15. Finn

Finn

Sammy does not look happy when he comes around the corner, hair wet, duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. Luckily for him, Brett and some of the other guys took one for the team in attending the after-game press conference so he wouldn’t have to.

Not that the fans are particularly interested in hearing what they have to say. Ten minutes ago, when I was pushing my way through the crowd, costumed fans who all turned out for the Viper’s Halloween game were dejected, their cat ears dangling in their hands, they makeup wiped off their face.

Sammy draws near, and I take him in. His mouth is practically in a flat line, his body tense. Tonight was not his best performance.

It doesn’t make any sense—my clients don’t usually follow this type of path. Typically, it’s a pretty steady trend upward. Small declines, of course, but nothing like what it’s been with Sammy. I’ve never faced this kind of frequent regressions before.

And for some reason, it’s kind of thrilling.

I’ve always loved a good challenge, so when Sammy finally meets me in the hallway, I tip my chin up, look him in the eyes, and say, “You didn’t ask that girl out, did you?”

“ Finn ? I—” he starts, then his eyes widen when he takes a look at me.

I keep my hands on my hips, and it takes me a moment to remember that I too came in costume to this game. Halloween has always been one of my guilty pleasures—as a woman who essentially wears the same outfit every day, there’s something magical about being someone else.

“Are you—?” his face brightens for a fraction of a second. “You’re that girl. From Powerpuff...”

“I am that woman ,” I counter, flushing. Admittedly, it’s a bold costume. I’m dressed as Sara Bellum, the secretary and power woman of the Powerpuff universe. My costume includes a tight red dress and huge, poofy wig of red curls, which is heavy and itchy, and I can’t believe I forgot I was wearing it.

Penny is surprised every year when I choose to dress up.

“It’s just not like you,” I can hear her saying through a laugh. “And I love it.”

Now, to Sammy, I say, “But we’re not talking about my costume. We’re talking about the fact that your poor performance tonight has something to do with your lack of confidence off the ice. With the girl you refuse to ask out. My guess is that you had a perfect opportunity and didn’t take it—right?”

The way his already-flushed face turns even more crimson is all the answer I need. Of course he didn’t—he needs a breakthrough. My mind flashes back to the scene in my office.

“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.”

I resist the shiver that threatens to run down my back.

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

Those words were not meant for me, but my body seems to have trouble digesting that fact. When he was looking at me, saying those things, he was thinking of Harper. A younger, prettier, much peppier person than me. Someone who would look good on the arm of a hockey player.

When I try to imagine Sammy and I together—me, serious in my pencil skirt and him in his hockey uniform—it just doesn’t work. My stomach starts to flip at the image I’ve conjured: Sammy with his hand on my back, large and warm through the thin material of my blouse, his eyes going dark like they did before, the way he’d tip his head down and draw me in—

“No,” he finally says, breaking the spell. “And do we have to talk about how shitty I did tonight?”

I realize a moment has passed between us where I’ve done nothing but stare at him. I fight the blush threatening to rise to my cheeks. While I was checking him out, thinking about him kissing me, he must have interpreted my gaze as being assessing. Scrutinizing.

“No,” I say, and then, “well, yes. In a way.”

He lets out a low groan and I ignore the way I feel it in my belly.

“Come on,” I say, laughing a bit. In a move that surprises me, I reach out and tug on the sleeve of his hoodie, pulling him in my direction. Pulling him toward the door.

“Come on…where?” he asks.

“Let’s get something to eat.” I tuck hair away and pulling my hood up as we step into the brisk night air. Penny had to go out and get me something heavier than the jackets I brought from California—each time I go outside, it feels like an attack on my body.

“You’re already shivering,” Sammy laughs, glancing at me as we walk to the car. “And we haven’t even been out here for a minute.”

“My body is not used to this kind of cold.”

“I could warm you up.”

The moment he says it, I blink in surprise and turn to him, eyes wide. He blinks back at me, like the line surprised him too.

“I—” he starts, but stops, laughing. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I was practicing.”

“Oh,” I say, the word coming out like a breath, my traitorous body deflating at the obvious statement. “Right, of course. You could give me some warning next time.”

“Yeah, makes sense.” He grins at me as he opens the passenger door of his car. “Knowing you, you were getting ready to throat punch me.”

“Going for the eyes makes more sense. More vulnerable.”

His laugh is warm against my skin, and I hide my self-satisfied smirk in the collar of my coat as I buckle myself in. The nice thing about this big, ridiculous wig is that it does cover my face a bit, just like it covers Sara Bellum’s in the cartoon.

A moment later, Sammy slides into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

“You live here, shouldn’t you know somewhere good?”

“Oh, I know plenty of places,” he says, hand lingering on the gear shift, car staying in park, “but I’m worried they’re not good enough for you.”

I let out a puff of air, but know better than to be offended. I do have high standards. And I am picky. And for some reason, Sammy stating this almost feels good. Like he knows me.

