Page 2

Chapter 2

Finn couldn’t breathe.

He’d learned to live like this most of the time. The inescapable pressure digging into him, not just with its weight but with claws . Some days were worse than others. And today was a bad day.

His dad’s words, sent innocuously over text, were a litany in his head, over and over, undeniable and unacceptable.

You’re lucky you have such a great offense behind you.

You’re lucky you have such a great offense behind you.

You’re lucky you have such a great offense behind you.

Morgan Reynolds didn’t have to say the rest. Finn could hear it, even louder and even clearer.

You’re lucky they’re fucking bailing you out, because you can’t do it on your own .

Would it have been easier to not follow in his dad’s footsteps?

No question.

But in a sweetly painful twist, Finn actually loved playing hockey. Wanted to play hockey, not just to make his dad happy or proud, neither of which he thought he’d actually done.

At first, coaches had always wanted to put him in his dad’s center position, but he’d had no feel for it. Then they’d decided to try him on defense, until one day in his early teens, when he’d stayed late at the rink, helping a friend out who was perfecting a specifically angled shot.

His dad had come to pick him up—one of the few times he’d actually been present in Finn’s life, ironically—and the next day, he’d marched right over to the coach and told him that if he didn’t put Finn in the goal, he was stupider than Morgan thought he was.

Finn had become a goalie that day.

The joy he’d experienced finding his right place on the ice had been short-lived, and sometimes Finn felt like he was chasing it every single day, every single practice, every single game.

He strode back and forth in front of the bar, wishing he was anywhere else. But he’d learned well enough that there wasn’t a place to run that was far enough.

He’d come all the way across the country, because just going to college hadn’t been enough difference from his dad’s career trajectory. He’d needed to be even farther away. Three thousand fucking miles away.

But what was three thousand miles when a text could cross that distance as easy as breathing?

Breathing, ha .

The expectations settled over him, inescapable and pressing into him, making even taking a deep breath impossible.

Someday, his father liked to say, karma always comes round.

He’d always worried that all this shit, the baggage he carried around because he couldn’t figure out how to set it down, would make it impossible for him to keep playing as well as he knew he could.

That day was here.

Every game he started, Finn felt like a ticking time bomb.

One day, he’d go off.

One day soon.

“Hey, what’s going on? Everything okay?”

Finn turned and was both surprised—and not surprised—to see that Elliott had followed him.

Surprised because Elliott should be inside, enjoying his new boyfriend, Mal. It had only been a few weeks since the fundraiser, but they’d seemingly settled into the honeymoon phase.

Not surprised because if anyone had an inkling of how he felt, it was probably Elliott.

Elliott would probably be drafted in the first round. He was one of the most promising talents in years. And yet he carried that pressure like he was built to do it, never letting it faze him, whereas all it did was push Finn farther and farther into the ground, bogging him down until it felt like he could barely catch his breath and barely move his feet forward.

It was unfair, but Finn loved Elliott and couldn’t blame him for it.

“No,” Finn said shortly. He didn’t need to go into details, at least with Elliott. He’d know exactly what was wrong.

“What happened?” Elliott put a hand on his shoulder, worry creasing his handsome face.

Finn both wanted to tell him and not tell him at the same time. Ell would understand, and that would soothe some of the ache. But then Ell would also know the depth of his humiliation.

“Dad saw the score from last night and just texted.”

“What did he say?” Elliott asked, frowning.

Finn could tell him, it turned out, but he couldn’t quite look him in the eye when he did it. He stared instead at his sneakers, at a fraying shoelace. “Oh, just a comment about how lucky I am that I have such a great offense behind me, ready to bail me out every time.”

“Is that really what he said?” Elliott sounded skeptical, and okay, that was worse. Now they thought he was all overreacting. That he was a goddamn drama queen and a goddamn mess.

Finn pulled his phone out of his pocket. Let Elliott see it right there, in undeniable black and white.

“Finn,” Elliott said kindly, after he handed the phone back, “you gotta stop letting him matter.”

