, you giant infant.”
“The motorcycle was cool. It was a vintage Triumph. The point is, my agent should be consoling me. Clause 4.7 of the representation agreement states that the agent must provide emotional support in the event of a catastrophic dessert failure.”
“There is no Clause 4.7. What is it with you and these fake clauses?” she says, but she’s already turning on her heel, her boots clicking against the pavement as she marches back toward the doorway of the parlor we just left.
She doesn’t look back, but I can see the slight hitch in her shoulders that tells me she’s losing the battle to keep a straight face.
“Stay there, O’Connell. Try not to collide with any architecture while I’m gone.”
Two minutes later, the glass door clicks open again and she steps out into the crisp Charlotte air. She holds the new cone out toward my chest like she’s offering a peace treaty.
“Here,” she says. “Do not drop it. If this one touches the asphalt, I’m getting on the next flight back to Boston and leaving you here to be a river by yourself.”
“Thank you, Scottie-girl,” I say, taking the cone with extreme, exaggerated caution, wrapping both hands around the paper sleeve as if I’m holding a fragile, prehistoric egg. “See? The tide is turning. The river is flowing again.”
“If you say the word ‘tide’ one more time tonight, I’m going to throw myself into a literal river,” she mutters.
We start walking again, drifting away from the bright, sterile commercial strip and heading down into one of those brick-lined alleys where the city actually feels like a city instead of a tech campus. The streetlights here are older, casting long, dramatic shadows against the exposed brick.
The wind is howling between the high stone walls, carrying the deep rumble of traffic from three blocks over, but down here, it’s just the two of us and the sound of our shoes on the pavement.
From about fifty yards down the alley, a low, golden light spills out of a basement stairwell, accompanied by a sound that instantly changes the atmosphere.
“Look at that,” I say, nodding toward the small wooden sign hanging over the stairs.
Scottie stops, squinting down into the stairwell. “Cash, it’s a basement jazz club. We have a 9:00 AM ice slot tomorrow. You need to be a wall, or a mountain, or whatever the hell else Yuri called you, not a hungover jazz enthusiast.”
“The ice slot is an illusion created by the mind, Sharky,” I say, using my best, most deadpan Yuri tone as I take the last bite of the waffle cone and toss the napkin into a nearby trash can.
I reach out, my fingers wrapping around the smooth, cold leather of her sleeve, tugging her gently toward the stairs. “Come on. Just one drink. To celebrate the survival. And to apologize for the fact that I almost made you watch me cry over mint chocolate chip.”
She hesitates for half a second, her gaze flicking between the dark entrance and my face, but then she lets out a small, defeated sigh that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
“Fine. One drink.”
The air inside is warm, thick with the smell of spilled bourbon. It’s the kind of place that hasn’t changed its decor since the late sixties, and honestly, it’s perfect.
There are maybe twenty people in the whole room, scattered across small round tables covered in red velvet cloth.
We find a small booth in the back corner, the leather torn in the center but comfortable enough that we sink three inches into the cushion when we sit down.
A waiter in a crisp white apron appears out of the shadows. “What can I get you folks?”
“Two old fashioneds,” I say before Scottie can order her usual sparkling water. “And whatever you have that involves melted cheese. I’ve had a very emotional day.”
The waiter pauses, looking down at his small green notepad, then looks up at the two of us. He gives a slow, knowing nod that instantly sets off my internal radar.
“We got a special tonight for couples,” the old man says, leaning in a little closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
“Ribeye crostini, baked brie with fig jam, chocolate truffles. Usually eighty bucks, but if you’re celebrating an anniversary…
or something official… management takes care of the whole spread.
Standard policy for the neighborhood sweethearts. ”
I feel Scottie’s entire posture go rigid next to me.
“Oh, Frank,” I say, reading the small silver name tag pinned to his apron.
I reach across the small table, grabbing Scottie’s hand in both of mine, squeezing her fingers tightly before she can protest. “You don’t know what those words mean to us.
We aren’t celebrating an anniversary, but we did just get engaged. Two hours ago. On the bridge.”
Scottie lets out a choked gasp that sounds exactly like a woman who has just been overwhelmed by a romantic proposal. Her eyes are wide, staring at me with an expression that is fifty percent pure, homicidal rage and fifty percent absolute, dark amusement.
But she is a professional. She knows how to pivot.
She lets out a shaky breath, her shoulders doing that rhythmic hitching thing again—only this time, she forces a dry, hacking sob out of her throat. She reaches up with her free hand, dabbing at the corner of her dry eye with her index finger, her performance bordering on Oscar-worthy.
