11. Finn

Finn

“Ladies and gentlemen!” The conductor’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, and I watch Sammy carefully. He still has his face turned to the window, and his fingers are in a vice grip on the arm rests.

The view around us is breath-taking. At first, when we started up the side of the mountain, there was so much lush greenery it felt like we were trudging through a jungle. But now, with nothing but the occasional scrappy tree clinging to the mountain slope, the views are wide open.

Here, at the top of the mountain, we can look out and see all of Vermont. Sammy looks green.

“Welcome to the summit of Mount Mansfield, the highest point in our great state of Vermont. Whether you’re a native Vermonter or coming from somewhere else, it’s worth it to take a look around.”

Sammy clears his throat and shifts in his seat, his gaze dragging along the wall behind me before finally connecting with my eyes. I try to give him a reassuring smile.

I can’t connect to this feeling he’s having. I’ve never been afraid of anything in my life.

Penny’s voice pops into my head: You’re afraid of getting too close to people, Finn.

I push that away, arguing internally—I’ve never been afraid of something tangible . And besides, there’s a huge difference in being afraid of something and choosing to avoid that thing out of logical necessity. I’m not afraid of the bubonic plague, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be rolling around in it, either.

“Right now,” the conductor continues, “you’re about to exit onto what some call the ‘head’ of the mountain. From the east, the top of this mountain somewhat resembles a human face, looking toward the sky.”

I realize, with a start, that I’m still staring at Sammy, who has a pink blush over his cheeks. Blinking and quickly looking away, I try to ignore the way my heart skips in my chest.

“The current temperature at the summit is forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, about fifteen degrees cooler than at the base, so you'll want to grab those jackets we recommended. The observation deck offers a stunning 360-degree view of the Green Mountains, and on a clear day like today, you can see all the way to New Hampshire's White Mountains to the east, New York's Adirondacks to the west, and even catch a glimpse of Mount Royal in Montreal to the north.”

Before I can start to over think it, I stand, brushing out my skirt and shrugging on my soft wool coat. Sammy stands too, and our arms brush as he shrugs on his jacket. Our eyes connect again, and I make a point of looking away.

Sammy is a client, nothing more.

“The summit can get quite windy, so please hold onto your belongings. You'll have forty-five minutes to explore before we begin our descent. And remember—you're currently standing at the highest point for over a hundred miles in any direction. Take it in, folks. This is what being on top of the world feels like!”

I know it’s just a marketing pitch, but I almost laugh—I’ve been on much taller mountains before. But Sammy looks uneven on his feet as we make our way out of the train. His hands grip the railing on the way down, and I catch his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Without meaning to, my eyes travel over his chest, over to his shoulders then down his arms, to the spot where his wrists show just beyond the cuff of his jacket.

“Finn?” he asks, and I fight the heat rising to my cheeks when I look to his face again. I almost expect some sort of smug look—something from an athlete to tell me he knows I was checking him out—but instead, he just looks mildly nauseous.

“Should we explore?” I ask, clearing my throat and stepping around him, off the platform just outside the train. We’ve lingered long enough that we’re the only two passengers who haven’t dispersed.

He laughs and drops his face into his hand. “You have no idea how badly I want to get back on the train.”

“Come on,” I say, surprising myself by reaching out and grabbing his forearm. He’s surprised too, something flickering over his face—almost like satisfaction—when he glances down at my hand there.

“Let’s walk and talk,” I encourage.

“About journaling?”

“No,” I laugh, shaking my head as we climb the metal steps and make our way up to the small building in the center. “I have a pretty solid grasp on your history from online research, but it helps to hear it from you. So tell me about it.”

“My…history?”

“Yes.” I nod, and know that by talking, he’ll likely let his fear fall to the back of mind. We approach the little building in the center of the platform, and Sammy insists on buying me a coffee. I accept it because I’m already shivering. The conductor wasn’t lying when he said it would be cold.

“Okay,” Sammy starts, blowing on his tea. I watch the tendrils of steam curl and wrap around his nose and cheeks, wisping away into the air. “My family is from a little town outside of Madison, Wisconsin.”

He stops for a moment, stares at his tea, then takes a drink. We’re walking in a casual circle around the perimeter of the viewing deck—not too close to the rail, but not far, either.

“It’s weird because, growing up, it felt like my family was huge. I mean, I guess technically it still is.’