“For tonight,” I say slowly, “as long as the place is up to current health codes, with no outstanding negative inspections, I’m good.”

“That crosses a lot of great stuff off the list.”

I laugh as he finally puts the car in reverse and backs out of the spot. I can’t help the way my eyes drift to him, taking in the way his body fully relaxes, his fingers loose and tapping against the top of the wheel. Personally, I hate driving, and there’s something so comforting about the fact that he’s right at home.

Sammy takes us out of the driveway and steers us toward downtown Burlington. The car rocks a bit as we pull behind a row of buildings and into a parking lot riddled with potholes, but he doesn’t even blink.

A moment later, he’s on my side of the car, taking my hand and helping me down.

I need to figure out what’s wrong with me. Why everything he does is affecting me like this. It’s like I’m starved for touch suddenly, or I’ve discovered a new need I’d never paid attention to before.

When we duck into the restaurant and I smell the thick scent of garlic and tomato in the air, I know it was the right choice to let Sammy pick.

“My favorite pizza place,” he says. “Brett introduced me to it. Byte-Sized.”

The building we’re standing in looks more like an arcade than a pizza place, but my mouth is already watering at the scents floating through the air. It’s more than just Italian seasonings and mozzarella, though—there are other strange notes. The sharp tang of pickles. Sweet caramel apple. Seafood.

“Come on,” Sammy says, and when his hand lands on the small of my back, I ignore the pulse of heat that spawns at his touch. He grabs two menus as he leads me to a table in the back, sliding one in front of me as we settle into the booth.

“Super Meatball Galaxy?” I ask, laughing as I scan the menu. At the very, very bottom, there’s a section called IF YOU’RE BORING that has selections like pepperoni and supreme, but everything else on the menu is…interesting.

“Oh, that one’s good,” Sammy says, smiling when he looks up at me. “But unlike what you’d assume, it’s not Italian meatballs. It’s Swedish meatballs. So it’s like, lingonberry sauce, onions, mushrooms, Swiss cheese, fried onions. Plus it has this sick drizzle that’s kind of like the gravy you get with those meatballs. You know—like Ikea?” I bite my lip, and Sammy lets out a laugh. “You’ve never been to Ikea?”

“Sammy,” I say, raising an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I’d purchase my furniture at Ikea?”

“Well, I don’t buy furniture there, either. It’s about the experience.”

“If you say so.”

It’s too easy, talking to him. And it’s intoxicating, the rush of pleasure I get every time I make him laugh.

“Final Phan-Thai-sy,” I read, noticing how the description for each pizza is a whole paragraph long, and laden with what I must assume are references to these games. “Red Dead Mac-demption.”

This is nothing like the pizza Penny and I would occasionally treat ourselves to in California. Cauliflower crust. Whole basil leaves, tasteful dollops of mozzarella. Fancy and brushed with oregano-infused olive oil.

“The Pickle Lovers’ Paradise is good.” Sammy reaches over to point it out for me. “If you love pickles.”

“I have no strong opinion on pickles,” I say, eyes drifting, “but I do love sushi.”

“Okay, I’ll order for us.”

Sammy grabs the menus and deposits them in the rack, then heads to the front of the building, placing his order at the counter. I watch him as he goes, how he waves to one table and approaches the counter with an air of confidence I wish I could translate to the ice. Even after such a horrific performance tonight, get a man in front of a whole pizza, and he brightens up.

When he returns, it’s with two bottles of water, a craft soda, fancy iced tea in a glass bottle, and a sparkling water.

“Are you that thirsty?” I ask.

“I didn’t know what you wanted,” he says, sheepishly unloading his beverage haul onto the table. “And I wasn’t sure if you’d put any of these off-limits for me.”

“Sammy,” I say, laughing, “your highly-detailed nutrition plan doesn’t include Pickle Lovers’ Paradise. We’re already here, what makes you think I’m going to keep you from drinking an iced tea?”

Though, now that I’m looking at them, I’m already thinking about the caffeine in the tea and also potentially in the soda. He slides them over to me and I read through the ingredients carefully, deeming the craft soda not perfect—plenty of sugar, which can be inflammatory—but at least without the caffeine that’s in the tea. I crack open the sparkling water for myself.

“See?” Sammy asks, as he takes a sip. “I knew you’d have an opinion.”

“How’s that?”

“You have an opinion on everything,” he says, setting his soda down and shrugging out of his hoodie. I have to avert my eyes, knowing his t-shirt will ride up, and knowing it will only make it worse to have to see even a sliver of what’s underneath

I’ve seen him shirtless before. It doesn’t matter.

“I think that comes along with just knowing everything,” he continues. “That’s what makes you trustworthy.”

I let the compliment wash over me, my fingers tightening on my drink. Of course, I’d been on dates in California. Back when I still thought I might settle down with a man and make a family the old-fashioned way, I’d forced myself to go out once a week to a nice dinner. Tech investors, lawyers, even one physician. The problem with each and every one of them was that they expected me to be endlessly interested in them. They loved when I asked them questions, but never got around to returning the gesture.