Finn didn’t know how to even begin to do that. Probably because to everyone else on earth, every other single person in the hockey community, Morgan Reynolds was a goddamn god.

He mattered .

How was Finn supposed to fight that inevitability?

Anger surged through him—at himself, and at fate, more than Elliott, but unfortunately for Elliott he was going to have to bear the brunt of it.

“Oh? That’s all I should do? Just tell myself he doesn’t matter? That Morgan Reynolds doesn’t matter? And I’ll be alright? God, why didn’t I think of that before?”

Elliott looked appropriately guilty, at least. “I know it’s not easy.”

But Elliott’s expression didn’t assuage Finn’s anger. Especially when the knowledge, lodged hard and inescapable in his breastbone, told him that Elliott had been there and he’d gotten everything he’d wanted, in the end.

It had never been fair, but the gulf between fair and unfair had never felt as wide as it did right now.

“Damn straight it’s not easy. What if someone had told you to just leave Mal alone? Would you have? Oh wait, I know you wouldn’t have, because we all said it. We all told you to stop harassing him, but you didn’t. You kept at him. Because you wanted him and you weren’t willing to settle for less.”

I wish I could settle for less.

Do something else.

But Finn couldn’t. Ice was in his Reynolds blood, as much as he wished it wasn’t. He’d fight for every inch, even though maybe he should’ve given up.

“I might’ve settled,” Elliott protested, but they both knew the truth.

He’d never have given Mal up.

Just the way Finn refused to give up on his hockey dream.

It was why he’d gone completely insane and asked Jacob Braun to coach him.

Jacob was at the top of a very, very short list of people who’d never let Morgan get to him. And Finn had wondered— hoped— that he might be willing to impart some wisdom to Finn about how to accomplish that, along with making him a better goalie.

But Jacob had turned him down flat, like it was nothing, like he didn’t matter, just like his father did, sometimes.

Finn’s blood boiled, just thinking of it.

“You did what it took to get his attention,” Finn said. He began to pace. Thinking, maybe, of something he shouldn’t be thinking of. “It was a little insane, and we all knew it. You even knew it, but you did it anyway. And it fucking worked.”

Throwing the Hail Mary was not supposed to work.

But sometimes it did.

Which was why football teams, down at the end of a game, always tried it.

“What are you thinking of doing, Finn?” Elliott asked suspiciously.

“Nothing,” Finn said. Lied .

Because he was thinking of pulling his own Elliott. His own Hail Mary.

“Don’t do something stupid or insane because I did and it worked,” Elliott warned.

“You still don’t have a fucking leg to stand on here,” Finn reminded him.

Nobody was going to talk him out of this.

Jacob didn’t want to give him the time of day? Jacob didn’t want to coach him?

He was going to make saying no impossible .

He was Morgan Reynolds’ son; he’d cut his teeth on impossible.

“I know,” Elliott said, “but there was every chance it wouldn’t work. It still might not. We might end up on separate coasts, doing this whole long-distance thing.”

Finn rolled his eyes. “And you’ll still be in love.”

“Well, yeah,” Elliott said. At least he seemed to be aware of how fucking weak his argument was.

“Exactly. Are you really going to stand here and tell me not to fight like hell for what I want? What I deserve ?”

Elliott finally nodded. “Yeah. I mean . . . yeah . It’s true. You want something? Don’t let anything stop you.”

If Elliott knew what he was planning, he’d definitely stop him. But that was the beauty of Elliott not knowing.

“Or anybody,” Finn said with satisfaction. “I’m glad for you and Mal, I am. But I gotta go, okay? Tell Ramsey I’ll see him tomorrow, at practice.”

“Are you sure—” Elliott made one last-ditch attempt.

It was pointless. He probably knew it. But Finn loved him for the attempt, even as he easily brushed him off.

“Seriously. I’ll be fine.” I’ll be fine, now . “Go inside. Enjoy your boyfriend.”

He took off down the street, pulling his phone out again. Jacob lived somewhere near here. It shouldn’t be that hard to find the address or to get someone to give it to him.

