“Oh, nice. Well, sure, of course. I hope we are.” I seriously wanted to slap myself in the face with a goalie stick. A big, fat paddle was the only thing that would do at this point. “I’m not sure why I’m being such a putz. Guys are not supposed to say how much they like someone or how they hope a new relationship works out.”
He placed his menu down. The candle flickered. The hostess joined the trio in the corner to sing “I Agapi Ine Zali” for the diners. She had a really pretty voice. A few couples rose and moved to dance in front of the musicians. There wasn’t much room, but nobody seemed to mind being elbow to elbow.
“I think guys should say what they feel. Right now, I’m hoping that we’re still dating come summer, as well.”
Feeling all kinds of things that I wasn’t skilled enough to put into pretty words like Finn could, I placed my hand on the table beside the candle, palm up. He laid his smaller hand over mine, and that was when I moved from a heavy crush to falling in love, which scared me to death while it also made my toes tingle.
“Wanna dance?” I asked and got a nod. We joined the older folks on the dance floor, the only queer couple swaying backand forth. If the others surrounding us gave us funny looks, I wouldn’t have known. All I saw, once he stepped into my arms, was Finn. He eclipsed the earth and those living on it.
Yeah, I was free-falling hard and fast. I hoped the landing was a gentle one.
TWELVE
Finn
The Copperheads’rink was electric tonight. Packed to capacity, the crowd was loud, enthusiastic, and relentlessly supportive. Connor practically vibrated with excitement beside me, leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide, entirely absorbed by the game. He was still in shock that my after-hours art therapy clients had gifted me season tickets, but he didn’t ask me questions about who was in the class or why I’d been given them.
“So they’re for me?” he’d asked, confused.
“Us,” I said with a grin. “I’m getting into hockey.”
“You are? Why? What changed?”
And that was where I changed the subject, and now we were here, and we’d stopped at the concession store to get T-shirts. I wasn’t ready to wear my Walker jersey—yet. I’d bought a generic Copperheads jersey, and Connor had opted for Arnaud’s jersey number because, according to him, goalies were gods.
“Did you see that save?” Connor shouted over the crowd, slapping my knee enthusiastically. “Arnaud is a freaking legend!”
“Yep,” I agreed, not that I’d noticed anything beyond Walker’s graceful, powerful movements across the ice. He wasmesmerizing as he skated, the confidence behind every quick turn and sharp pivot. It wasn’t just athletic—it was art.
“Earth to Finn,” Connor teased, nudging me with his elbow. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said, have you?”
I grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, hockey overload.”
“Bullshit. You’re watching number 10 like he’s the only one out there.” Connor raised an eyebrow knowingly, smirking. “Want to tell me what’sreallygoing on here?”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Nothing’s going on.”
“Sure. Totally believable.” Connor scoffed, turning back toward the game. “I’ve been trying to get you interested in hockey for years. Walker Hannan shows up, and suddenly, you’re a superfan?” His eyes narrowed. “Was it him that gave you the tickets?”
“No.” I wasn’t lying. After all, it hadn’tjustbeen Walker who’d handed over the tickets. “Maybe, I finally appreciate the game,” I muttered weakly, avoiding my brother’s skeptical gaze.
Connor laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, right.”
On the ice, Walker moved effortlessly, his presence commanding. I found myself tracking him as he positioned himself perfectly to intercept passes, defend his goalie, and, as Connor said, “read the play” like a master strategist. I might not have fully understood all the rules yet, but I knew excellence when I saw it, and Walker was undeniably excellent.
“If he keeps playing like this, the Vipers might come calling again,” Connor yelled after another shot on goal from my man.
My man.
The thought of Walker heading back to New York City made me worry. The idea of him returning to the relentless pace of the NHL worried me, not just because of the distance, but also because of the pressures he’d have to face there. I pushed those thoughts away quickly, choosing instead to join in the crowd’s roar of approval as Walker sent another opponent crashing intothe boards. For now, I wanted to enjoy these moments, these nights where Walker was right here, close enough to touch.
The Copperheads had control now, and I loved to see my art guys out on the ice. There’d been a foul or something, and Connor reliably informed me that the Copperheads were on a power play and that Walker anchored the line going over second. Chip and Taft were out there now, and they passed it one to the other, with Taft sending it speeding toward Walker. Walker caught it cleanly and skated swiftly toward the net, shoulders hunched in concentration. My breath caught, heart pounding as Walker feinted left, then snapped his stick hard, firing the puck past the goalie’s outstretched glove.
“YES!” Connor jumped up beside me, pumping his fist. I rose to my feet too, clapping and cheering with the rest of the crowd. Walker’s teammates swarmed him, slapping him on the helmet and shouting praise.
Amid the chaos, Walker turned, scanning the crowd until our eyes locked through the glass. A brilliant smile spread across his face, vulnerable and boyish in its pure joy. My pulse stuttered, warmth spreading through my chest as I returned the smile, my heart tripping over itself like I was fifteen and hopelessly crushing again.
Connor nudged my shoulder, breaking the connection. “Yeah, totally just here for the hockey,” he teased, laughter dancing in his eyes.
