Socks ≠ Refrigerated. This is not a metaphor. —E
I snorted, and I pulled a Sharpie from the supply drawer and added underneath:
It could be. Check the expiration date.
I capped the marker and slung my bag over one shoulder.
Two infractions today—
One sock in the fridge.
One heart in my throat.
Call it a win.
Chapter four
Evan
Ihad my stick taped before most of the team finished their coffee.
The equipment room was mine for exactly seventeen minutes before the chaos started—seventeen minutes of clean tape jobs and aligned gear. I'd stretched in the hallway, checked my blade edges twice, and mentally rehearsed every defensive zone coverage we'd drilled that week.
The whiteboard in the hallway held the day's scrimmage pairings, written in Coach's messy scrawl. I already knew what I'd find but hoped I was wrong. Carter/Riley. Again.
I stared at the board, willing the letters to rearrange themselves into something more manageable. Like Carter/Murphy. Or Carter/anyone who didn't treat hockey like performance art.
"Roomie!"
Jake's voice ricocheted off my spine. I didn't turn around. I felt his arrival—loose energy and morning swagger, humming something under his breath.
"Ready for some top drawer disorder?"
His hand landed on my shoulder, warm and solid through my practice jersey. Too familiar. Too comfortable.
I nodded once. "Ready."
Coach Rusk appeared in the doorway. He looked at me from across the room—not Jake, me—and he gave a slight nod.You'll deal.
Notyou'll succeedoryou'll figure it out.Justdeal.
I'd been dealing my entire life. Foster homes that lasted six months if I was lucky. Teammates who tolerated me as long as I was useful and invisible. A juniors coach who'd benched me for a week after I'd missed a team party because I was working on defensive zone homework instead of getting drunk in a hotel room.
Dealing was what I did.
Jake wasn't a problem I could solve with a spreadsheet or a labeling system. He was a storm front on skate blades, with an unpredictable smile that meant twelve different things depending on the light.
And somehow, Coach thought pairing us together would work.
I adjusted my shoulder pads and tried not to think about how Jake's hand felt on my shoulder. Warm. Steady. Real.