“He surprised me so much, Frank,” she whimpers, leaning her head against my shoulder. “I didn’t think he could be so emotional. I’m just… I’m so overwhelmed.”
“Ah, the quiet ones always got the biggest hearts,” Frank says, his own eyes watering as he slaps his notepad against his thigh. “Say no more, folks. The tasting menu is on the house. I’ll bring the bubbles out right away.”
He scurries off into the amber shadows toward the kitchen, looking like a man on a mission from God.
The second his white apron disappears behind the curtain, Scottie pulls her head off my shoulder and hits my bicep with a closed fist.
“You are a psychopath,” she whispers fiercely, leaning in until her face is inches from mine. “We are not engaged. We are not even dating.”
“Did you see his face? We made his night. We gave him a narrative. Besides, you played along beautifully, Sharky. That little sob? Impressive.”
“I’m going to kill you in your sleep,” she mutters, though she’s struggling to suppress a smile.
Before she can hit me again, Frank returns, carrying a massive silver tray that smells like heaven. There’s a sizzling iron crock of brie, little toasted slices of bread topped with rare beef, and two tall flutes of champagne that are bubbling so hard they’re spraying a fine mist into the air.
“Here you go, kids,” Frank says, setting the plates down with a flourish.
He hesitates, looking at the two of us with this expectant, romantic grin that tells me the performance isn’t over yet. He taps the edge of his tray against his hip, waiting.
“Well? Come on now. Don’t be shy. Let’s see it. A toast to the beautiful bride.”
I look at the champagne. I look at Frank. Then I look at Scottie.
The amber light from the stage is hitting the side of her face, turning her red hair into a halo of dark gold, highlighting the small, pale freckles across the bridge of her nose. The air in the booth feels dangerously charged.
“To the bride,” I say, my voice dropping an octave.
I lift my glass.
She looks at me, her eyes fixed on mine, her legal composure gone now, replaced by that soft, vulnerable look that always hits me right in the center of my ribs. She lifts her glass, her fingers trembling slightly as the crystal clinks together.
“To the bride,” she smiles, and there is no sarcasm left in her voice.
We both take a sip, the cold alcohol burning down my throat, but it’s nothing compared to the heat rising in the booth.
“Alright now,” Frank chuckles, leaning his elbows on the back of the empty booth next to us, completely oblivious to the sudden, heavy shift in the atmosphere. “You can’t leave an old man hanging like that. Seal the deal, son. Give her one for the road.”
The stage behind us explodes into a fast, rolling drum solo, the saxophone coming back in with a high wail that makes the floorboards vibrate. The room is loud, the music is hot, and my heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
“Frank wants a performance, Scottie,” I say, not breaking eye contact.
I don’t move. I stay right where I am, my hand still wrapped around hers, waiting for the boundary to finally break.
Scottie doesn’t pull away. She looks at Frank, then she looks back at me, her tongue quickly darting out to wet her lower lip. A tiny, reckless smile touches the corner of her mouth—the ‘Shark’ deciding to dive into the deep end.
“Well, then don’t disappoint Frank,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the music.
I don’t wait for her to change her mind. I slide across the torn leather seat until there’s no space left between us, my right hand coming up to cup the side of her neck, my thumb resting right on the warm, pulsing vein beneath her jaw.
When I lean down, she meets me halfway.
Her lips are soft and wet from the champagne, opening under mine with a small, breathless sigh that goes straight to my gut.
I pull her closer, my arm wrapping around her waist, lifting her slightly off the seat until she’s pressed entirely against my chest. She makes a small, frustrated sound in her throat, her hands coming up to grip the fabric of my sweater, pulling me in deeper.
When I pull back an inch, my forehead resting against hers, we’re both gasping for air. Her eyes are dark and unfocused, her lips swollen and bright red under the amber spotlight.
Frank lets out a loud, roaring whistle from the shadows, clapping his hands together. “That’s what I’m talking about! Enjoy the cheese, kids!”
He walks away, chuckling to himself, leaving us alone in the red velvet booth.
Scottie stays right where she is, her forehead still pressed against mine, her fingers still gripping the fabric of my sweater like she’s afraid she’s going to float away if she lets go. Her breath is warm against my mouth.
“Finn,” she whispers.
“Yeah, Scottie?”
“Yuri wouldn’t approve.”
“I know,” I say, my thumb brushing over her cheekbone, lingering there. “The river is completely out of its banks, Scottie. There’s no stopping it now.”
She lets out a small, wet laugh, her head dropping against my shoulder, her body relaxing into the curve of my arm.
We stay like that for a long time, the jazz music swirling around us in the dark basement, the plate of free brie cooling on the table between us, untouched.
***
1:02 AM
Me: i think she’s my person
Callie: I know.