Stick Your Landing (All In #3)

4. Zach

4

Zach

Finley rushes to turn the radio off before the sound blows a hole straight through my head.

“Thank you,” I gasp, relief pouring through me. I tried listening to music when I woke up this morning, but my head felt like it had been placed in a blender. “It’s been rough sledding these past few days.”

“No problem,” she says, placing her hand on my seat and turning around to reverse out of the driveway. “I remember how shitty loud noises are the first few days. It’s why you should’ve stayed home.”

“Just what I want to do, sit around in silence thinking about how I can’t play hockey.” Then her earlier words register. “Wait—you said you remember what it’s like? Have you had a concussion?”

Finley laughs. “Yep. I’ve probably been injured more than you have.”

“No way,” I say in disbelief—not only over her statement, but also how she’s able to distract me so easily. Justin fucking Ward ran me down on the ice and ruined my season. I shouldn’t be laughing like it’s one big joke, the way I treat everything else, but it’s nice to take a break from my spiraling thoughts.

Finley shimmies in her seat, sitting taller. “Care to put your theory to the test? I’ve been injured a lot.”

Sitting in the passenger seat beside a smiling Finley, her hair gleaming gold in the sunshine, is surreal. She’s lived rent-free in my mind for so long, it’s like my dream girl came to life.

“You’re on. This will be a short game. Broken finger.”

“Sprained wrist,” she replies.

“Shoulder tendonitis.”

She lifts her hands off the steering wheel and points a finger in my direction. “Had that one too.”

I raise an eyebrow. Does she play hockey? Matt has two brothers who play in the NHL. His parents visited a few times when the brothers were playing against each other and invited me to their family dinners… where no one said a word about Finley or alluded to another sibling. What gives?

I shove the question aside and refocus on our screwed-up game. “Bruised rib.”

“Sprained ankle.” She grins. “I can go all day, Zach.”

I suppress a groan. I wish I could suppress the images her words conjure, but no such luck. I get a flash of Finley beside me in bed, blond hair against dark sheets, a flirty grin on her face.

She’s screwing with me, right? She has to know how I feel, how she makes me feel.

“Split lip. Puck to the face and a punch to the face.” I press a finger to my mouth. I’m lucky I haven’t managed to lose any teeth, especially with the greasy way I play. “You going to explain what caused your injuries?”

Finley makes a sharp right into a parking lot, and the answer to my question comes into view. She parks in an empty space in front of a massive beige-and-glass building with a sign reading PALMER CITY GYMNASTICS in thick black caps. Before I can say anything, Finley reaches into the backseat for a backpack and hops out of the car.

I scramble to catch up to her. “Gemma made it sound like you were headed to a gym gym .”

She stops abruptly, her arm sweeping toward the building. “This is a gym gym.”

“Is this why you didn’t want me to come with you?”

“No one knows I’m training again,” she says with a nod, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tension deflates from my chest now I know she’s not actively trying to avoid me. But it raises the question of why Finley needs to hide her gymnastics from her family.

“I couldn’t exactly say no to Gemma without raising suspicions.”

“You could’ve left me on the side of the road somewhere so I didn’t learn your secret.”

“Talk about a move that would damn me straight to hell, leaving a concussed suspicious-looking dude on the side of the road.”

I hold up my hand. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m wearing sunglasses, not a quiver full of arrows.”

“A quiver full of arrows?” she repeats slowly. “What century do you think this is?”

“It’s a video game thing.” I shrug, hating how shit I am at talking to girls. I wish I could skip the flirting and awkward dating stage and move right into a comfortable relationship. I think I’d thrive there. “So you brought me because you don’t want bad karma?”

She scuffs the top of her sneaker on the pavement, eyes fixed on the ground. “And… maybe I want someone to know.”

A burst of heat fills my chest at the idea she’s choosing to confide in me, to share a part of her life she’s concealing from those closest to her.

“You can’t tell Matt or Gemma or any of your little hockey friends.”

Little hockey friends ? She can’t be serious. Her brother is a giant in a game of giants.

“I won’t say anything, Finley. You can trust me.”

She scoffs. “I don’t even know you.”

“You know me a little.”

Finley rolls her eyes, dismissing the night I can’t forget as if it were nothing. “I’d feel better if we come to an agreement to make sure.”

Those words shouldn’t sting, but they do. I’m drawn to her. I’d trust her with a secret without hesitation. She watched over me while I slept and recovered from my concussion. I thought it meant she connected with me too. Apparently, she did it out of obligation.

“What do you want?” Finley asks.

“Want?” I repeat.