I watch his face carefully, suddenly hungry for this information. I’ve never been to Wisconsin, but I try to picture it—Sammy as a little boy, playing in the snow. Eating cheese.

“Technically?” I ask, trying to adopt a tone that doesn’t give away how interested I am in this information.

“Yeah.” He lets out a long breath, and I get the sense there’s something he’s trying to avoid saying. Then, he turns, looking me in the eyes. “It’s kind of…weird? And complicated? Is this the kind of thing you want to hear about?”

“Yes,” I say, the word slipping out before I can really think of my response. “I never turn down information. Anything and everything you can tell me about yourself will help with the process of improving your game. I know it seems weird, but it’s the truth.” I watch him, holding my breath. Hoping he’ll continue.

“Okay,” he says, nodding, his eyes skipping down to his feet for a moment. “So, like I said, when I was little—like maybe until I was about ten—I had this huge family. All sorts of aunts and uncles and cousins and whatnot. Then there was some sort of huge falling out. My great-grandmother died, and she had this farmland that was pretty close to Madison. It was worth a lot of money, and nobody really realized it until after she was gone. And her will was kind of confusing, I guess. She’d appointed my grandmother’s brother to be the executor, and I guess he was in some gambling trouble…”

He stops, eyes squinting as he looks down at me. The sun is above the horizon now, and it’s bright, shining down at us. I watch it play across Sammy’s hair, little glints catching and reflecting, bringing out natural highlights.

“ Basically ,” Sammy says, letting out a little laugh, “money tore everything apart. My mom and dad didn’t want me to continue growing up in that environment, so we moved to Minnesota. I was on a hockey team back in Wisconsin, but I got really serious after that. Spent all my time on the ice. I think it, like…helped me to process everything.”

“And what about your parents? Supportive?”

“Oh, yeah.” His eyes get a little shiny. “My dad never cared about hockey before I started doing it, but when I loved it? He did, too. Came to all my games, saved up to buy new equipment—even built a little makeshift rink in our backyard during the winter months.”

“What do your parents do? Do they still come to your games?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and our steps slow. I can already read on his face that something is wrong, and part of me regrets asking the question. Part of me doesn’t want to ruin the atmosphere.

The other part reminds me that I’m a professional, and I’m not here to have a good time with Sammy Braun. I’m here to learn everything about him and optimize his performance. That’s all.

“Nah,” Sammy says, the tension in his voice at war with his casual wording. When he glances at me again, it’s to force a smile. “Car accident. I was twenty. They were coming to watch one of my college games.”

I nod and look away. Penny had mentioned something about a personal tragedy in his files—something that happened in college. I should have looked more closely at it. Though it’s a beautiful day, and I have Sammy Braun on my arm, my brain starts to work this, turning it over.

If he hasn’t allowed himself to fully process his parents’ deaths, that could be the thing holding him back from full performance on the court.

“Sammy—” I start, but we’re cut off by a small man with a camera, walking up to us and holding up a hand.

“Good morning! The two of you make such a beautiful couple,” the photographer says, holding up his camera and gesturing to the view. “I’d love to get a picture of you with the scenery.”

I start to shake my head, but Sammy’s arm is already snaking around my shoulders, pulling me in close, and I have to fight not to sigh into his heat.

“Sure!” he says, and I can tell from the sound of his voice that he’s using this as a way to escape the conversation about his parents.

It swiftly backfires.

“Great!” The photographer moves several steps forward and waving his hand at us. “Back up—go right against the railing, and I’ll get a picture of you looking out at the view.”

Beside me, Sammy fully stiffens. I can feel his fear emanating through him. But, for some reason, this third person being involved seems to bolster him.

Slowly, moving stiffly like he can barely get his limbs to cooperate, he turns and walks to the railing. I hear his breathing come faster when we approach, and his eyes are nearly shut.

“That perfect!” the photographer calls. Sammy’s arm is still over my shoulders, warm and heavy.

Beyond the railing, Vermont sprawls out before us, patches of green and brown and vibrant, boisterous patches of fire red and blazing orange. The hills rise and fall, and from here we can see roads snaking through the mountains, climbing in and out of the trees, tiny cars plugging along, each of them on their own journey.

“Sammy,” I whisper, unable to keep the awe out of my voice. “ Look .”

To my surprise, he follows my command immediately, opening his eyes and letting out a long, unsteady breath.

Slowly, I feel his shoulder relax, his hand flexing and coming to rest around the side of my arm.

