13. Finn

Finn

There is no place worse than a waiting room.

I fidget in my seat, trying to ignore the clawing frustration in my throat. I’ve already spent most of my time thinking about what a waste it is to wait—and wondering why places don’t bother to clean up their operations a little bit. Eliminate the need for in-between rooms and just let you get to your appointment.

Without my consent, my mind flashes back to a month ago, when Sammy came out of the locker room post-Bennett coaching.

“I love you, I love you, I love you—!” He’d shouted it, his voice ringing out through the arena, his arms coming around me and picking me up like I weighed nothing.

In that moment, I’d had to remind myself that I was a professional. And that professionals did not like being swept off their feet by towering hockey players.

“Put me down, Sammy,” I’d said, but the words lost their bite when a laugh snuck in.

When he finally did set me down—cheeks red, chest heaving—I didn’t miss the way his hands lingered on my arms for a moment. Or how his eyes skipped down to my lips.

I’d taken a step back and nodded, eyes flicking out toward the ice. “I take it your session with Bennett went well?”

“Yeah,” Sammy had said, his face melting even more, if it was possible. “I don’t know how to thank you enough, Finn.”

Now, back in the waiting room, someone appears, calling the name of the person next to me and ushering them back, away from the stiff polyester chairs and year-old magazines. I try not to look too annoyed. I try to be grateful that Penny was able to get me an appointment on such short notice in Vermont.

Focusing on the file in my hand, I try to distract myself. It’s spreadsheets, photos, reports on Sammy. Tracking his progress, detailing his journey. While he’s certainly improving— his numbers and the Viper’s winning streak shows that—he’s not improving at the trajectory my clients normally do.

Over the past two weeks, he’s taken on every one of my suggestions with gusto. Journaling, meditating, seeing therapists—every suggestion except finally going after Harper. Every time I set it up so he can talk to her privately, he slides out of the interaction, or someone else interrupts.

That has to be it. His romantic block has to be the thing holding him back on the ice. And I need to figure out a way to push him in the right direction, get him to ask Harper on a date. Maybe she’ll say yes, and they’ll become the cutest couple in hockey. Or maybe she’ll say no, and Sammy can move on, find another woman to set his sights on.

“Finley Asher?”

I startle, then quickly tuck my things away and follow the nurse back. She goes through the typical process—weighing me, taking my vitals—while chatting brightly and asking me about my day.

“Did you see the Vipers game last night?” she asks, eyes shining as she pumps the blood pressure cuff. “My friends and I started a Vipers Book Club where we read hockey romance and watch the games. Have you read Lola Burke? She’s my favorite. But anyway, the game was so good! Close until the end. Did you catch it?”

“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to smile through the tightening stress in my chest. When I think of Sammy out there on the ice, and the way his eyes had connected with mine immediately after the final buzzer, that stress melts a bit.

“Right this way,” the nurse says, after ten more minutes of hockey talk and a blood draw. I’m deposited in a small room to change, and spared more waiting when the doctor slips in almost immediately.

“Good morning!” A small woman with stark black hair bustles into the room, immediately pumping hand sanitizer into her hands.

“Good morning,” I return, heart rate already rising.

There’s something so demoralizing about being on the other end of the examination. And feeling like I fail every time.

“I’m Dr. Chen,” she says, shaking my hand. Hers is cool and dry, cold, and smelling of alcohol. “I had the pleasure of chatting with your doctor back in California. If I understand correctly, you’re on your second round?”

“That’s right.”

“Your vitals look good, and right now we’re just waiting on the results from the blood test,” Chen says, gesturing to table. “I’m assuming you know the drill?”

“I do,” I say, lump forming in my throat. Two IVF cycles down, and I’m here now to see if the last one managed to take.

“How have you been feeling?” Dr. Chen asks, her cool hands moving over my body. “Any unusual cramping or spotting?”

“No.” I stare up at the ceiling tiles, counting the little dots and calculating the total number across the ceiling in this room. “Some tenderness in my breasts last week, but that’s gone now.”

She hums in acknowledgment. “Scoot down a bit more for me.”