Evidently around Finley, I word vomit multiple sentences or croak out short phrases.

She clarifies. “From me. There’s gotta be a way I can repay you for lying to my brother. I know I’m putting you in a bad position.”

I shake my head. “I don’t—”

“Zach. What. Do. You. Want?”

As she pouts at me and cocks a hip to the side, all I can think about is kissing her. I want to spend time with her, get to know her. I want her to give me a chance. I shove those desires down because it doesn’t matter what I want. Finley is off-limits and she isn’t interested in me.

When I hesitate again, she says, “We’re not going inside until you tell me.”

“Keep bringing me here?” I blurt.

“That’s all you want?”

“You remember I told you about my sister? She’s worried about me after that hit and how I’ll handle being away from hockey. She already thinks I’m lonely so far away from my family, but I’m usually with the team during the season. Now though…”

Her arms drop from her chest and her voice falls an octave. “Are you?”

“Sometimes,” I admit, swallowing hard.

She doesn’t say anything, only stares.

I bite the inside of my lip to stop myself from word vomiting anything else. Not that I can make myself look any less stupid in her eyes.

“I get that,” she says finally. “I promise you’ll get bored here, watching me do the same routines over and over.”

As if I could ever tire of watching you .

“You sure that’s all you want?” she repeats the question.

It’s not, of course, but it’s all I can ask for. It’ll have to be enough. “It’s better than sitting at home alone,” I say instead.

She holds her hand out. “Fine, but if you change your mind because you’re bored, you still have to keep my secret, okay? We have a deal?”

I take her hand, flashing back to last night when I held it embarrassingly tight after she found me on the kitchen floor. Her hand in mine brought me safety, and I needed it. She needs to know she can trust me too.

“Deal.”

The quiet, empty gym reminds me of the rink when Volk and I practice early.

Fuck, I miss the rink. It’s my second day without hockey, and I don’t know how much longer I can stand it. The boys play tonight, starting a West Coast road trip, and I can’t watch. I’m not allowed to send them texts either. Damn screen ban.

My life doesn’t make sense without hockey. It's as unnatural as I assume Finley’s is without gymnastics.

Her eyes light up as soon as we walk in, any worry from our conversation sliding right off her. She warms up on a stationary bike, lost in thought, her gaze sliding around the space, taking it all in.

Minutes later, she dismounts and strides to the floor. It’s about fifty feet from where I sit on a couch in an area where gymnasts can watch recordings of their performances. Who knew gymnastics and hockey had this much in common? Massive amounts of injury and hours of studying film.

“You said no one knows you’re training again,” I start and abruptly stop.

I’m having déjà vu watching Finley undress in the same room as me, like it’s no big deal. After years of putting her body on display in her gymnastics uniform, she might be used to it, but I’m not remotely adjusted to seeing her half-naked. I’ll always be tongue-tied, in awe of her.

“That’s right,” she confirms.

Finley kicks her discarded sweatpants into a pile with her sweatshirt, leaving her in a skintight, long-sleeved bodysuit, bright pink at her shoulders and collarbone, darkening to black when it reaches her arms. The elaborate silver design over her chest shimmers as she swings her legs and arms to warm up. Her leg muscles flex with the movements, strong, toned, and devastating. I’m mesmerized.

“It’s called a leotard,” Finley smirks.

“What?” I croak.

“What I’m wearing,” she clarifies. Her shit-eating grin suggests she knows exactly why I'm struggling to form sentences. She runs in place, pushing her knees into the air until they tap her hands out in front of her. “I have more on now than I did when we… went swimming.”

I look away, my heart pounding out of control at the memory I’ve had on repeat since Finley came back into my life. I wasn’t sure she remembered.

I don’t know where to take the conversation from here, especially with the way she’s overwhelmed my body—my palms slick with sweat, my tongue heavy and immovable, my face heating like a furnace.

I clear my throat. “How long have you been away from gymnastics?”

Her movement hitches, her body locking for a second mid-lunge. “Two years.”

Huh . That’s around the time we met.

Finley sinks back into the lunge, resuming her dynamic stretches. It’s a version of our warm-up, except no one is on their knees thrusting their hips in suggestive movements people celebrate on the internet.

“Because of an injury?”

It’s a subtler pause this time, but it’s there. Finley Harris has shown nothing but confidence since the moment I met her. I like this reminder that she’s human, but I hate seeing something ruffle her. Even before she answers, I decide to drop this line of questioning.

“Something like that.” She steps one leg forward and sinks into a split.

I swallow hard, turning away from her before the twitch in my pants becomes a problem.

I remain quiet for the rest of her warm-up.