It feels nothing like that with Sammy. Even as it’s my professional duty to know everything about him, and he has no stake in knowing me, he keeps peeling back my layers. Asking me questions.

On the surface, it’s terrifying. Beneath, it feels like exactly what I’ve been waiting for. Maybe that’s part of the reason being around him is so dangerous for me. I like Sammy, genuinely, as a person…and my body is picking up on those cues.

He reaches across the table for a napkin to set under his soda and I watch his bicep flex, newly freed from his hoodie and straining against the sleeve of his t-shirt. I could reach out and touch that swell of muscle, feel his warm skin. When he straightens up again, and our eyes meet, it’s like there’s something in my throat.

“Finn?” Sammy asks, swallowing, his eyes flicking to my lips for a moment, and it sets me on fire. “You—”

“ Sammy ?”

A bright voice sounds just to our left, and when I turn to look, the most princess-esque person I’ve ever seen is standing just beside our table, one hand braced on the edge, her smile bright and genuine.

Harper.

She’s dressed as Princess Peach—her blonde hair curled out to match—a tiny crown nestled on her head. Her cheeks are pink, with little blue earrings matching the blue jewel on her chest. She’s even wearing the white gloves.

The only thing that’s not true to the video game princess is her eyes. Rather than blue, Harper has these deep brown eyes. And they’re trained on Sammy.

“Oh, hey!” Sammy says, and I wince at the new tone in his voice—excited, nervous. The confidence, the easiness he had just ten minutes ago is gone. “I thought you were staying in with Josh this weekend?”

I look at him quickly when he drops a man’s name, but Harper doesn’t look phased. She just laughs, casually setting her hand on Sammy’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Then she jerks her thumb over her shoulder. “Some friends convinced me not to stay in tonight, though.”

When Harper pauses, looking to me, her eyes widen a bit, then flick back to Sammy.

“Are you Sara Bellum?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, something inside me hating that I’m starting to like Harper more than I should. Clearly, she hasn’t recognized me. Aside from this costume being completely different from anything I’d ever wear, and my normal slick ponytail hiding under this wig, I’ve also done my makeup differently.

Sara Bellum never really shows her face, but when I was putting on the costume, I got the feeling that her style would be more simplistic than mine. Which means I’m wearing a dark red lipstick and smokey eyes. It’s no wonder Harper hasn’t recognized me as the uptight woman sometimes hanging around the arena.

“I’m—” I start, planning to introduce myself and elaborate that I’m Sammy’s coach, and nothing more, but a chorus of raucous cheers from the other side of room cuts me off.

“Sorry,” Harper says, and I notice her hand is still on Sammy’s shoulder. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright. “Those are my friends. They told me to come talk to you, but apparently they want me back.”

“It’s cool,” Sammy says, looking up at her. I grip my drink.

“Okay, cool,” she says, clearing her throat. “And, hey, let’s talk about that project, okay?”

Then, like something out of a rom-com, she reaches down, pulls a pen from her pocket, and scribbles a phone number on one of the paper napkins.

“This is my personal number,” she says, voice low, but I can still hear her. “Don’t give it out to the other guys.”

“I won’t,” Sammy promises, his voice sounding slightly choked.

“It was nice meeting you!” Harper waves once to me before she turns and flounces back over to the table.

From my brief glances of her, I knew that she was…a lot. But I didn’t realize just how sugary sweet—how intoxicatingly pink Harper could be. And the worst part is that I’m actually jealous of her.

Sammy is still looking after her, his eyes slightly dazed. If that’s the kind of woman he wants, I was never even a consideration.

Not that it matters.

“Finn,” Sammy says, when he finally looks back at me. “Did you see that?”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my tone level. “I did. She’s clearly interested in you. So you should—”

“She has never acted like that before,” Sammy cuts me off, still sounding slightly out of it.

“Well, yeah,” I laugh, looking down at my can of sparkling water. “It’s because she saw you here with another woman. And she clearly didn’t recognize me.”

“What?”

“Maybe she didn’t even realize she was interested in you until she saw you with someone else.” I shrug. “When she looked over and thought you were on a date with another woman, she felt jealous. Realized she likes you. That’s my guess.”

“Just because you’re with me?”

I give him a stare, and his cheeks redden. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

“Should I…?” Sammy asks, his eyes wandering over to her table.

“What?” I ask, almost laughing. “ No . She may have a very questionable sense of style, but she doesn’t seem like a bad person. If you abandon your current date to go and talk to her, what will that tell her about how you treat women?”

“I didn’t think about that.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“When I’m with you…” Sammy says, his hand coming to his chin. “Harper is more interested in me.”

“Duh.”

“So,” Sammy concludes, eyes lifting to mine, his face eager and serious. “That means we should get together, right?”