I do, gripping the edges of the paper-covered table. The speculum is uncomfortable but not painful—another thing I've gotten used to.

“Everything looks good here,” Dr. Chen says after a moment. “No signs of inflammation or irregularities.”

We move through the rest of the examination, and I’m just adjusting my gown after cleaning up with a tissue when there’s a soft knock at the door.

Chen glances at me, then calls for them to come in. Someone hands her a clipboard, and the moment she looks at it, I know it’s not good news.

“I’m sorry, Finley,” she says, “I know this isn’t what you want to hear. I know this is difficult...”

The rest of her words fade as the familiar ache spreads through my chest. Two cycles, now. Forty thousand dollars. Countless appointments and injections.

“Have you considered other options? Donor eggs would increase your chances significantly—“

“No.” The word comes out sharp. Final. “Sorry,” I say, dropping my forehead into my hand and staring at the floor tiles. “I've been over this with Dr. Roderic. If I can't use my own eggs, I don't want to do it. How soon can I start the next cycle?”

Dr. Chen is quiet for a moment, letting me compose myself. Through her office window, I can see the Burlington mountains, still dusted with early morning frost. It's beautiful here, in a way that makes my chest ache for different reasons.

“What about taking a break?” she suggests, her voice impossibly soft. “Give your body some time to rest—”

“I don't need a break,” I stop her, trying to keep my voice soft. My doctor in California was more aligned to my attitude, would have already started planning for the next round. The idea of taking a break feels like giving up. “I need to try again.”

“It’s something—”

“How soon can we start the next cycle?”

She looks at me for a long moment, then picks up her tablet. “We'll need to wait for your next period. Then we can begin the hormone protocol again. But I want you to really think about what I said. Taking some time, focusing on other aspects of your life might help.”

I think about Sammy, about the way he's starting to trust me, to improve. About the flutter in my chest when he smiles.

About coaching him through finally asking Harper out.

“I'll think about it,” I lie. “Send the protocol to my phone? I'll need to coordinate with my assistant about scheduling.”

“Of course.” She stands, and I can see the concern in her eyes. “At this clinic, we try to create a warm environment, strong connections between doctors and patients. I find it helps with the process. You can call me anytime, Finley. I’m here for you through this process.”

“Thank you.” I manage a smile, professional and controlled. Just like everything else in my life.

***

“Your numbers are improving across the board,” I say. “Four more pre-season games down, and the data is skewing in our favor. Already your performance is better than before.”

Sammy is sitting in my office, arms crossed, thumbs tucked under his biceps. My eyes keep catching on the way his shirt strains over his chest, and I force myself to look at the chart I have up on the projector instead.

“Reaction time is up twelve percent,” I continue. “Save percentage during practice has increased by eight points. Even your cardiovascular metrics are better.”

“Great,” he says, nodding. I study him, trying to see how he feels about all this. Sometimes, guys get too excited about the early progress. But Sammy looks even.

“We can do better.” I tap to the next slide, which is a detailed plan that adjusts several of his levers. Pushing him harder. Asking for more.

“These are the best numbers I've had in my career,” he says, not indignant, but maybe just confused. His eyes flick to the screen and back to me.

"Exactly.” I tap my tablet against my palm. Today, Sammy’s in jeans and a deep green hoodie, a brown Carhartt jacket thrown over top. He looks like he could be splitting logs in his backyard, wiping away the sweat with the back of his hand, pushing his hair from his eyes and—

“Which means you're capable of more,” I say quickly, pushing my fantasy from my head. “These are pre-season game numbers, and we can’t forget that. Grey is doing me a favor by putting you in now so we can collect more data, but you’re not facing up against the full force of these other teams. We’re going to see a steep decline again on Saturday, with the first regular season game.”

Instead of allowing my traitorous mind to continue casting Sammy in various roles, I stand, pacing behind my desk, fingers tapping against the back of my tablet as I talk. “Your nutrition logs show a consistent lack in some key minerals. And while your sleep schedule is consistent, you could be getting an extra twenty minutes if we adjusted your evening routine.”

“Okay,” he says, nodding again, his feet tapping slowly on the floor.

