Hog grinned. "Good for her. Everyone deserves someone who challenges them professionally and kisses them stupid afterward."
That earned him a look from all of us.
"What?"
The podcast continued, and I knew we were getting close to the part where Juno would inevitably turn her attention to the elephant in the room. Or the hockey players in the room. Whatever.
"But let's talk about the real story here. Jake Riley and Evan Carter..."
And there it was.
"...because honestly? If you'd told me six months ago that a reality TV refugee and a guy who color-codes his sock drawer would become the emotional core of a hockey team, I'd have suggested you switch to decaf. But here we are."
I wanted to crawl under the bleachers. Or into the Zamboni tunnel. Anywhere that wasn't sitting in a circle with my teammates while a journalist dissected my relationship.
Evan's thumb traced across my knuckles. Still there. Still solid.
"The thing about Jake and Evan—and yes, they're listening to this, hi boys—is that they've figured out something most people spend years trying to learn. How to let someone else make you better without losing who you are in the process."
"She's not wrong," Hog murmured.
"Take their on-ice chemistry. Riley's got the vision and the hands, but he used to play like he was auditioning for something instead of actually playing hockey. Carter's got the defensive instincts of a chess grandmaster, but he played it so safe you'd think risk was personally offensive to him. Put themtogether? Suddenly, Riley's making the smart plays because he trusts Carter to be there for the cleanup. And Carter's jumping into the rush because he knows Riley will find him."
Pickle nodded like Juno was delivering the hockey gospel. "That's exactly what happens. It's like they have some telepathic thing."
"It's called chemistry, Junior," Kowalczyk said. "Some people have it."
"Some people work for it," Evan corrected quietly.
"But the real story isn't the hockey, is it? It's watching two people figure out that love doesn't have to be neat or predictable or Instagram-ready. Sometimes it's messy and complicated and involves way too many arguments about proper labeling techniques."
"How does she know about the labels?" I hissed.
"Because you told her," Evan said. "During the interview. When she asked about living together."
Right. The interview. When I'd rambled for five minutes about Evan's organizational systems and how they made me feel safe instead of constrained. Apparently, I'd been more honest than I thought.
"What I love about their story—and this is where I get embarrassingly sentimental, so bear with me—is that it's not a redemption arc. It's an evolution. Jake didn't need saving, and Evan didn't need fixing. They only needed to find someone who saw their chaos or their control and thought, 'Yeah, I can work with that.'"
The episode moved on to other teams and stories, but I barely heard the rest. My brain was stuck on that word: evolution. Not redemption or rehabilitation. Not any of the other media-friendly narratives that had been plastered on my life for the past year.
Evolution. I liked it. I was becoming something better, not trying to erase something broken.
"That wasn't so bad," Evan said when the episode ended. "She made us sound almost functional."
"Almost," I agreed.
Hog scrolled through his phone. "Speaking of functional." He turned his phone around so we could see the screen. "You two might want to take a look at this."
I saw enough of the thumbnail to know precisely what it was. Me in a Santa suit and Evan in an elf costume from a fundraiser last week.
"Oh no," Evan said.
"Oh yes," Hog said, and hit play.
The video was fifteen seconds long and filmed from across the room with shaky phone camera work. Evan approached the bake sale table where I sat in full Santa regalia. He pointed at something—probably Hog's festive seasonal banana bread. I leaned across the table to grab it.
And then the mistletoe. Someone had hung it above the bake sale table as a joke, and when Evan looked up at it, I kissed him—Full-on, no hesitation, right in front of half of Thunder Bay.