Glancing down at the front page of the sports section, I stared into haunted eyes. They grabbed and held me, as did the man’s face. Him. The young guy from the presentation. Jari, who was stupidly pretty. Full lips, thick hair, and those eyes. Yep, that was Jari. Lord, I’d not seen such despair in someone’s gaze since the darkness that had come to rest on Kirby’s shoulders when he was a young man. Dark days those had been. Dreams shattered, lives changed, relationships forever altered.
“Lankinen,” Bruno said, and sat back in his seat as if I should know the name. “JariLankinen.”
Lankinen. My knowledge of hockey was limited. I knew the basics, obviously, but rarely attended games, even though the rink was in the same mega-sports complex as the ball field.
“Just recently met him,” I confessed, using my index finger to trace over the uppercase J in his first name. “What’s his story?”
“He’s the son of a rotten bastard who slew-footed the greatest name in Harrisburg sports in several generations.”
A feminine shout from the kitchen rolled over the eatery, bringing Bruno to his feet as if he’d sat on a wasp.
“You read that article, then you’ll know. Railers are taking a big chance. You know how the fans in this town are. They don’t forget.”
His wife bellowed his name.
“Keep your damn shirt on, Bonnie! I’m talking to Cam Blackburn!”
I cannot repeat what his lady wife called out to him, but it made me blush. “Coming to the game tomorrow night? It’s pickleball paddle night for the first five thousand through the gates.”
“You’re starting, right?”
I nodded.
“Good, I don’t like the attitude of that young hothead from Alabama. I think he’s eying your spot as a starter.”
“Let him eye it all he wants. He’s fresh out of high school with less than a year in the minors. I doubt he could go longer than a few innings,” I bragged, wishing I believed the crap falling out of my mouth. I’d seen Jordon pitch. The kid was good. He was in line to replace me someday soon, but not this season, and hopefully not the next. “Now go before your wife lobs an apple muffin at your head like she did last week. I must read up about hockey.”
“Hell of a story that one. Poor kid got a shit deal for sure. I’m coming, woman! I’m having a positive interaction with a customer!” Bruno bellowed so loudly that the governor probably heard him in his office.
Smiling softly, I peeled the wrapper off my muffin and began reading about Jari Lankinen and what shit deal he had been dealt that had filled his eyes with such sadness.
THREE
Jari
I hadn’t chosen this—thiscity, this team, this chance. I’d been moved like a piece on a board again, packaged as potential and handed over because someone else thought it was time. Volunteered felt like the wrong word, but it was the one that stuck. No consent. No control. Just another place where I was expected to show up grateful, quiet, and valuable. And then there was Cam—unexpected, bright in a way I didn’t trust, kind without wanting anything back. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt myself pulled toward someone instead of bracing away. That scared the hell out of me. Wanting meant leverage and risk. And I’d already learned what happened when people figured out where I was soft.
My father knew exactly what he wanted and what I’d do to keep my mom happy—or at least not scared. MS wasn’t dramatic most days. It was quiet exhaustion, numb fingers, a body betraying her in small, relentless ways. He paid for the kind of care that smoothed those edges, then used it to keep me heading in the direction he wanted. I skated. I signed. I stayed silent. And he called it support. As long as I played, she was comfortable. If I complied, she was safe. That wasn’t care. That was ownership.
I couldn’t let myself be attracted to anyone or expose my secrets to anyone. Attraction made people curious. Curiosity led to questions. Questions led to attention I couldn’t afford. My life was known in fragments for a reason. My mom was my focus—her comfort, her stability, the careful balance that kept her days predictable and her nights quiet. Everything else was noise. Everything else was a risk.
And now, focus on hockey!
I hit the ice on the last day of evaluation before the roster was set, already bracing for impact—not physical, I was used to that, but the kind that lived in my head, the one where every mistake confirmed what half the league whispered about me. Rejection. I'd made it this far, and I knew I was good, but even I could see it was between Jonas Keller and me. He was a kid who barely looked old enough to drive, and we were hustling for a position on the fourth line. He was eighteen. Fast, fearless, stupid in the way only someone who hasn’t lived enough to be afraid can be.
Me? I was fast too, but fear lived in my bones, and I'd learned to use it to my advantage, deal with it, overcome it. I calculated everything automatically. Ice time meant leverage. Leverage meant money. Money meant the private wing in Finland stayed quiet and clean and staffed by people who spoke gently to my mother instead of over her.
Every stride was a negotiation with my father, and I never stopped losing.
The first drill started with breakout patterns, no hesitation. I caught the first pass cleanly and sent it back with good weight. Carts barked, “Nice, Jari!”
That shouldn’t have thrown me, but it did. Someone on the freaking Railers had passed to me.Intentionally. Someone wanted the puck to start with me.
Then it happened again—another pass, this one from an unexpected source. Keller, the kid fighting me for the sameroster spot, snapped the puck across the zone without even glancing up, as if heknewI’d be there. Pure instinctive trust. I caught it clean on my tape, the weight perfect, and drove hard toward the slot. Frosty stepped up to challenge me, stick angled to take away the shooting lane, but something in me—muscle memory, panic, desperation—made me fake the shot and thread a pass between his skates right onto Noah’s stick. He didn’t score, but he got a damn good chance, and for a heartbeat the whole bench reacted. A couple of sticks tapped the boards. Even Trick let out a surprised laugh.
And me? I stood there shocked that Keller trusted me enough to dish me the puck in the first place, that I’d made the right read under pressure, that—I don’t know—it feltgood.
The ice was different under my skates, almost unsteady, because being included wasn’t something my body knew how to absorb. I fed a puck to Trick on the rush, and he tapped his stick against mine when he circled back, quick and subtle. A compliment. From Trick-the-superstar.