Finn had a lot of connections because of his last name, but it still took hours more than he’d thought it would. The passing time didn’t do anything but solidify his determination and make him intent and focused on getting exactly what he wanted.

Elliott got Malcolm into his bed, finally?

Well, Finn was going to get Jacob to teach him exactly how to pretend Morgan Reynolds didn’t exist.

How to let his opinions slip right through him, like phantom smoke.

By the time he got the address, he was so keyed up his fingers were trembling and he gripped the steering wheel of his SUV hard as he drove up the private road to Jacob Braun’s house.

It was big, bigger than he’d expected and set back behind a wall of trees, another forest stretching out behind it.

Isolated, that was what Finn thought when he saw it.

If Jacob could be an island, then Finn could find a way to be one too.

Finn parked and jumped out. He could hear the faint strains of music—some kind of seventies rock, he thought—echoing between the trees, so he knew someone had to be home.

Still, he was surprised when he pounded on the big wooden slab doors and nobody came to open them.

He knocked again, louder this time.

Nothing.

But Finn hadn’t come all this way to strike out.

He slipped around the side of the house, laughed at the fancy wrought iron gate, and climbed it easily, falling to his feet on the other side.

There were lights down the winding path, and the roof of a gazebo just peeking out from between the trees.

Finn let his determination power him down to where he’d find Jacob—and hopefully a future where he could actually fucking breathe.

Nothing was going to stop him now.

Jacob hated meetings about his career—or his non -career, he supposed he could call it now—and so when his agent and his PR rep wanted one, he did everything to make it as palatable as he could.

Andina was one of his favorite restaurants and had a nice private room he could call up and reserve. So instead of suffering through this hell on Zoom or even in a conference room, at least Jacob was doing it over a glass of heavenly wine and the best lamb shank he’d ever put in his mouth.

“At least when you make us fly in,” Sophie said wryly, “you feed us well.”

“It’s only because he hates these,” Mark said, shooting Jacob a knowing glance.

“ He also prefers it when you don’t talk about him in third person when he’s right fucking here,” Jacob retorted without heat.

“I know, darling, but it’s the truth,” Sophie said, her smile kind.

Jacob took a long sip of wine. “Complaining about coming to Portland or complimenting me on my restaurant choice doesn’t tell me where we’re at with the foundation.”

Early on in their therapy sessions, Moira had identified that he was specifically struggling with having too much time. Not having any purpose, now that his career had ended. They’d talked about a lot of options. Coaching—which he wasn’t against , but didn’t feel ready for. Jacob ignored the pulse of guilt fluttering through him at how he’d turned Finn down. It had been almost two weeks ago now, but instead of moving on, he was still thinking about it. Wondering how he could’ve done it.

Wondering if he might’ve been able to banish those shadows from Finn’s beautiful eyes. Wondering if he could’ve gotten Finn to stop worrying so much and just play .

But that ship had sailed and wasn’t coming back, if Finn’s angry expression and Reynolds blood was any indication. Morgan had never let a single fucking thing go, ever. Every shot Jacob had blocked, Morgan had blamed him for, forever.

Coaching, that wasn’t for him. Not now.

Maybe someday.

Of course he’d probably never get an opportunity to help Finn get his head screwed on straight, because by the time Jacob got his shit in order, it would be too late.

Finn would be . . .well, whatever it would be.

Coaching had been out. The next suggestion Moira had was founding or volunteering for a charity, and she’d let that thought linger, without other distractions, for a few weeks, letting Jacob really consider the possibility. And he’d decided he liked that idea. Of giving back. Especially giving back to kids who didn’t have anyone else to believe in them.

“I’m still going through resumes for the director,” Sophie said.

Jacob frowned. “I thought we’d narrowed it down to five possibilities.” He’d sent in his top five candidates after reviewing the resumes Sophie had forwarded him.

“Yes. Sorry. I got some new advice from that non-profit course I’m taking,” Sophie said, not sounding very sorry at all. “It made me want to take a different approach to the process.”

