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Finn

There’s something exhilarating about knowing you’re taking your life in your hands.

Of course, this skydiving company is the highest-rated one in the Burlington area. Penny thoroughly scoured the pilot’s credentials and looked for any sign that the operation might not be legitimate. I’ve spoken to several people in the area who used this company and found it pleasant and secure.

But just because they have all the qualifications and safety certificates doesn’t mean that this isn’t a risk. Anything could happen, I think, staring out the window on the side of the plane, eyes roaming over the landscape. Something could combust in the engine, a propeller could go out. Rather than scaring me though—like they probably should—those thoughts fill me with a buoyant sort of joy, like I’m alight with the knowledge of being alive and enjoying this moment.

Sammy is not faring as well.

“But what happens if the back-up doesn’t work?” I can hear him shouting, his voice coming out loud and staticky through my headphones. I’m strapped into the seat, but I swivel it around to look at him.

Sammy is strapped to the instructor, Leila, who has the parachutes on her back. Air rockets through the cabin, ruffling my ponytail. Leila has the right idea with her hair in a braid.

Sammy’s hands are tight on the harness, and he has his eyes carefully turned away from the sight below. I’ve used skydiving before as an exercise for athletes who needed to work on this type of attitude change, and while they’ve all been afraid, nobody has looked quite as green as Sammy Braun.

From our vantage point, we can see the wide, flat landing area below us, but also the rest of Burlington. Burlington City Hall, Church Street Marketplace and St. Francis. Xavier Cathedral. Burlington Bay pushing up against the city, the water brilliantly reflecting the sky back at us. From this height, we can’t see the people who are surely walking along the streets, heading for the farmers market or work.

And Sammy can’t even glance out of the plane.

“The likelihood of that is so small, we won’t even worry ourselves with it,” Leila says, her voice calm and endlessly professional. I’m the one who set this whole thing up, but my eyes can’t stop tracking to the many points at which Sammy and Leila’s bodies are pressed together, her chest against his back, her arms behind him, touching his harness.

I watch her lean close and whisper low, something I assume is calming, into Sammy’s ear.

“You can do this, Sammy,” I say, raising my voice to be heard through the wind and static. He looks over, his eyes meeting mine, and I notice his jaw ticking, his face tight. It surprises me.

I haven’t known him for very long, but I’ve never seen Sammy Braun look like this. The easy-going demeanor is gone.

“Approaching the drop zone!” Gerald says, his voice incredibly chipper from beside me.

“Alright, let’s ready ourselves for the jump,” Leila says, but Sammy is already shaking his head.

“I can’t,” he says, voice tight. His eyes skip away from mine, briefly land somewhere in the distance, then return to the floor of the plane. “I can’t .”

“Be bold, Sammy!” I shout, heart picking up pace. This is the precipice, and I love watching athletes cross over it. He’ll push back against the tension, do the jump, and arrive on the other side with a new mental state. With a new approach.

A smug smile is stretching over my face—this might very well be the fastest I’ve ever turned someone over. I could be heading home within the span of a few weeks, adding Sammy Braun to my list of success stories and tucking back into the comfortable little bubble I’ve carved out for myself in California.

“Bend your knees,” Leila says. “Relax.”

“No,” Sammy says, shaking his head, his body rocking away from the opening. Leila allows him to take a step away, and I want to scream at her to stand firm, not to let him move backwards.

“That’s okay,” Gerald says, “we can re-approach!”

“No,” Sammy says, voice loud and firm, final. “I’m not jumping.”

“Sammy—”

“We can’t make him jump,” Leila says, her gaze on me, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I know we can’t make him jump, but it’s my job to encourage him. To convince him that jumping is the right choice. To get him to the point that he faces his fears, rather than running from them.

“I’ll go in for the landing,” Gerald says, nodding once then reaching for a few dozen switches. The plane responds, and I can already feel it starting to descend. Internally, I’m cursing, but I try to stay as professional as possible on the outside.

“Another time,” I say. When Sammy doesn’t meet my eyes, I get the feeling that he’s not interested in trying again, ever.

***

“Sammy!” I’m calling his name—and stalking after him—in the large gravel parking lot outside the shack. Leila and Gerald were kind but awkward as we filled out more paperwork and I paid for the jump that didn’t happen.

Sammy stood, silent and sulking, at the back of the shop, and I had to contain my rage when he turned and pushed out the doors, not waiting for me to catch up. When I got outside, I had to call to ask the driver to return an hour early.

“Wait!” I call again, anger bubbling through me. I will not run after this man, or any man, for that matter. Finally, he turns, his broad chest facing me, his arms crossing over it. When he stares down at me, something lights up in my stomach. A twinge of adrenaline. A reaction to this challenge.

“What?” he asks, voice low and venomous. “Are you going to call me a coward?”

“No.” I suck in a breath through my teeth and cross my arms too. It’s not professional, but I suddenly feel vulnerable, standing here in front of him like this. The bright sunshine beats down on us from above, and I shift, the heat of it making sweat bead on my forehead.

