Stick Your Landing (All In #3)

2. Finley

2

Finley

I jolt awake when someone grips my shoulder to shake it.

Gemma stands beside the chair in the guest room where I fell asleep after Kennedy left. Zach Briggs’s temporary room. I now know the last name of the boy from two years ago after watching video of the hit that landed him unconscious.

“Have you been here since this morning?”

“What time is it?” I ask. I muscle into a sitting position and glance at Zach, who’s still soundly sleeping.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep here. I planned to stay for an hour, wake Zach again, make sure he’s fine, then go on with my day. So much for that plan. I can’t afford to miss even one workout or I won’t make it back into my sport.

“Two,” Gem replies. “How long have you been here?”

I clear the sleep from my throat. “Kennedy and I woke him up four hours ago. I was going to do it again, but I must’ve drifted off. I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

I regret the words when Gemma squeezes my forearm and asks, “Are you… feeling okay? I know you’ve been busier than you’re used to.”

After my diagnosis, my parents forced me to take a year away from school to focus on my mental health. I reenrolled in college last year, taking one class then ramping up to two. This semester, I'm carrying a full course load and work weekend mornings at a café run by Gemma’s friends. I like the structure. Before my diagnosis, my life had been highly scheduled to allow me to compete in elite gymnastics and attend high school.

“Never better.” I force a smile while answering my least favorite question.

My parents used to hover over my shoulder, wanting to know every grade, how much I slept, the food I consumed, whether I exercised. They allowed me to attend college out of state only because Matt agreed to make sure I stick to the regimen that keeps my brain healthy, monitor my mood, and look for changes in my behavior.

Entering the gymnastics world again is a risk, but it’s one I should be allowed to take—a gymnast’s shelf life isn’t long. If I want a comeback, I can’t wait.

Her eyes narrow. “You would tell me if you weren’t?”

“Of course,” I reply automatically.

Gemma’s assessing gaze remains on me. “You’re a terrible liar, Finley.” Before I can refute it, she continues, “You know you can trust me?”

My chest tightens. I always wanted a sister, and Gemma becoming part of our family is like winning the sister-in-law jackpot. If I didn’t know about her devotion to my brother, I might confide in her. No one outside my new gym knows I’m training to compete at the collegiate level. I wish I had someone other than my coach to share with, but I’m too worried it will put my comeback in jeopardy.

“Thanks, Gem.” I walk to the hall, already mentally planning how to make up for the lost training time. “I’m going to the gym before dinner, all right?”

Nobody could accuse me of lying. If they want to know what gym I visit, they should ask more questions.

“I’m not your brother, Fi. You don’t need my permission.”

I stuff every last shred of guilt about lying to her deep, deep down. She’s gone out of her way to help me adjust to living here, eating dinner with me every night and getting me a job at the Courtside Café. My relationship with Matt will survive this lie. When Gemma finds out, we might not recover. We don’t have a lifetime of history together.

She pauses, weighing her next words. “Matt wasn’t at his best last night. Zach’s like a little brother to him… he was worried, but he shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

My brother should apologize himself .

“I know. But, um, thanks for saying it.”

What would anger Matt more—me lying about gymnastics or me blowing his teammate during his wedding reception? I never want to find out, so I screw my mouth shut.

“Dinner’s at six,” she tells me. “Taco night.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

I work myself to the bone for the next several hours, eating into the time I set aside for an English assignment. Unlike homework, I can’t do gymnastics at any time of the day. At least not without worrying my coach. I told Veronica about my bipolar disorder for my protection. She can watch for signs I’m slipping into unhealthy habits, which includes over-training. She gave me the key code to the gym so I can train non-risky elements during off-hours to accommodate other obligations.

I’m strolling into the kitchen, thinking about my schedule tomorrow. With my assignment done, I’m ready to jump back into my TV show with a late-night snack… maybe pretzels or ice cream—

I let out a yelp, my hands flying to my mouth to smother the sound before Gemma or Elodie hear. I fumble for my cell phone, and I turn the flashlight toward the ground.

Zach lays on the floor, cradling his head in his hands. Milk spills from an upturned glass and, I suspect, has soaked his University of Palmer City basketball shorts.

I maneuver around the milk and crouch down, placing a hand on his shoulder, featherlight. “Zach,” I whisper.

He grunts something that resembles dizzy .

I remember the powerlessness of a concussion. I didn’t know I could sustain that injury, but gymnastics is a never-ending education on how a person can hurt their body. It’s been several years since I landed short out of a tumbling pass, the impact traveling from my feet to my brain stem.

“Okay.” I ease down beside him and lean against the cabinets. I ignore the wetness on my legs. “Keep your eyes closed. We’ll stay here until it subsides.”

He leans into me, his shoulder pressing mine. He wears a Princeton University shirt, the sleeves roughly cut. I’m in a sweatshirt, so his skin doesn’t touch mine, but still, I’m aware of every point our bodies connect. We stay quiet, huddled together for a few minutes.

Zach’s breathing eventually finds a steady rhythm. I follow its cadence, my limbs becoming weightless, my mind soothingly quiet. I struggle with falling asleep every night, but here on the floor of the kitchen, partially wet with spilled milk, next to this virtual stranger, my eyes flutter shut.

“So I didn’t dream you?”