Jacob told himself not to get pissed. But it was six months since he’d brought Sophie and Mark this idea, and this was as far as they’d gotten. Looking at resumes to hire someone to help get his foundation off the ground.

“And,” Sophie added, more gently this time, reaching for his hand and patting it, “we still haven’t discussed how you want to handle the inevitable questions.”

“Yes, we did,” Jacob said. Okay, Sophie was technically right. They hadn’t discussed it. When Sophie had asked him, he’d only said, tell them the goddamned truth and then move the fuck on.

Frustratingly, she did not think this was a very good strategy to come out of the closet. Even worse, Jacob was beginning to wonder if she might be right.

“You told me to just drop the unvarnished truth. Say, yes , Jacob Braun is gay. And then leave it at that.” Sophie shot him a look, the meaning of which he understood perfectly. Maybe it’s true, but it’s also bullshit, and it’s not going to work, and you know it, too.

“I did.” Jacob internally winced. He’d said that on a particularly bad day, a few months back, and unsurprisingly, Sophie had made sure they didn’t revisit the conversation until now. Until he was a glass and a half of superb wine into dinner.

“You’ve said more than once retiring from hockey was a blessing and a curse. So let’s focus on the blessing. You can come out, now,” Mark said soothingly.

“Right.” Jacob stared at his wineglass. He didn’t think it was full enough to be having this conversation.

“So, yes, we need to talk about the process of you coming out, that’s what we have to tackle before we do anything ,” Sophie said firmly.

“Does there really have to be a process?” Jacob questioned. “Don’t the kids today just live their lives?”

Sophie made a face and took a long drink of her wine, so he guessed not. Or that much easier version of upcoming events wasn’t in the cards for him. “Yes and no,” she said. “Kids, yes. Not guys who spent their whole career closeted.”

“I never had a beard. I never faked it with a woman,” Jacob said. He’d never been willing to go there. Even to dispel the rumors that had, yes , followed him. Which was why he didn’t understand why they couldn’t just confirm them.

“No, you didn’t,” Mark agreed. Though Mark had half-heartedly suggested it once or twice or ten times. Every time those rumors cropped up. Clearly his agent hadn’t liked the idea any more than Jacob had, because while he had mentioned it, he’d never pushed Jacob to do it.

“Then why can’t we just say, yep, everyone was right about me? I don’t want it to be some big deal.”

“Jacob, it is a big deal,” Sophie said gently.

“Only to me,” Jacob argued. “To everyone else, it shouldn’t even matter. Besides, who cares if I start a LGBTQ charitable foundation? Does that have to mean I’m queer? Those kids need support too. More support, in fact.”

“I know, but Jacob, there’s going to be questions. And if you don’t establish this upfront, the questions might overtake the whole point of the foundation. And I know you don’t want that. You want the foundation and its cause front and center, not your own sexuality.” Sophie’s expression was empathetic. She was absolutely cutthroat and killer at her job, but with an unexpectedly soft heart she didn’t show to just anyone. But she’d shown it to Jacob early on, and they’d always gotten along as a result.

“Fine, fine ,” Jacob agreed. “We’ll do it your way. But only because I’m not doing this to bring even more attention to myself.”

“God forbid,” Sophie said, her tone dry and affectionate.

“Told you he’d see reason,” Mark said.

“ He is still right here,” Jacob retorted. “And he is willing only because he wants to actually help the kids.”

Sophie chuckled. “We’ll make it painless.”

“Relatively,” Mark added.

Approval received, Sophie and Mark let Jacob sit back and drink his wine as they argued over which way they were going to turn his life upside down.

Mark was right; he’d seen this as one of the major advantages of retiring. Of course he’d also had this ridiculous dream that he could just live and stop hiding and that would be good enough.

He should’ve known better that Sophie—and Mark—would want it to be more than that.

“I don’t want to give an interview. I don’t want to go on TV. I definitely don’t want to do a series of TikToks,” Jacob interrupted after they’d gotten so far in the weeds he was actually physically uncomfortable, shifting in his seat.

