His expression hardened slightly, a mix of stubborn determination and guarded vulnerability flickering across his face. “Not my teammates for long,” he said firmly. Then, he lifted one hand, tapping two fingers against his temple in a casual but revealing gesture. “Fix what’s up here, and I’m gone. Back to where I belong.”
“And that is?”
“Back to the Vipers.”
The Vipers were hockey. The New York Vipers. Yep, that sounded like a thing. Sports and I were not a thing. I left that up to my brother with his jock genes, but I wasn’t born under a rock either, and I’d seen games. “Hockey is mostly fighting, right?” I provoked.
“Notallfighting, you know.”
“Well, I guess not, given you have to score touchdowns.” I was going for tongue-in-cheek, but he looked horrified.
“Goals,” he sputtered.
“And you have to get the bouncy ball through the teeny-tiny basket, right?”
He narrowed his gaze, and I couldn’t help but smile. After a moment, he returned the smile. “Yeah, yeah, we get the touchdowns in the baskets.”
“And fight,” I added with a nod.
“So much fighting,” he deadpanned. The lights changed, and we crossed over. For a second, he had his hand on my lower back, encouraging me to cross, looking out for God knows what hazards so he could—oh, I don’t know—swoop in. I stopped him with a hand on his arm when we reached the sidewalk.
“My name is Finn,” I said finally, and the admission felt strangely vulnerable, as though I’d handed him a secret instead of just my name.
“Finn,” he repeated, testing it out, lips quirking slightly at the corners. “Suits you.”
“Thanks,” I said awkwardly, then added, half-jokingly, half-seriously, “it’s not a big secret. Just not used to stepping into fight clubs disguised as art classes.”
He chuckled, a warm, low sound that made something pleasantly tighten in my chest. “I wish I could be sorry, but hockey players have too much testosterone, not enough sense.”
“Apparently,” I agreed, sneaking a sideways glance at him. Walker wasn’t just attractive in an ordinary way. He was attractive in a monumental, almost intimidating manner, like a mountain you’d admire from a distance but never imagine climbing. Broad shoulders that looked strong enough to support the weight of the world, eyes that held storms and secrets, and that casual strength that made it impossible not to notice him.
I shook off the distracting thoughts as we fell into a comfortable silence, entering Mabel’s Donut Shop. The others had already gathered at a table in the far corner. Arnaud was atthe counter, taking charge of ordering in French, accompanied by vigorous hand gestures toward the increasingly bewildered barista.
“Is it wise putting Arnaud in charge?”
“He’s extremely particular about his coffee,” Walker deadpanned, guiding me gently toward the table with that same maddeningly casual touch to my lower back. Warmth radiated from his palm, making me overly aware of his nearness. When we reached the table, Walker gave Bob a firm tap on the shoulder, leaning in slightly with effortless authority. “Go rescue the poor barista before Arnaud traumatizes them. Black coffee for me, and two of those glazed crullers—the big ones.”
I waited for Bob to lose his shit, expecting at least a grumble or a glare, but instead, he turned to me. “What you want, Teach?” Bob asked and glanced at the board and the somewhat frantic barista still struggling to interpret Arnaud’s enthusiastic and entirely French coffee order.
“I’ll have a vanilla latte and one of those maple-glazed crullers, please.”
I pulled out my wallet, but Walker stopped me. “Bob’s treat for losing his shit,” he said and glanced at Bob as if daring him to disagree.
“Yeah, ?course, Teach. My bad,” Bob said gruffly, his expression settling back into its usual irritated frown as he trudged over to Arnaud. He stood there, arms crossed defensively, grumbling quietly under his breath as Arnaud continued enthusiastically ordering coffee, oblivious to Bob’s increasingly grumpy demeanor.
I slid into the chair, and Walker sat beside me, making the space feel even smaller with his imposing presence. Taft settled quietly on my other side, his hands folded carefully in his lap, scanning the room with a guarded interest. He seemed cautious and reserved even in this relaxed setting as if he was constantlymeasuring his environment and calculating how much of himself it was safe to show. Despite his quiet demeanor, Taft’s intensity suggested he missed very little.
Watching him, I considered the art session earlier and what I’d learned so far, remembering each player’s canvas. Bob’s painting had been all sharp lines and dark, angry reds, mirroring his constant simmering irritation. Arnaud’s had been chaotic yet vibrant, full of impulsive energy much like the man himself. Chip hesitated at every brushstroke, his uncertainty clearly showing in his sparse details, as though he feared making a mistake would cost him dearly. Taft’s canvas had been precise, careful, and subtly expressive, each stroke purposeful yet restrained. The only artwork I hadn’t yet analyzed was Walker’s, but that would require more thought, and I wasn’t quite ready to unpack everything he stirred in me.
Now was the time for quiet, informal, non-specific discussions built gently upon our art session’s breakthroughs. But all my practiced opening lines vanished from my head because Walker’s closeness was almost overwhelming. He was like a magnetic field, pulling at my focus until all I could think about was how his knee accidentally brushed mine under the table and how ridiculously aware I was of every inch of him.
“Can I ask you a question, Mr. Carter?” Chip asked tentatively, his expression earnest but cautious.
“Finn,” I corrected gently, offering a reassuring smile. “Call me Finn.”
“Okay, Finn,” he said, visibly relaxing. “Do you paint yourself?”
“Of course he does not paint himself, Petit Chip,” Arnaud cut in with a playful, heavily accented tone, sliding smoothly into his seat and nudging Chip firmly into the corner. “If he did, we would all see the paint everywhere—hands, hair, clothes.” Hewaved dramatically, smiling broadly. “Mais peut-être, our Finn, he cleans up very nicely, non?”
