Deep Check (Station Seventeen)

by Kimberly Kincaid

  “You’re a little late for a talk, don’t you think?”

  The words slipped out before January could check them, but he surprised her by nodding in agreement.

  “Actually, I do.” Finn looked at her, swiping a hand through his already-tousled dark brown hair before running his palm over the back of his neck. “I know this is way, way overdue, and if you want to tell me to fuck off, well, I can’t say I wouldn’t understand. But I owe you an apology. A really big one, in fact, and I…”

  He broke off, his gaze dropping to the floor. A thousand thoughts whipped through January’s mind, urging her to give them voice. But before she could choose between asking him why now, admitting how ridiculously much she’d missed him, and—okay, yeah—launching the ‘fuck off’ he really did deserve, Finn stepped toward the door.

  “You know what, this was a bad idea. I blindsided you at work, and that’s a really uncool thing to do, so I’m just going to—”

  “Was it a mistake?”

  “What?” He looked at her, absolutely stunned, which was great, because that made two of them. But despite her graceless delivery, January needed to know the truth.

  “You just said coming here was a bad idea”—she paused for a stabilizing breath before adding—“but bad ideas aren’t always the same as mistakes. So what I want to know is, do you think coming here was a mistake?”

  For the longest time, Finn did nothing but look at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher on a dare. Then, holding on to her gaze, he crossed the linoleum until they were separated by less than an arm’s length as he said, “I regret a lot of things, Calendar Girl, but coming here to apologize to you isn’t one of them.”

  January’s heart thrummed against her rib cage, and she hugged the folder to the front of her sheer white button-down in an effort to calm it, or at the very least, cover the stupid thing up. Finn had acted like a jackass, and no amount of apologizing could change that. He’d hurt her. He’d shut down their friendship without a word. Now here he was, standing in front of her with that light brown stare that could melt her like snow in a soft rain and the gruff, serious demeanor that had kept him tough all through high school, asking for the talk she’d wanted for the past seven years.

  And she had to decide whether or not to give it to him.

  A minute stretched into two, and January stood rooted to the floor tiles, until finally, she made up her mind all at once.

  “Thank you for your honesty, Finnegan.” Straightening her shoulders, she pivoted toward the door, covering more than half the distance to the exit before turning to look at him over her shoulder. “Well? Are you coming or not?”

  “Holy shit. I mean”—Finn cleared his throat, clearly shocked as hell that she’d said yes. Which sort of made two of them—“Yes. I’m…yes.”

  He swung a quick glance at Edwin, who—other than sitting close enough to the Cup that he might as well be surgically attached—seemed to be fairly well occupied with the photo album he’d picked up. Finn didn’t seem troubled in the least to leave the Cup in favor of talking to her, though, readily following her through the open entryway leading to Station Seventeen’s front lobby. Not really sure what to say now that she’d agreed to hear him out, January stuck to what she knew best.

  Hello, firehouse.

  “You’ve already seen the common room, obviously, which is really the main hub of the house,” she said. “There are two wings on either side. One has the engine bay, the equipment room, and the captain’s office”—she gestured down the hallway to the left—“and the other houses the bunks, the locker room, and a few small conference rooms. Any preference on where we go first?”

  “Nope. You?” Finn asked back, pointing to the folder full of paperwork in her grasp. “I don’t want to keep you from work. Not entirely, anyway.”

  January blinked. “Oh. Well, we have a pretty detailed filing system here, so I was going to drop this off with Lieutenant Gamble. He’s out on the call, obviously, but he and Lieutenant Hawkins on squad have small private bunks that double as offices.”

  “Great. That’s this way then, right?”

  Finn hooked a thumb to the right, starting to walk alongside her after she gave up a quick nod.

  “So you’re only in Remington for a few days,” she said, and even though she’d tried to paint the words as small talk, keeping the curiosity out of her voice was damn near impossible.

