22. Finn O’Connell
Finn O’Connell
The thin air hits you right in the back of the throat the second you open the door, but Scottie doesn’t notice because she slept through the entire highway stretch, the entire suburban sprawl, and most of the interstate leading up to the facility.
Her head had been pressed against the passenger window for the drive from Charlotte, her red hair obscuring her face. Even now, as I pull the old van into the parking lot, she’s still blinking like a nocturnal animal suddenly forced into the daylight.
“We’re here, Scottie-girl,” I say. “Welcome to Atlanta. Grab your legal pads. And your dignity, if you can find it.”
We’d had to come straight here for a practice, with absolutely no time to stop at the hotel first.
Scottie lets out a low grunt, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her cheeks are slightly flushed from the nap, and her jacket is hopelessly wrinkled on one side.
“I wasn’t sleeping,” she mutters, voice thick with sleep. “I was just… resting my eyes.”
“Right. Is that why you were drooling on the seatbelt?”
“That wasn’t me,” she says, immediately swinging her door open and stepping out into the crisp, bright morning.
She doesn’t even look back at me, just stretches her arms over her head with a loud yawn.
I smile, shaking my head as I kill the ignition of the engine.
A week ago, after that disaster with the ice cream and the subsequent miracle at the jazz club, I thought things would get weird. I thought the agent-client boundary would turn into a big, awkward wall of professional panic.
But Scottie is too… Scottie for that.
She’s just choosing to ignore the fact that we completely crossed the line, acting totally carefree, which honestly makes me want to push the line even further just to see how much she can handle.
We walk through the front doors of the rink, and a man in a bright yellow track jacket and a pristine white whistle comes marching across the lobby floor.
He’s about forty-five, but he’s got this deep, rich tan that looks like he just got back from a tropical scouting trip, thick dark hair that completely defies gravity, and a perfectly trimmed, sharp mustache.
He looks less like a hockey coach and more like a guy who should be captaining a yacht in the Mediterranean.
I look over to Scottie.
Scottie is staring at him, her eyes wide, her mouth slightly parted. Then, with absolute zero shame, she literally lets out a low, appreciative whistle.
I blink at her, my hand freezing on the strap of my gear bag. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” she says quickly, her eyes still locked on him as he approaches. “Just… checking the room’s acoustics.”
“You just whistled at the guy,” I say, a strange, sudden prickle of irritation hitting my chest. I step closer to her, trying to block her view.
“What do you mean? Do you find him hot? He’s literally old enough to be your uncle, Scottie.
I’m standing right here, looking like this, and you’re catcalling the staff? ”
“I didn’t say I liked him. I just have eyes, Cash,” she whispers back, her cheeks flushing a bright, guilty pink. “The man has a majestic mustache. It’s a statement piece. It screams confidence.”
“It screams midlife crisis,” I mutter, putting a hand over my heart. “I’m deeply wounded. My emotional state is compromised. I thought I was your favorite athlete, but I guess I just don’t have the fluffy hair requirements.”
Before she can defend herself, the man stops right in front of us, sporting a thick, wireless headset microphone that hooks over his ears and hovers exactly two centimeters from his mouth, connected to a small battery pack clipped to his hip.
“Ah! The travelers approach! The protagonist enters the arena!”
Scottie’s eyes bulge.
The romantic illusion instantly shatters as she looks at the headset, then looks at me, her mouth twisting into a tight line as she tries to process what’s happening.
“Coach Vance,” I say, dropping my bag and reaching out a hand, trying to hide the smug satisfaction rolling through me. “Good to meet you.”
“And the handshake is executed! Clean grip, solid extension, a textbook display of confidence from O’Connell!” Vance says, his voice projecting with an unnerving, broadcast-quality clarity.
He turns his head slightly to look at Scottie. “And who is this in the secondary position? The representative! The negotiation specialist! The red-headed powerhouse herself, checking the perimeter!”
Scottie clears her throat, caught off guard by the sudden sports-broadcaster energy radiating from her momentary crush. “Hi. Scottie. I handle his paperwork.”
“The paperwork is secured!” Vance bellows, turning on his heel and gesturing for us to follow him toward the locker rooms. “We are moving down the eastern corridor! Velocity is moderate! The goaltender is carrying his own luggage, displaying excellent lower-back mechanics, especially given the previous clavicle trauma!”
