Chez fucking Maurice.

Finn glares at the gold-embossed script on the restaurant's deep burgundy awning. Another pretentious French place, probably fifteen bucks a breadstick, twenty if they sprinkle sea salt on it. The valet approaches with an expectant smile, but Finn waves him off, pulling his Camaro into a spot marked "Reserved" because fuck it. Let them try to tow Mad Dog Callahan's car. He almost hopes they do. Because then he’s got the perfect excuse to bail early, Sorry, Patricia, can’t charm the new brood tonight, the Camaro’s on a joyride to the impound lot.

Ugh. He checks his watch. 8:17. Already seventeen minutes late and couldn't care less. Maybe if he drags his feet enough, this latest of Patricia's victims will give up and leave. If only.

The hostess recognizes him immediately. Of course she does. Her professional smile doesn't quite reach her eyes as she says, "Mr. Callahan. Your guest has already arrived."

Of course they have. Punctuality. The first sign of desperation.

"Great," he mutters, tugging at the collar of his button-down uncomfortably. The only reason he’s even wearing it is because Ronan swore he’d swap all his practice jerseys with bedazzled pink crop tops if he dared show up to another one of Mom’s setups in that ratty old renegade hoodie, which was perfectly comfortable, by the way.

"Mrs. Callahan specifically requested our best table," the hostess adds, leading him through the dimly lit restaurant.

Finn rolls his eyes as he exhales sharply. "Whatever. Let's get this over with."

He spots them at the table by the window—prime real estate, naturally. Figures. His mother never does anything halfway. The soft lighting catches their profile as they study the drinks menu, and something unexpected hitches in Finn's chest.

Huh.

For once, shockingly, his mother hasn't completely missed the mark on looks. From where he’s standing, they’re actually... attractive. Like, really attractive.

Doesn't matter. He burried the thought fast. Probably another country club trophy meant to be paraded around Patricia's Tuesday ladies' lunch. Another pawn in her never-ending chess game of social climbing.

He approaches the table, making no effort to soften his heavy footfalls on the polished floor, every step broadcasting exactly how much he’d rather be anywhere else. When they glanced up, for a fraction of a second Finn feels something like a punch to the solar plexus.

Fuck. He's in trouble, but he doubles down anyway.

Without waiting for pleasantries, he drops into the chair across from them. "Let's set some ground rules," he says, not bothering with hello. "This isn't a date. This is my mother refusing to acknowledge that I'm a grown-ass man capable of finding my own hookups."

Okay, Finn, play it cool. Act like you don’t care. But... why does my chest feel all weird? Like, butterflies or something? No. Definitely not fucking butterflies. Probably just... indigestion. Yeah, indigestion.

He signals a passing waiter. "Whiskey. Neat. Make it a double."

Turning back to them, he continues before they can get a word in. "I'm sure you're very nice. Probably come from the right kind of family with the right kind of connections. Probably summer in the Hamptons or whatever the fuck rich people do when they're not making life difficult for everyone else."

The waiter sets down his whiskey. Finn takes a hefty swallow, the burn a welcome distraction from the way the candlelight plays across their features.

"I've done this song and dance too many times now. Last month, I had dinner with some chick who turned out to be cataloging every piece of food I ate so she could 'optimize my nutrition plan.' Had a three-ring binder and everything." He snorts, draining half his whiskey in one go. "Month before that, one of them followed me into the bathroom and tried to climb me like a fucking tree while I was taking a piss."

Their expression shifts, but Finn barrels on, not giving them space to interrupt.

"And don't even get me started on the one who showed up with a jersey with 'Future Mrs. Callahan' stitched on the back. Like, what the actual fuck? We hadn't even ordered drinks yet." Finn runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, hyper-aware of how the person across from him hasn't taken their eyes off his face.

Not in the usual way, though. Not with that hungry, predatory gleam he's come to recognize from puck bunnies and fame-chasers. This look is... different. Almost amused.

It throws him off balance. He doesn't like being off balance.

He wanted to stop but he couldn't help himself. "Last week," he goes on, voice edging toward a laugh he doesn’t mean, “my mother set me up with a girl who brought her dog to the restaurant. Sat there feeding it bites off her plate while telling me how ‘Cooper can always tell if a man’s loyal.’ Cooper barked every time I opened my mouth. I didn’t even get to finish my steak.” He scoffs, draining the rest of his whiskey and signaling for another.

The waiter delivers a fresh drink with impressive speed. Finn wonders if the staff has been briefed on who he is. Probably. His mother's thorough like that, manipulative down to the smallest detail.

He takes another swallow of whiskey, feeling the alcohol starting to warm his blood. Why am I even saying all this? God, calm down, man. Don’t sound like a bitter mess. Don’t let them see you’re already half hooked. But then the damn candlelight catches something in their eyes, a spark of intelligence, of humor maybe and for a split second, Finn forgets the practiced speech he's been perfecting through months of these disaster dates.

Focus, dickhead.

"Look, I'm sure you're different," he says, not meaning it. "I'm sure my mother gave you the whole song and dance about how I just need the 'right kind of partner' to 'settle down.' But here's the reality, sweetheart. I'm not looking to settle down. I'm not looking for a girlfriend. I'm definitely not looking for whatever the fuck my mother thinks I need."

Their lips part slightly, like they're about to speak. Finn barrels on, determined not to let them get a word in edgewise. The moment people start talking, start sharing their life stories or asking about his, that's when these setups go from bad to worse.

"I play hockey. I'm good at it. I make a lot of money doing it. That's enough for me." He leans back in his chair, putting deliberate distance between them. "It's not enough for my mother, obviously. Patricia Callahan needs her sons to marry into the right families, produce the right grandchildren, check all the right boxes on her social climbing to-do list."

He's being a dick. He knows he's being a dick. But it's easier this way, scare them off before his traitorous body can acknowledge how the low light catches their features in all the right ways, or how they haven't once pulled out their phone to take a selfie with Detroit's most eligible bachelor goaltender.

"So here's what's going to happen," Finn says, leaning forward slightly. "You're going to finish whatever fancy cocktail you've ordered, I'm going to finish this whiskey, and then we're both going to go our separate ways. You can tell my mother whatever you want. That I was rude, that I was an asshole, that I have the manners of a caveman. She's heard it all before."

He's close enough now to catch their scent, something subtle and clean that makes his stomach do an unexpected flip. Ah shit. NOT the reaction he was going for.

The waiter approaches with menus. Finn waves him off with a sharp gesture.

"We won't be needing those," he says without breaking eye contact with his date. "Just another whiskey for me."

The waiter hesitates, looking between them.

"And whatever they're drinking," Finn adds grudgingly, nodding toward their glass with a reluctant smirk.

Okay, that wasn’t too awful. Maybe I’m not a total disaster at this.

It's only when the waiter leaves that Finn realizes he's been leaning forward, closing the distance he'd so deliberately created. He straightens, scowling at his own weakness.

Get your shit together, Callahan.