  “I’ve got a flight out early next week, yeah.” Finn quickened his pace just enough to reach the glass double doors in their path before January did, tugging one open to usher her through. The move gave her a brief but magnificent view of his ass, and sweet Lord in heaven, hockey had been so. Very. Good to him.

  “Right!” she exclaimed, wrestling her voice back down to normal-people levels before continuing with, “So this is a relatively quick trip, then.”

  Finn nodded, his boots thumping alongside her shiny black heels as he fell back into step beside her. “I only get the Cup for twenty-four hours; plus, I don’t really know anyone around here anymore.”

  January’s curiosity sparked back to life. “Not to be nosy, but why did you bring it to Remington then? Surely you’ve got a bajillion fans in New Orleans who would want a photo op with you and the Cup, not to mention a pack of teammates to celebrate with. What made you come all the way back here?”

  “Asher’s here.”

  Her heart went from zero to rapid-fire in two seconds flat. “You brought the Cup to Asher’s grave?”

  “This morning,” Finn admitted. He slowed to a stop in the middle of the empty hallway, leaving January no choice but to do the same. “Look, I know you probably think I don’t care about Asher, or that maybe I’ve forgotten him, but I haven’t. In fact, he’s the reason I ended up on the Rage. Without him, I never would’ve made that team, let alone won the Cup.”

  The shock in January’s chest quickly slid into confusion. “I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”

  “It’s no secret I acted like an ass the night before I left town,” Finn said, blowing out a breath and rocking back on the heels of his thickly soled boots. “But I was young and mad and stupid, and after the dust settled, I didn’t know how to tell either one of you I knew I’d been a dick. Especially since you’d both been such good friends to me all through high school. My only friends.”

  “We were all young and stupid that night.” January paused to fiddle with the edge of the folder still tucked in against the crook of her elbow, but Finn didn’t budge as he looked her right in the eye.

  “We might have all done things we regret that night, but I was the only one who was wrong. At the time, it was easier to pretend I didn’t care than to admit I’d screwed up. Then enough time passed that I could pretend I didn’t give a shit. But then…”

  Realization trickled into her brain, and oh. Oh God. “Asher died.”

  “Asher died,” Finn said, low and soft. “I had a thousand chances not to be an asshole. A million of them, maybe. But I was too dumb, too arrogant to know I wouldn’t always have the chance.”

  “Finn.” Emotion flickered through his whiskey-colored eyes, stealing her breath even farther. “No one could’ve known Asher was going to die in that house fire. He was doing his job. A job he loved.”

  “Yeah, but I shouldn’t have waited to apologize. I shouldn’t have treated either of you the way that I did. Asher always believed in me. Not in an after-school special kind of way,” he added, and here, she had to let go of a tiny smile.

  “No. You’d have never let him get away with that.”

  Finn’s exhale in reply fell just short of a puff of laughter. “You’re right, I wouldn’t. Asher always seemed to make the encouragement feel like the truth, though. And when he said I’d win the Cup one day, I believed him. I busted my ass to make him right, so he wouldn’t think he’d put his faith in a fuck-up.” Finn swallowed, shifting his weight over the linoleum. “When he died, I knew I had to do whatever it took to win the Cup. Not for me, bu
t to be the person he thought I was before I let everything go to shit. So that’s why I came back to Remington with it. To finally give him the apology he deserved.”

  January looked at him, the pang in her rib cage at odds with the thread of divisiveness she was unable to keep out of her tone as she said, “Asher wasn’t the only person who believed in you, Finn.”

  “I know.” He stepped toward her until only a few feet of space separated them in the brightly lit hallway. “I wanted to say something to you at the funeral, but I was so blindsided by Asher’s death, none of it felt real. I knew you had your old man and everyone here at Seventeen to lean on, and I’d already hurt you.”

  Finn’s voice turned to gravel over his last two words, and as hard as she knew this had to be for him, she wasn’t about to sprinkle the truth with sugar just so she could call it candy, either. “You did hurt me.”

  “I guess I was grieving in my own screwed up way, and I didn’t want to make things worse. It’s not an excuse, but it is the truth. I’m really sorry I hurt you.”