“But social media—”

“Isn’t for me. Which is why I hired you to begin with,” Jacob finished for her.

Sophie made a face. “Okay. We’ll go back to the drawing board. Figure out some new, less invasive ideas, and send them over.”

He nodded. “And while you’re at it, send me the new resumes. I want to pick a director while you’re working on the coming out plan.”

Sophie didn’t look particularly pleased about this, but it was Mark who spoke up. “You sure that’s the best use of your time?”

“Use of time? All I have is time. You asked me to start reaching out to old friends and teammates about support and I did that. They’re ready to donate. But they can’t do it if there’s no actual foundation.” Frustration leaked into his voice and he didn’t hold back. “We need to get this going.”

“We will, we really will. I promise you that we will,” Sophie assured him, reaching out and gripping his hand.

“What about Morgan Reynolds?” Mark asked.

Jacob wasn’t proud of how he froze. Hoped that both of them would incorrectly attribute his deer-in-the-headlights expression to their years-long feud, not the fact that he’d just had a run-in with Finn.

“Oh, Mark, we keep talking about this,” Sophie complained, shooting the guy a long-suffering look.

“I know, but think of the publicity it’d generate—Jacob’s old enemy, supporting him now that they’re both retired. Plus, it’d be great PR for Morgan too, with his son being gay.”

Jacob had known that was true. It had been right there in the back of his mind during their whole conversation, and afterwards, too. When he’d jerked off in the shower two days after their run-in, and he’d had to actively not think about what Finn might feel like under his hands and his tongue and wrapped around his dick.

Regardless, he’d been trying to pretend that it wasn’t a factor. That it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.

Liar .

What he needed to do was find a hookup, or even better, find a guy he actually liked , and with whatever new plan Sophie came up with, maybe now he wouldn’t scare him off with how deep in the fucking closet he was.

Regular sex might cure him of this sudden Finn affliction before it could get even more out of hand.

“You’re not contacting Morgan,” Jacob said firmly, “and I’m definitely not contacting Morgan.”

“Oh come on, that’s water long passed under the bridge,” Mark said.

Jacob might’ve agreed, but Morgan had gotten more pissed at him the longer they played against each other, not less. He supposed that when you were chasing legacy and statistics and records, anyone standing in your way was an enemy to be defeated.

But Jacob had never been willing to just go down.

Especially if his spot in the history books was at risk.

“No, it’s not, at all. If you’d seen their last run-in—where was it, Jacob?”

“Last All Star game.”

Sophie shot Mark a triumphant look. “Even Jacob got pissed. Jacob was playing but Morgan was there as what . . .an analyst? A special guest? Anyway, they ran into each other and . . . well , I’m glad I was there. That’s all I’ll say about that.”

“Morgan got pissed first,” Jacob muttered sullenly. He wasn’t particularly proud of how Morgan tended to bring out the worst in him.

Kinda like his son, just in a totally different way.

“Morgan always got pissed first,” Mark pointed out.

Specifically not saying how Jacob hadn’t had to rise to the bait. The truth was, he usually hadn’t, but he’d been in low levels of pain with his hip that night, and thinking that this might really be it, and when Morgan had started running his mouth like he liked to do . . .well, was it any surprise he’d lost his shit?

“All I’m saying is that it was a bad idea to put them in the same room back then, and nothing’s changed. Doesn’t matter if his son’s gay.”

“He didn’t—he doesn’t—” Jacob could barely get the question out, even as he knew it wasn’t something he should be asking.

He doesn’t think less of Finn because he’s gay?

Despite popular opinion, he’d never been that eager to kick Morgan Reynolds’ ass, but he would— in fact he’d barely manage to hold himself back—if Morgan was shitty to Finn about his sexuality.

“Not that I’ve heard,” Sophie said, hearing the question he hadn’t quite been able to get out. “Finn’s here though, isn’t he? In Portland?”

If Sophie hadn’t heard anything then there was nothing to hear. Her ears picked up goddamn everything. It was a blessing and a curse.

