Page 5 of The Pucking Date
Finn tips his head, lets that slide—for now. “What impresses you?”
“Genuine self-awareness. Full sentences. Maybe someone who doesn’t end every interview with a wink.”
He chuckles, deliberate and low. “Yeah? Yet somehow, you always have my coffee waitin’.” A pause. “Almost like you want me ready.”
I laugh—actually laugh. It comes out easy, like a bubble. The weight I always carry at events, at work, at home—it’s just…not here.
He watches me for a beat. “You’re different when you’re not surrounded by suits and clipboard schedules.”
“I have a reputation for soul-crushing efficiency to maintain.”
He leans in, eyes warm. “I like this version of you too.”
I glance away, unsettled in a way that’s not bad, just…vulnerable. “You’re different too. Less…”
“Public menace?”
“Predictable.”
He hums, rolling his glass between his hands. “My dad was predictable. In the worst way.”
That makes me pause. “You don’t talk about him much.”
“There’s not much to say. He burned bridges before I knew how to spell ‘draft.’ He taught me two things: how to shoot a puck, and how to spot bullshit.”
I nod slowly. “I think mine taught me the opposite. How to keep everything clean. Polished. Safe.”
Finn’s eyes lock on me, serious now. “You don’t strike me as someone who plays it safe.”
I scoff. “That’s because you only see the edges. The rest of me is buried.”
“And that’s exhausting?”
I glance at him. “Yeah.”
The saxophone curls around us, soft and sultry, as we fall into silence.
“I want out,” I blurt. “From the Defenders. From serving only hockey players.”
“No Novak morality police hovering in the background would be a nice change of pace,” he tries for levity. Then he tilts his head, intrigued and serious. “What’s stopping you?”
“Loyalty. Fear. Take your pick.”
He nods, quiet for a moment. Then, “If I stay in New York next season…”
I freeze. “Aren’t we working on renewing your contract?”
“I’ve got offers. Texas. North Carolina. They’re tempting.”
“But?”
He smiles. “I like it in New York. The city. The team. Certain...people.”
“Certain people, huh?” I tease, my stomach fluttering. “Like your nutritionist?”
He smirks. “She’s ninety.”
“She’s got great taste in protein shakes.”