  “Oh,” January breathed, more sound than actual word. But his apology was so gruffly genuine, just like the Finn she remembered, that she heard herself say, “I accept your apology.”

  His darkly stubbled chin snapped up. “You do?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised.” Unable to help it, she let a smile lift one corner of her mouth. “And don’t get me wrong. I was mad at you for a long time.”

  “Like until ten minutes ago?” he asked, and God, she should’ve known better than to think he’d let her have the upper hand in the sly smile department.

  “Maybe. But I know coming here to say all of that wasn’t easy, and even though you could’ve easily blown me off and still said your piece to Asher, you didn’t. I might have been mad at you, but I’m not a bitch.” January lifted one brow with a hint of humor before turning serious. “So yes. I accept your apology.”

  “Thank you.” The rough edges of the words belied the softness with which Finn delivered them, but both made her pulse press faster at her throat.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, waiting for just a beat before beginning to move down the hallway again.

  Finn, however, seemed bound and determined to shock her in her tracks. “Let me do something to make it up to you.”

  “Like what?” she asked, leading the way past the pair of small conference rooms and heading toward the bunks.

  “Like whatever you want.”

  January laughed for a full five seconds before she realized he was balls-out serious. “Whatever I want.”

  The look on his face became a dare in less than a breath. “Pick anything.”

  “Okay.” She paused in thought for a few seconds before stopping to open a glass door marked Lieutenant’s Quarters and placing the folder on top of Gamble’s insanely tidy desk. “Anything, huh? What if I want to get all dressed up and go to dinner at La Lumière?”

  Finn shrugged. “I can’t guarantee I won’t bitch about having to wear a tie, but if that’s what you want…”

  Ooookay, he had definitely taken one too many slap shots to the helmet since she’d last seen him. “Finn, I was kidding.”

  “I wasn’t,” he said, and all that time away from Remington must have softened his memory of the ridiculously posh restaurant.

  “You do know La Lumière books out a solid month in advance, and dinner is two hundred dollars a plate.”

  Finn’s face became the nonverbal equivalent of ugh. “Then I’m definitely going to bitch about wearing a tie. Pick you up at seven?”

  January made a noise that was mostly shock. “Are you insane?”

  “A little,” Finn said, all truth. “Did you want to go shopping for a dress too? I don’t mind.”

  How could he possibly be serious? “Oh my God, you are insane.”

  One dark brow lifted in a move far sexier than it should be. “Is that a no on the dress?”

  “Finnegan,” she argued, but she couldn’t keep her laughter at bay. “Even if I say yes to dinner, there’s no way we’ll get a table.”

  The second brow joined its twin in a look of oh really? “I don’t mean to get bigheaded about it, but you do realize I’m the starting center for the team that just won the Cup, and that I happen to have said Cup in my possession for the next”—Finn flipped his wrist to check the time—“nineteen hours, right? Believe me when I tell you, if you want a table, we’ll get a table.”

  For a few heartbeats, January said nothing, simply leading the way out of the pin drop-quiet bunk area and back to the hallway. Finally, she went with, “I know we’re not as close as we once were, but you don’t strike me as the type of guy who would throw around his status to get what he wants.”

  In one swift move, Finn’s fingers closed around her forearm, heat pulsing all the way through her as he pulled her close enough to see the flecks of gold peppered through his whiskey-brown stare.

  “I’m not. But I’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for. If a fancy dinner is what you want, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  “Even if you have to wear a tie?” she asked, although the words came out far breathier than she intended.

  Finn made a face as if he was having second thoughts, but after a second, his expression gave way to a devastatingly sexy smile. “Yeah, even if I have to wear a tie. So what do you say, Calendar Girl?” His gaze dropped to her mouth for the briefest of seconds before returning up to meet hers, and oh God, January felt it everywhere.

  “Can I pick you up at seven or not?”

