Page 14 of Rookie Attraction

“Most of the guys who live in our building are single,” Finn continues. “So that’s fun. We can hang out, watch movies, play video games.”

“No girlfriend?” I ask.

I shouldn’t presume, or ask at all, but it’s too late to take it back.

“Nah. Not since high school.”

“Be careful about that too,” I warn. “You’re a professional now and it’s a whole different thing. You’re going to get a lot of attention. And some people are only interested in your fame.”

“No worries there. I don’t do the hookup thing.”

Wait, like, ever?

“We’d better get a move on,” I insist, changing the subject.

We make our way through the locker room, and after getting my gear off, I wrap a towel around my waist, grab my kit, and head for the shower. I don’t get any weird vibes or looks, but I’m still on high alert just in case. Once I’m done cleaning up, I slip on my jeans, a crisp white button down, and a clean jersey for the photo shoot. Most of the guys have already left the locker room, but Sorensen, Druin, and Berg wait for me and Finn to finish getting ready so we can head up together.

“What do you think so far?” Berg asks me as we step into the elevator.

“The team has a good mix. Range seems fair too.”

“He’s the best. You’re gonna learn a lot.”

“I hope so.”

I leave it at that. Who knows what’s going to happen from here on out? My usual ability to crack jokes and make easy conversation has fled, and small talk is painful. I glance at my reflection in the mirrored doors and wonder who the fuck this tense, tired man staring back at me is.

“The staff are great too,” Berg comments. “As long as you play by the rules.”

The elevator pings when we arrive at the third floor, and I step into the lounge. It’s a massive space with comfortable-looking sofas, leather club chairs, and TVs on every wall, along with memorabilia from past players and championships. There’s a bar and a table set up for catering too.

“Holy shit,” Finn exclaims, his eyes wide. “I’m not in Vermont anymore.”

There’s a white screen with lighting equipment set up on the far wall, and Rush’s public relations director, Hugo Mulvaney, is having an animated conversation with the photographer. I met Hugo two days ago and I’m still not sure how I feel about the guy. Most PR people are trained to be diplomatic, but Hugo makes no effort to be polite. At least, not with me. I don’t think he likes me at all, but it doesn’t feel personal. I’ve given him a lot more stress when it comes to his job. He’s already juggling numerous requests for interviews and exclusive comments about my coming out, not to mention the team’s socials.

Hugo finally looks around and spots us, frantically waving us over.

“Oh my God, this is really happening,” Finn whispers to me as he runs an agitated hand over his short auburn hair. “Do I look okay?”

I turn to study him, and it’s the first time since meeting Finn that I allow myself to do that. While he’s not a giant like some of the guys on the team, Finn’s still six-one, with broad shoulders and a lean physique that makes him agile. Like me, he has a hockey nose—too big for his face—and freckles that dust every part of his face. But it’s his eyes, pale gold with specks of green, that draws attention. And his enormous smile. There’s nothing phony or artificial about Finn. He’s vivid, and so full of color and life that I doubt even the photographer will be able to capture his spirit in one snap.

“You look great.”

“Is my cowlick tamed?”

“No one’s taking a pic of the back of your head, so I think you’re fine.”

“My hair’s too damn short and it’s annoying,” he grumbles.

“Why’d you cut it?”

“Damien didn’t tell you?”

I don’t want to confess that I haven’t talked to Damien for weeks, so I shrug instead.

Finn leans in. “We lost a soccer game to the rowing crew at the beginning of the month and the losers had to shave their heads.”

“Seriously?”