An incomplete man searching for the one to help make him whole.
EIGHT
Finn
By the timeI stumbled through my front door, I was dead on my feet. I was covered in glitter, and my scarf had somehow managed to knot itself twice around my neck. I must have looked like I’d barely survived a festive ambush.
I wasn’t surprised to hear the TV on. My brother had a key. He’d always had a key. A “just in case” key that turned into a “whenever I feel like eating your food and leaving socks on your couch” key. The smell of pepperoni and cheese drifted from the coffee table, and my stomach growled in response.
“How was school?” my brother, Connor, asked without looking away from the screen. Then, when he glanced up, he snorted a laugh. “Must be close to Christmas,” he added.
“Too close.”
“You’re home late.”
I dropped my bag by the door and shrugged out of my scarf. “School play rehearsal, then staff beers, where we discussed why the hell we decided to be teachers in the first place.”
“N’awww, little kids and glitter, easy.”
I huffed. “Fuck off, asshole. Imagine herding cats, if the cats were hopped up on candy canes and high on the promise of Santa.”
“Bet you crushed it.” He took a massive bite of pizza and pointed at the TV. “Vipers are down two, and it’s only ten minutes in. Defense is a mess.”
I kicked off my shoes, stumbled toward the couch, and flopped beside him. I knew I should’ve gone to my desk and started tackling the mountain of post-grad work waiting for me, but exhaustion won out. The play rehearsal had taken up the entire afternoon and had drained every ounce of my energy, not to mention the annual shit-we’re-exhausted staff meeting with Principal Lewis. Besides, the pizza smelled too good to resist.
“Yeah? What’s up with it?” I’m sure Walker plays defense. I could easily ask Connor, but then he’d want to know why I was asking, and the NDA I signed was a thing, and yeah… not happening because if my brother knew I was helping out hockey players, he’d combust with how big a fan he was of the New York team.
Not that Walker played for them anymore, given he was working for their feeder team now.
I grabbed a slice and took a bite. It was greasy and glorious.
“They lost a couple of guys, and now they’re scrambling,” Connor said, reaching for his beer. “Vipers used to be tight. Now, they can’t hold a defensive zone to save their lives. Goalie’s working overtime.”
I barely understood half of what he was saying, but I kept asking questions—anything to put off my looming responsibilities. Something about the low hum of Connor’s voice, the comfortable sprawl of the couch, and the warmth of pizza in my hands was easier than facing my towering to-do list.
“What if they just picked up someone else?” I asked. “Or used someone from their feeder team, the uhm… ”
“The Copperheads.”
“Who they gonna call up?” Connor asked as if I had any idea at all. “That’s a team of fuck ups. Might as well skate with a traffic cone.”
The urge to defend Walker was shockingly instantaneous, but not far behind were Bob, Arnaud, Chip, and Taft. “Sounds dramatic,” I said instead of saying anything about the guys I’d been doing art with for four weeks now.
“You know hockey.” Connor grinned. “Drama’s part of the package.”
I chuckled and reached for another slice. My laptop and unfinished reports stayed cold and untouched on my desk. Tonight, hockey and greasy pizza were the only things on my schedule.
Oh, and I’m still wondering why I had this insane urge to defend the Copperheads.
But mostly Walker.
Connor stayed over, bemoaning the Vipers’defense and the state of his love life, and I was late to bed, early to rise, and now, running on fumes. Today, was just as busy as yesterday, and I still found glitter after two showers.
The wailing hit me first. Sharp, piercing, and unmistakably Polly Lexington’s familiar cry. It’s remarkable that only a couple of months into the academic year, I could already tell my class of six-year-olds apart just by their laughs or cries.
“He cut it! He cut it!” Polly shrieked, her voice breaking with the kind of distress that only children can master—raw, unfiltered panic.
Polly was one of my more confident kids. The kind who called a spade a spade and wasn’t afraid to cause a little upset if shethought she was in the right. But when I sprinted toward the playhouse, I hadn’t expected to see her clutching her head.
