Page 107 of Puck Wild


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He could have peeled it off. Could have smoothed down the corners or straightened it or done any of the dozen small things that would have made it look more professional. Instead, Jake carried it to the counter exactly as it was—label intact, handwriting tilted at impossible angles, the word "boyfriend" written in his distinctive scrawl for anyone to see.

He caught me watching and winked, pulling two forks from the drawer with theatrical flourish.

And there it was—Jake Riley, chaos agent and unexpected romantic, claiming me with messy handwriting and store-bought pie. Not hiding what we were or making jokes to deflect from its weight. Just... owning it. Owning us.

I knew I'd never loved anyone more in my entire life.

Epilogue - Jake

Six months ago, Pickle would've been the kid setting the bake sale table on fire by accident. Now he was teaching some eight-year-old how to hold a hockey stick without taking out his own teeth. It showed patience that I didn't know Pickle possessed.

The Fort William Barn smelled like someone had detonated a Christmas bomb—pine garland wrestling with the eternal arena cocktail of popcorn grease and Zamboni exhaust. Kids shrieked across the ice in rental skates three sizes too big, and their laughter bounced off the rafters.

Someone in a full Santa suit attempted figure skating moves and failed spectacularly. Odds were 100 to 1 that it was our Coach Rusk under there.

"Medically necessary for joy!" Hog's voice boomed from the bake sale table, where he'd stationed himself like a bearded, sweater-wearing bouncer. The sweater was his creation—red and green stripes with reindeer playing hockey.

I leaned against the boards, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. We were sitting pretty in second place three months intothe season and less than two weeks from Christmas. It wasn't because we were hockey geniuses. It was because we'd figured out how to be a team instead of twenty guys who happened to share a locker room.

Evan handled the silent auction table. He wore a green sweater pushed up to his elbows. A kid in a too-big Storm jersey tugged on his sleeve, and Evan crouched down, listening with focused attention.

That was my boyfriend. Not the guy I was sleeping with or the roommate I'd accidentally fallen for. Evan Carter was mine, and I was his, too.

My phone buzzed against my ribs. Three texts, two missed calls, and a notification that made my stomach drop:

@JunoParkPod tagged you in a post.

Fuck. What now?

I shoved the phone back in my pocket without looking. Whatever digital disaster Juno had unleashed could wait. A kid in a Rangers jersey was staring at me, waiting for me to notice.

"You're the guy from the internet," he announced, loud enough for half the arena to hear. "The one who rapped about hockey."

"Guilty as charged." I grabbed a stick from the rack behind me. "But today I'm the guy who's gonna teach you how to score on Santa Claus."

The kid's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Really. First, you gotta promise me something."

"What?"

"Promise me you'll never, ever try to rap about sports. The world can't handle another one of me."

He giggled and nodded solemnly.

Twenty minutes later, a small army of kids followed me around the ice like I was the Pied Piper of minor league hockey. They wanted to know everything—how fast I could skate,whether it hurt when the puck hit me, and why Pickle had such a weird name.

"His real name's Travis," I explained to a gap-toothed girl who couldn't have been more than six. "But when he was little, he ate so many pickles his mom started calling him Pickle, and it stuck."

"That's dumb," she declared.

"Most hockey nicknames are dumb. That's what makes them perfect."

"Is that really Santa?" one of the kids asked, pointing at Coach's red-suited figure tracing figure eights on the ice.

"That's the grumpiest Santa in all of northwestern Ontario," I confirmed. "Legend says if you ask him for hockey gear, he just grunts and tells you to work on your backchecking."

The kids erupted in giggles. One of them—a tiny dynamo in head-to-toe Storm gear—tugged on my sleeve.