“Wow,” he says after a moment, and when I look up at him, his eyes are glassy. “Small steps, huh?”

***

Sammy is still puffed up with pride when we climb back into our seats on the train.

“That was amazing,” he says, a sort of boyish joy in his voice that genuinely makes me smile. “I have to tell the guys about this place.”

I snort. “You don’t think the guys already know about the tallest mountain in Vermont?”

“Fair point,” he admits, dipping his head, “but it’s a whole different ball game with an elite athlete coach analyzing your every move.”

I roll my eyes and cross my legs. “I was not analyzing your every move.” Except that I was. I’ve been hyper aware of him since the moment he pulled into the parking lot this morning.

The way his face shifted when he realized he’d conquered his fear. How his arm felt draped over my shoulders. The brief, protective hand that found its way to my back when I was climbing back up the stairs into the train car.

“I was just observing your progress,” I continue, when I realize Sammy is staring at me, eyebrows raised.

“Same thing,” he laughs, and when he adjusts in his seat, his leg brushes against mine. Something tightens in my throat, and I have to fight the urge to press my own against his. Instead, I shift it away, focusing on the mimosa in my hand.

Sammy may not be able to drink, but there’s no reason I can’t.

“I’m pretty sure Devon is afraid of heights,” Sammy laughs a moment later, as though he’s still thinking about it. “Grey would pretend to hate it, but he’d secretly be thrilled. And Harper would make Brett do some ridiculous dance, or lip sync to a trend and I’d get roped into it.”

“Harper?”

“Oh,” Sammy says, eyes snapping back to mine, a deep red flush blooming over his cheeks.

I’m used to paying attention, so I catch every single piece of his body language—the way he shifts, how his pupils dilate, the rosy complexion.

Everything about his attraction to Harper is written all over him. Clear as day.

He continues, voice rough. “She’s just the social media manager for the team. The new one. After Percy quit. He was fine but Harper is—”

“ Fine ?” I tease, raising an eyebrow, ignoring the strange pit that’s opening in my stomach. I never talk to clients like this, but there’s something about the way he’s fumbling with this obvious attraction that’s making me feel…what? Sorry for him?

Jealous ?

No—if he has an insecurity, I need to get to the bottom of it. That’s all.

“No,” Sammy says, but his face says otherwise. “It’s just—”

“Do you like her?” I ask, setting my tablet down and leaning toward him. “Have you asked her on a date?”

“Uh…” He clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair, making a point of not looking at me. “Everyone likes her. And no.”

“What do you mean, ‘everyone likes her?’”

“Well, she’s gorgeous and brilliant, and always around, and the other guys—”

“She’s gorgeous and brilliant ?” I ask, eyebrows shooting up. Sammy seems to realize what he’s done and clams up, like he’s on trial and at risk of confessing to his crime. “So, why haven’t you asked her out, if she’s gorgeous and brilliant?”

Gorgeous. And brilliant.

“I—well, because she—”

“I can see what’s happening here,” I say, my voice coming out with a sure confidence that sounds like me, but doesn’t match the churning in my stomach. I’m too excited, reaching for my tablet, pulling up this girl’s profile. I need to see her, to know who we’re talking about.

“You can?”

“This is it!” My brain is whirring, putting the pieces together. “This must be the emotional blockage.”

“Oh,” Sammy laughs, shaking his head and raising a hand to me. “No, no, she just—”

“You like her, but you haven’t done anything about it.” I tap on my screen. When it fills with a photo of Harper’s face—all flushed cheeks, a tight white shirt and a clean smile—I turn it around to him so he can see it and point adamantly with my smart pen. “ This is the blockage. We need to clear it.”

“Clear it?’

“ Yes .” I’m not sure, but it’s worth a try. For some reason, every word feels like the sweet, bitter pain of digging at a loose tooth. “You need to ask her out.”

“She’s just going to say no.”

“You can’t know that—what if she likes you, too?”

Sammy is quiet for a long moment, and I turn the screen around, already pulling up several articles on developing confidence and enacting it in romantic settings. I’m going to study up on this and figure out how to help get him the girl.

“I don’t know,” he says a moment later, drawing me out of my reading.

“What?”

“You asked what if she likes me, too? And I guess—I don’t know. I never let myself think that far.”

“Well,” I say, slipping my feet out of my boots and tucking them under myself. I take a sip of my drink, settle into my seat, and level my gaze at him. “We are going to figure it out together.”