Those earnest green eyes bore straight into me when I turn and look at him.

I keep my voice level. “The point is to maximize your potential. And you have so much more potential than this. Your breakaway saves are still inconsistent. Your mental game needs work—I saw you hesitate in the third period last night.”

“We won that game,” he points out. “Four to one.”

“That pre-season game,” I counter, “and it could have been a shutout if you'd been fully focused.”

The words come out sharper than I intend, and I see him flinch slightly. Biting my lip, I let out a sigh. I’m still tense from my appointment yesterday. “I'm not trying to be harsh, Sammy. I just know what you're capable of. And I know there’s still something holding you back.”

“The Harper thing? I—”

“ Yes , the Harper thing,” I say, setting my tablet down and rounding my desk. “I’ve worked with countless athletes. We can fix your nutrition and optimize your training, but until you face that thing—the thing hanging over your head. And right now, it looks like that thing is Harper. Unless you have a different idea?”

He stares at me for a long moment, then looks away.

“No,” he says, and I watch his throat bob. “I do not.”

“So, I think we go with the Harper angle.” I grab my computer chair and take a seat across from him. “Go ahead.”

“What, call her?”

“No, show me how you’d ask her out. You have all these opportunities—but you always end up choking. So maybe you just need to practice. Get the words out.”

“I know how to ask a girl out, Finn.”

“But do you know how to ask a woman out?”

“Don’t be cheesy,” he laughs, rolling his eyes.

“So, show me.”

“ Show you?”

“Yes, how would you ask me out?”

He blinks, jerking back a bit. I can’t help it—my eyes skip around his face, from his eyes, over his flushed skin, and to his lips.

Sometimes, the athletes I work with aren’t the most handsome. They don’t have to be, if they’re skilled—you can look like a thumb and still make millions of dollars in the NFL.

But Sammy is properly good-looking. Strong cheekbones, the kind of eyes that look like they’re always sparkling. Everything about him, from the way he sits to how his gaze settles on you, is handsome. Attractive.

“I wouldn’t ask you out,” Sammy says, leaning forward. “Because you would never be interested in me.”

I say nothing. Self-preservation.

Instead, I say, “Okay, fine. Then how would you ask Harper out?”

He blinks, shifts in his seat, finally uncrosses his arms and runs his hands over his jeans, his eyes on the floor. After a moment, he lifts them up, fixing them on mine.

“Hey,” Sammy starts, his voice a bit rough, and my heart starts to squeeze. There’s something about his voice—soft, fervent desperation—that makes my skin hot. “I’ve been thinking this for a while, and I just want you to know. You don’t have to respond, but—I think you’re amazing. Funny. Kind. And I can’t stop thinking about you. Every day I’m around you is better for it.”

After a moment, I realize I’ve stopped breathing, and suck in a quick, hurried breath.

But Sammy isn’t finished.

Leaning forward, he gently places a palm on my knee, which sends sparks traveling up my leg, bursting throughout my hips and spreading the heat through my body. My eyes are locked on his hand until he starts to speak again.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

My office is suddenly tiny, and yet, there’s still too much space between Sammy and me. If we were back in California, my office door would be glass. Penny—or anyone from the hallway—would be able to glance in and see me.

But here, the office door is heavy, polished oak. Besides the windows on the far wall, which only face the Vermont sky, Sammy and I are completely secluded.

Alone.

I feel nearly paralyzed as I drift toward him, chest rising and falling softly, entire body itching for the moment his nose brushes against mine.

His hand tightens on my thigh, and his eyes skip down to my lips.

And reality comes rushing back—Sammy is my client. A client I’m currently pushing to pursue another woman.

When I rock back, standing up abruptly, Sammy lets out a noise that I could almost interpret as disappointment. But that doesn’t make sense, so I push it from my head. Stalk back behind my desk, flattening my palms against the wood and using the touch to ground myself.

Sammy meets my eyes again, and when I speak, my voice comes out as clean and professional as it would with any other client.

“That’s great,” I say, leveling my gaze at him and ignoring the way my heart continues to pound in my chest. “Now, you need to try that out on Harper.”