I look down at Scottie as we walk. Her shoulders are already shaking. She’s biting her lower lip so hard it’s turning white, her eyes wide with pure, unadulterated joy.
“Don’t do it,” I whisper to her, nudging her shoulder with mine. “Do not break. I thought you said he’s hot, Scottie? Is the headset microphone doing it for you?”
“I’m not saying a word,” she whispers back, her face turning red as she tries not to laugh.
“I just have eyes.” I mimic her earlier tone, leaning down slightly.
“Oh, stop it,” she giggles, reaching out to give the sleeve of my hoodie a playful tug. “Okay, fine, maybe he’s not even that hot. Up close, the tan might just be a really aggressive spray situation. Happy?”
“Slightly,” I say, a massive grin tearing across my face. “Go sit on the bench, Sharky. I have to go put my pads on.”
Ten minutes later, I’m fully dressed in my gear, stepping onto the ice.
The rink is totally empty except for Vance, who is currently pacing the center red line like a man preparing to call the seventh game of the Stanley Cup Finals.
His headset volume is apparently hooked into the rink’s overhead PA system, because every word he says is echoing off the corrugated metal ceiling with a deafening, metallic rattle.
“And the big man takes the ice!” Vance’s voice booms through the rafters. “The skates cut the surface! A deep, resonant crunch from the left blade! He looks large! He looks hungry!”
I glide toward the crease, scraping my blades along the goal line to build up a cushion of loose snow.
I look back over at the bench. All I can see is Scottie’s head above the boards, her forehead pressed against the plastic, her shoulders shaking so hard with laughter that I’m pretty sure she’s forgotten how breathing works.
She is completely, utterly lost to the comedy of this situation. Her face is bright red, and she gives me a tiny, encouraging wave that tells me she’s not going to survive the hour.
“Alright, Cash-man!” Vance yells, blowing his whistle directly into his own microphone, creating a high-pitched squeal that makes me wince inside my mask.
“We are starting with the lateral recovery drill! The objective is simple: tracking the phantom puck from the high slot to the low circle! And… go!”
I drop into the butterfly, my knees hitting the ice with a sharp slap, and push off with my right skate to slide across the crease.
“He’s down! He’s sliding! Look at the extension on the pad!” Vance yells into the PA. “He tracks left, he shifts the weight, he looks like an absolute mountain out there! Ladies and gentlemen, we are witnessing the return of the Boston Glacier!”
I stop dead in the middle of my crease, my skates spraying ice.
The Boston Glacier?
I look back over at the bench. Scottie has dropped to her knees behind the boards, her forehead pressed against the plastic, her shoulders heaving as she laughs so hard she’s probably not breathing.
“Coach,” I call out. “Can we maybe do this without the play-by-play? It’s a little hard to track the puck when you’re calling my breakfast choices over the speakers.”
“An objection from the athlete!” Vance narrates. “The Glacier prefers silence! He wants the cold, quiet isolation of the tundra! But the crowd demands engagement!”
I let out a sigh inside my helmet, adjusting my blocker. “Fine. Just shoot the puck.”
Every single movement I make is broadcasted to the empty arena with the intensity of a national championship. If I drop too early, Vance calls it a “premature collapse of the defensive wall.” If I make a glove save, it’s a “spectacular robbery in broad daylight.”
I try to focus on the trajectory of the rubber, but every time I start to get into a rhythm, Vance drops another ridiculous line into the microphone.
“He catches it! A routine grab, but executed with the flair of a Broadway performer! The Boston Glacier refuses to melt under the high-altitude pressure!”
I glance at Scottie again. She’s sitting on the bench now, holding her phone up, clearly recording the entire thing. When she sees me looking, she mouths the words Boston Glacier and blows me a kiss with maximum theatrical mockery.
“You’re fired,” I yell across the ice.
“The agent is terminated!” Vance screams. “A dramatic fracturing of the corporate alliance! Tension rises in the local air!”
By the time the session finally ends, my legs are burning and my ears are ringing from the speakers. I skate over to the bench, ripping my mask off and leaning over the boards.
“If you ever speak of that nickname outside of this state,” I tell Scottie, pointing my stick at her, “I will hire a new agency by tomorrow morning.”
“Are you kidding?” she says, her face still flushed from laughing so hard. She hands me a water bottle, her eyes bright and dancing. “The Boston Glacier is the best thing that has ever happened to your brand. I’m already drafting the merchandise mock ups. We’re going to sell winter coats.”
“I hate you.”