“Sophie,” Jacob warned. He wanted her on his side on this. Not deciding that Mark was right about this after all.

“Yes,” Mark said, “which is why this is a golden opportunity.”

“Maybe Morgan’s mellowed.” Sophie directed this mostly to Jacob, who just rolled his eyes.

“He’s Morgan Reynolds. He doesn’t know how to mellow,” Jacob argued. “We’re not calling him. End of story.”

“What about the son? What’s his name? Finn?” Sophie asked.

“We’re not calling him either.” Jacob finished his wine, hoping that he’d sounded certain enough that the next time they met, Sophie wouldn’t show up with a surprise Finn Reynolds.

“Oh come on, he doesn’t hate you,” Mark complained.

No. Which is the whole fucking problem.

If Sophie or Mark decided to drag Finn into this goddamn mess, he’d probably want something in return—like private coaching—and Jacob was not only not doing that, he was absolutely not doing that with Finn.

“Jacob—” Sophie started to cajole, and even worse he knew that tone in her voice. She always deployed it when she thought she might have a chance in hell of convincing him to change his mind.

“No,” Jacob interrupted before she could get going. “No. We’re not doing this with either Reynolds. We are, however, doing this with a director that we’re at least going to be partway to hiring by the time we meet in a few weeks.”

“Fine,” Sophie said, setting her napkin on the table. “If you’re decided.”

“I’m decided,” Jacob said firmly.

Half an hour later they were going their separate ways—Sophie and Mark to the hotel they were staying in only a few blocks away from the restaurant, and Jacob in his car, heading to his home far up in the West Hills.

He’d had high hopes for this meeting. He’d thought they were getting closer, way closer than they actually were, and as he parked in the garage, lifting himself out of the low-slung Audi, he found his frustration boiling over.

Huffing under his breath, Jacob strode into the house trying to calm himself. But it didn’t work. It didn’t always work.

Forcing himself to take a breath, then another, he leaned across the long marble slab that was his kitchen island and mentally ran down the list he and Moira had compiled early on.

Things he enjoyed. Things that relaxed him. Things that kept him focused, but not on his frustration.

Slightly calmer, and with a plan—he was always better with a plan—he walked over to the enormous wine rack that spanned one side of the living room. He’d bought this house two years before retirement, already knowing he’d want some place that he could carve out for just him. The open floor plan had appealed to him after spending so many years on the road, crammed into tiny hotel room boxes.

But the open floor plan had had another benefit, which was he’d gotten a metal artist to design and create scaffolding across one wall that displayed a portion of his wine collection.

Pulling out a bottle here or there, he finally found what he was looking for and grabbed a corkscrew, opening the wine in a few easy, experienced twists. Bypassing his normal glasses, he picked a cheaper stemless option from the cabinet and headed out the back door.

Another benefit of this house had been the extensive property behind it, leading up to an enforced forest preserve, which meant he would never lose the privacy buffer—or the peace and quiet—of the woods.

He’d built the meandering path down to the clearing himself, but he’d had the hot tub brought in and the gazebo put up by others. The sound system had been wired last year, when he’d discovered that sometimes he liked the quiet, but other times, music was a nice change of a pace. A reminder that he wasn’t alone in the world, the way it felt sometimes.

Today he wanted the music, to tune out the noise in his own fucking head. He picked a station he liked on his phone and Stevie Nicks’ soothing voice echoed through the otherwise silent woods.

He deposited the bottle and the glass down on the railing and pulled the lid off the hot tub, checking the settings to make sure they were exactly as he liked them.

The first few times he’d felt too vulnerable getting in naked, but the whole point of the setup was to be alone, and now he felt comfortable in the bubble of privacy he’d created. So he shed his clothes right there. Shoes and socks, then his pants, buttons coming apart and his shirt opening as he let every item of clothing fall to the wood deck.

He poured himself a glass of wine and, setting it on the side of the tub, slipped in. Tilted his head back and let contentment finally take him over.

Fucking bliss.