“I just think we should reschedule,” I continue. “Work through what kept you from taking the leap, then try to get back up there—”

“Oh, hell no,” he says, and when I meet his eyes, there’s a strange expression on his face. Like surprise at himself coupled anger coupled with fear. “I’m not going back up there.”

“It’s important, Sam—”

“ Why ? Why is it important?”

“I told you. We need to work on your boldness.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well, you’d know if you’d gotten over it and taken the leap!”

“I just don’t see what the hell jumping out of a plane has to do with hockey. What, so I can break my legs and end up like Brett?”

“Breaking your legs wouldn’t be ideal,” I admit. “But would you really hate ending up like Brett? Being one of the highest paid and most successful players in the league? Being something more than an average goalie, in and out of the league without a reason for anyone to remember his name?”

Sammy’s jaw ticks, his nostrils flaring.

I realize I’m breathing hard, and a shock rolls through my body. I’ve never acted like this with a client before, never so much as raised my voice, let alone gone back and forth like this.

“I’m not jumping out of a fucking plane,” Sammy says, his voice chilling. I stare at him, slightly thrilled by this change. So he does have a mode other than easy-going. “That’s the end of the discussion.”

“Cute that you think you get to make those decisions,” I counter, a smirk spreading over my face. “But I’m the coach. And it’s clear from your resistance that this is exactly what you need.”

“I’d resist a lobotomy too. Doesn’t mean it’s helpful.”

I have to resist the urge to laugh at that. Clearing my throat, I look up to the beautiful Vermont summer sky for a moment, sucking in a breath through my nose.

“Sammy,” I say, my voice nearly trembling with restraint. “Listening to me would be wise. I have the track record to prove that my methods work.”

“Maybe they work for other people. But not me.”

“Listen,” I snap, running a hand over my hair, my fingers stopping when they reach the base of my slick ponytail. “I’m not going to force you into this. In fact, I’m not going to waste my time forcing you to do anything. Other athletes would be jumping at the chance to work with me. If you’re not going to take this seriously, then I’m done.”

To my surprise, something like disappointment flickers over his face, then he sighs and looks down at the ground, his hand coming to the back of his neck.

“Fine,” he says, voice low.

“Fine?”

“Yeah, fine,” he lifts his eyes to mine. “Maybe that would be for the best, then.”

I clench my jaw to keep my mouth from falling open. Is he giving up on this? His expression is nearly impossible to read, but I try anyway, my eyes skipping over his features and trying to discern the pinch of his brow, the way his lips are turning down at the corners.

“Maybe that would be for the best?”

“Yeah.” His voice is lower now, near gravelly. Defeated. “I don’t want to waste your time. You should go find someone else and help them be great. Maybe the simple truth is just that some people have it, and some people don’t. I’m playing in the NHL—for most people, that would be enough. It should be enough. Make my money, retire, live comfortably. That’s what I should do.”

Now my mouth does drop open. This sounds nothing like the man I’ve seen in interview after interview. Nothing like the person I saw ultra-determined. Nothing like the player Grey told me was on the rink before everyone else, practicing doggedly to improve.

Why would he give it all up now? When I’m here? When he finally has a chance to break through and put all that practicing to good use?

I open my mouth to say something—what, I’m not sure—but at that moment, two cars pull into the lot. The first is my car and driver, and the second is an older sports car, a Trans Am. I shield my eyes and stare at it, realizing too late who’s in the driver’s seat.

“Hey, man,” Brett Ratcliff says, pulling up to us and rolling the passenger window down to speak to Sammy. Brett’s hulking body is almost comical in the front seat, and Sammy looks even funnier as he tries to fold himself into the passenger side. Brett’s eyes flick from Sammy to me, then back to his friend.

Quieter, he says, “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Sammy mutters gruffly, avoiding my eyes. “Just needed a ride.”

“You needed a ride?” I ask, eyebrows raised, realizing he probably called Brett after he took off from the skydiving office earlier. Anger and annoyance flair in me as Sammy finally gets the door shut and clicks his seatbelt into place, his knees jamming into the dash.

“We’re all good, Finn,” Sammy says, not meeting my eyes. “Thanks for all your help.” Then, to Brett, “Alright man, let’s go.”

Brett glances at me once more, something like an apologetic smile on his face, before he waves and shifts the car into gear, then drives slowly out of the parking lot, the car kicking up little to no dust in its wake.

When I climb into the backseat of the sleek town car Sammy and I rode here in, I battle through my emotions, wrestling with anger, indignation, and the strange, bitter sense of failure.

Nothing like this has ever happened, and despite knowing that Sammy has to be willing, I can’t help the feeling that I could have done something differently, that I should have chosen a different approach or found another way to convince him to trust me.

As the car pulls out of the gravel, kicking up a huge plume of dust as we go, I pick up my phone and dial Penny.

“Hey,” I say, swallowing and looking out the window, watching as the airfield grows smaller as we twist and turn away from it and back toward Burlington. “Book us the first flight out of Burlington, and send the bill to the Vermont Vipers.”