Jake faced me. "For what?"
I risked glancing at him. "Going after Murphy."
"Guy was being a dick."
"Still."
"Forget it." He bumped my shoulder. "Partners look out for each other, right?"
He hadn't said teammates or linemates or any of the other hockey jargon players normally chirped. He'd said partners. That was more dangerous.
Jake was close—his knee was almost touching mine.
"Yeah," I said. "Partners."
He stared at me momentarily, long enough to realize he had really long eyelashes for someone who ate cereal for dinner and rapped about power plays.
"Good," he said quietly.
I sat there like an idiot, wondering when I'd started registering the details of my roommate's face.
"You two gonna kiss, or should we give you some privacy?" The voice of Jamie, the other trainer, rang out in the arena.
"Easy there, Jamie." Hog's voice boomed from somewhere behind us. "Save the romance commentary for your podcasts."
Something small and soft hit my shoulder. I looked down to find a tiny knitted object that looked like... a puck?
"For your tender heart, Spreadsheet," Hog announced cheerfully. "Knitted with love and a fuck-ton of glitter."
I picked up the puck cozy, turning it over in my uninjured hand. It was well-made—tight, even stitches, perfectly puck-sized. The yarn was soft blue, matching the color of the Storm's away jerseys.
"You made this?"
Hog beamed. "Made twelve of 'em. Figured the team needed more emotional support accessories."
Jake snorted. "You knit emotional support accessories?"
"Knitting is meditation, Vegas. Very good for processing feelings and building finger strength." Hog flexed his massive hands. "Plus, chicks dig a man with domestic skills."
Jake grinned. "Pretty sure that's not what chicks dig about you."
I nearly smiled, despite the throbbing in my palm and my world now tilted in a new direction. There was something surreal about holding a hand-knitted puck cozy while getting patched up by a trainer, surrounded by teammates who apparently thought my love life was fair game for public discussion.
"All set," Luka announced, securing the last piece of medical tape around my palm.
"Thanks."
He packed up his kit and moved on to check someone's tweaked shoulder.
"You good to keep going?" Jake asked.
"Good to go."
"Fuck yeah." He stood and grabbed his stick. "I'm pretty sure Murphy's still out there, and I've got some unfinished business."
"Jake—"
"Kidding." He paused. "Mostly."