  Four

  Finn made his way back to the Plaza a way luckier bastard than when he’d left the place six hours earlier. But come on. Not only had he gone to Asher’s grave with the Cup like he’d wanted to for the last three years, but he was going out to dinner with a far prettier woman than he deserved. He wasn’t about to complain.

  At least, not until his cell phone rang and his agent’s number splashed across his caller ID.

  “Marty. It’s Friday afternoon. Don’t you ever relax?” Finn asked, pressing the phone against the stubble he’d been meaning to take care of for a couple of days now.

  His agent’s laugh was a two to one ratio of flash to humor. “Not a chance, Donnelly, but let’s not kid ourselves, here. It’s not as if you do, either.”

  “True.” Finn made his way into the suite’s kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. If Marty’s tone was anything to go by, he was going to need a bucket full of the stuff to make it through this call. “So to what do I owe the honor?”

  “Do I need to have a reason to call my star center?”

  Check that. Finn was going to need something a lot stronger than coffee to make it through this conversation. “You’re my agent, so in a word? Yeah.”

  “Okay, okay,” Marty admitted. “How are things going in North Carolina? Are you having a good day with the Cup?”

  And there it is. “We’ve been over this. I’m not doing any PR with the Cup.” He’d come back to Remington to tie up loose ends and say sayonara once and for all. Having his personal life splashed all over Twitter? Not his idea of a good fucking time.

  Marty, of course, wasn’t impressed. “You’re the first player to have it for the day, Donnelly. The Cup is the single most coveted item in all of hockey, for Chrissake! Yet you haven’t done so much as a single social media post with it.”

  “And I’m not going to, either. Look”—Finn tugged a hand through his hair before placing it on the cultured marble countertop for fortitude—“I’ll do all the hip-hip-hooray crap you want once I leave Remington in a few days. I get that PR is part of the deal. But I’m not budging on this, so can we talk about something else?”

  For a second, he thought his agent would push the issue, and his heart thumped faster in his chest.

  But then, surprisingly, Marty relented. “You’re the boss. Speaking of which, I had an interesting conversation with a few of the suits at the Rage last night.”

  “Really.” Finn
kept his reply perfectly metered despite the fact that the news did nothing to slow his already questionable pulse. “Anything noteworthy?”

  Marty’s flashy laugh came back in full force. “Everything’s noteworthy when you’re up for a new contract. Unfortunately for us, so is half the damn organization. Along with a few dozen other centers around the league, all of whom are chomping at the bit to land on a Cup-winning team.”

  Finn summed up his feelings with a muttered “shit,” and Marty seconded the sentiment. “I focused on the stats first, because numbers don’t lie,” Marty said. “You had a career-high forty-six goals this season, plus four more in the playoffs. You’re the first guy at practice and the last guy out of the film room. Frankly, I think the Rage would be morons not to line your pockets with Bentleys and supermodels.”

  “Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming?” Finn asked, dread pricking holes in his gut at Marty’s prolonged and unusual silence in reply.

  “Because,” he finally answered, his tone telling Finn he was selecting his words with care. “Look, you’re asking for a lot of cabbage with this new contract. Not that you don’t deserve it,” he quickly added, likely in a pre-emptive strike.

  But no fucking way Finn was letting that slide. “You’re goddamn right I do. You know my stats are the real deal. I’m not some duster whose ass is permanently riding the pine. I earn every goal I score for that team.”

  “Unfortunately, talent isn’t the only piece of the puzzle here,” Marty said. “Babineaux may have inherited the money he used to buy the Rage, but when it comes to business, he’s not a fuckwit. He owns a Cup-winning franchise. He’s got his pick of damn near any players in the league now, and he wasn’t subtle about letting me know it yesterday.”

  Blood rushed through Finn’s ears in a rapid white-noise whoosh. “I busted my ass for that team, and to win the Cup. I’ve been making the league minimum for three years.” Which still wasn’t peanuts, but come the fuck on. Plenty of other hockey players made more than Finn was asking for. He’d signed on with the Rage when they were nothing but an expansion team with high hopes and not a whole lot else. “I’ve earned my way up on good hard work.”