CHAPTER THREE

F inn

Boston Harbor has gone gray and miserable. Storm clouds race over the sky, shifting shapes and darkening. White boats bob up and down from my floor-to-ceiling windows. Maybe there will even be lightning. Lightning is awesome.

I give Alexa some orders, and the light inside dims in my favorite way, turning the LED strips tucked under the crown molding a soft purple. Moody meditation music starts like I'm somewhere in Bali. The camera light flashes on. I am live.

I chat about meditation, then do a meditation for my viewers.

My life is the best.

Some people think being a top player is about exercising and practicing game moves. And those are super important and super fun. But my mind and nutrition must also be optimal.

The truth is, one reason why vlogging is awesome, is that I have something to occupy my mind with. I don't exactly need a three-bedroom luxury apartment that faces Boston Harbor, though it comes in handy when I throw parties, which is often. I'm having one tonight.

But I have no intention of wandering my apartment morosely and contemplating my bruises and injuries and worrying about upcoming games, which so might happen if I didn't have this to distract myself with.

The sky darkens, then hockey players and puck bunnies swarm my apartment.

"Finn!" Axel fist bumps me as he enters, and I receive shoulder slaps from Luke and Troy before they search for my alcohol.

Troy takes charge of making cocktails for everyone. He presses his thin pink lips in concentration and narrows his dark eyes. Since the chicks dig cocktails, he's soon surrounded. Lucky dude.

My doorbell rings again. This time, my neighbor Madison stands before me, wearing a short, sparkling silver dress that shows off her legs. She swoops her thick, mascara-slathered lashes up and down. I grin as I inhale her floral perfume.

"Want me to give you a private tour?" I drawl, using my deepest voice.

She rolls her eyes. "I have a matching apartment."

I snort.

"I need a cocktail." Madison saunters away, and her thick dark hair tumbles along her back in an interesting manner that directs my attention to her narrow waist and not narrow bottom. Her hips wriggle, helped by her high, red-bottomed heels.

I stare after her. I'm totally an ass man.

Troy was so right to get into cocktail making. I idly wonder if I should learn how to do that, but then decide cocktails aren't part of my health-conscious brand. The cloying, fruity taste never appealed to me.

It's not a great idea to sleep with my next-door neighbor, but the tension between Madison and me has been building, and it's totally going to happen. The girls' laughter wafts through the apartment, and I feel a swell of pride that I've created this nice night for them.

Somebody puts on some Dua Lipa, and now the puck bunnies are dancing. God, I love women. I love their curves, I love their smells, I love their high-pitched voices.

Dmitri marches into the apartment, gripping a six-pack. His dark eyebrows thrust together, and he shakes his head, making his long dark strands that reach nearly to his chin wave.

I laugh. "What's wrong?"

"Did you hear about the new guy?"

My organs plunge toward the floor. The music continues to blare, but the tempo suddenly feels too upbeat and optimistic, like we're heading for a crash.

"Not much," I say. "God, I feel so bad for Isaiah. Out for the season. That sucks so hard."

"He cannot replace Isaiah," Dmitri says, his voice as dour and matter of fact as normal.

"No way," I agree.

Dmitri gives his despondent Russian sigh and hands me a beer. "Couch."

I shrug and settle down on the couch.

Dmitri topples beside me, joined soon by Axel.

I shift on the cushions, as if my position is responsible for the sudden unease in my body. "Do you know anything about the new guy?"

"His name is Noah Fitzpatrick." Dmitri's nose wrinkles. "From a place called New Hampshire."

"Hey. New Hampshire is cool."

"Not as cool as Russia."

"Perhaps not," I admit. "I haven't been."

Dmitri shakes his head derisively.

"Guess he played well enough to come here," Axel says.

I nod, but we all know it's doubtful. He's in the AHL, and that's just not the same level as the NHL. If this had happened in the summer, we could have gotten a nice trade for someone who plays Isaiah's position, since we wouldn't have been hampered as much by trade and roster restrictions. Now, one of the second liners will be bumped up to our line, and we'll have to focus on jelling.

"We still have a great team," I say, and Axel nods. "We're going to kill playoffs."

Axel grins and clinks beers with me.

Dmitri glowers. "You are idiots. This is a disaster."

"Injuries happen all the time," Axel reminds us.

"So do losses," Dmitri growls.

We stiffen. I tighten my grip on the beer bottle. The label ripples from condensation, and I swallow the bitter bubbles quickly and the worry about the new team member.

The lights of Boston sparkle before us, a slew of gold and darkness where the ocean is. I'm in the best city, on the best team, in the best apartment with the best friends.

My life slays. But unease moves through me all the same. Isaiah never thought he would be injured. Who is this new person? The team dynamic is shifting, scurrying into pessimism, and the wins that had seemed so possible at the beginning of the season seem blurry and out of reach.