Zach’s words jolt me awake. Does he remember telling me I’m prettier than he remembered?

“Afraid not,” I reply.

His head slumps against the cabinet, but at least his eyes remain open. They’re a pretty brown, like tree bark in colorful autumn leaves. The two years since we met have muddled my memory of him to the point I couldn’t recall his face, but I never forgot the thrill of drawing groans from the back of his throat. My first spark of feeling after my diagnosis.

“Matt Harris’s sister… what are the odds?” he murmurs, probably to himself.

I answer anyway. “You met me at his wedding. I’d say the odds weren’t terrible.” I pause. “Don’t tell my brother, please.”

“You mean my captain whose house I’m squatting in?” His head swings my way as he laughs, and the movement causes him to grimace. He closes his eyes again. “You don’t need to worry. As if anyone would believe me.”

Before I can pick at that thread, Zach cracks one eye open. “Did you know who I was?”

I shake my head and swear I see relief cross his features. “If I’d known, I definitely would’ve told you to go away when you found me.”

“Way to kick me while I’m down.” But he recovers, one side of his mouth tugging up. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.”

I glare at him. We’re close enough he can’t not see me, but he keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead. I ignore his teasing comment like he avoids acknowledging my annoyed expression.

“It’s not you. I avoid my brother’s friends as a rule.”

“Yeah? What bastard made you do that?” His Canadian accent adorably emphasizes the A. I could listen to him stress that A all day long.

Okay. No .

Absolutely not.

I do not want to listen to any hockey player talk all day.

But he’s not like other hockey players . The stupid voice in the back of my mind pushes to the surface.

I’m about to say it’s none of his business, but then he flashes his butterflies-in-my-stomach–inducing smile. His light is contagious, and my defenses drop a notch.

I bump his shoulder, but he doesn’t move. “Not everything is about a man, Zachary.”

A singular chuckle bursts from his mouth. “Not even you can get away with calling me Zachary.”

Not even me . Like I matter to him.

He grins in the same boyish way as two years ago, except now it doesn’t match the rest of him. Something I’m definitely not taking notice of. Not at all.

I turn away from him. I’m not dating this year. And I’d never date a hockey player. Especially not my brother’s teammate and friend. Zach’s like a little brother to him , Gemma said, and I refuse to mess with their relationship. My brother can be a pain in the ass, and he’s a coworker Zach can’t escape.

Zach and I temporarily live in the same house. I don’t need to layer on complications.

“It’s Zach, Briggsy, or Ten.” Zach clarifies the names he wants me to call him. He’s grinning stupidly, his dizziness long forgotten. “Some fans still call me hot-ass rookie, even though it’s my third year in the league. Or it was…”

The smile vanishes from his lips, and happiness flickers out of his eyes. Shuttered looks unnatural on him. His vulnerability is the reason I answer his earlier question, revealing more about my history with my brother than I should. I’m crossing a line I drew, but maybe sharing this with him will enforce my boundaries. He can’t want to catch my brother’s wrath either.

“Matt’s always been overprotective of me. I love him for caring, but I wish he’d trust my judgment.”

“I have one of those.” Zach’s tone no longer has its teasing edge. “Melanie’s a couple years older than me, but she treats me like she did when we were kids. I told her I’m fine, but she still calls every day.”

“Well, you did get absolutely trucked.” The words tumble from my mouth before I can consider how he’ll react to them. My careful filter doesn’t work with Zach Briggs, apparently.

One dark eyebrow raises. “You watched it?”

“I was curious.” I shrug. “What do you remember?”

Zach sucks in a breath. “Volk and I were on the ice before the game.” Volk, a.k.a. Wolves star Alexei Volkov, Kennedy’s boyfriend, and my brother’s best friend. “He pointed out this sign in the crowd asking me to a homecoming dance. I showed him one begging him to call the woman a good girl. He gets so riled when I bring up shit like that, so obviously I keep doing it.”

Zach laughs, the sound a balm to my worry for him.

“ Anyway, ” he continues, “I remember bits and pieces. Bright lights in the hallway to the locker room. Matt and Gemma in the front seat of the car. And… you.”

“ Me ?”

His ears tinge pink. “When you were in my room.”

“I remember,” I say. “I didn’t think you would.”

“You have an unforgettable face, Finley.”

I smother a smile by leaning into my arm propped, on my tucked-in legs. I’m charmed by this earnest guy sitting beside me. He’s unlike any of my brothers’ other friends. Whenever one of them risked the Harris wrath to hit on me, they used terrible lines. Stuff they’d said to a thousand girls. Somehow I know—like I know I’m meant to be a gymnast—Zach hasn’t said this to anyone else.

“We should sleep.” I push myself to my feet. Zach’s lips part, but I’m not ready for whatever he might say. “Maybe next time we run into each other, we can both be upright.”

I hold my hand out for Zach, and he takes it, warmth immediately zinging up my arm.

“You’re saying you don’t like being on the ground?” he teases.

My face burns when our gazes clash. I’m hit with memories of him standing in front of me in that locker room, staring at me with such reverence. I look away, wanting to hide from the truth. I don’t want him to think it might happen again.

I loosen my grip on Zach’s hand, but his remains steady—because of the dizziness or his last statements, I’m unsure. Regardless, I don’t resist, soaking in the zap of energy our contact ignites.

I try not to think about what it means.