The locker room after practice was always a different atmosphere than before—heavier and saturated with sweat. Steam drifted from the showers, mixing with the smell of tape adhesive and whatever industrial soap the rink supplied.
I sat in front of my stall, methodically cleaning blood from the seam of my practice glove with a damp towel.
Jake was across the room with Hog and Pickle, gesturing wildly about something that had them both laughing. His hair was still damp with sweat, sticking up in a dozen different directions, and he'd stripped down to his base layer and shorts. I stared at the lean muscle definition across his shoulders and how his hands moved when he spoke, animated and expressive.
He caught me looking and flashed a crooked grin. I turned away immediately, focusing on the stubborn bloodstain that refused to come clean.
"Didn't know the Vegas show did rescue missions."
The voice came from somewhere behind me. I didn't turn around to see who'd said it, but I recognized the tone. The words amounted to friendly chirping, but the tone was sharper underneath.
"Guy's got a hero complex or something," another voice added. "Probably thinks he's gonna get a reality show out of it."
I kept scrubbing at the glove, jaw clenched tight. Part of me wanted to turn around, to say something in Jake's defense, but I didn't say anything.
I never said anything.
The voices moved on to other topics—weekend plans and someone's girlfriend drama. The moment passed.
Like always.
I pressed my thumb into the soft yarn of Hog's knitted puck cozy. It was surprisingly comforting—something about the texture and the absurdity of receiving emotional support accessories from a teammate who probably bench pressed more than my car weighed.
Heat built behind my eyes, and I told myself it was the lingering pain from my injured hand. Nothing more.
Jake Riley wasn't perfect. He was loud, feral, and seemingly incapable of taking anything seriously for more than thirty seconds at a time. Still, he was brave in ways I'd never learned how to be.
When someone had tried to hurt his partner, he'd stepped up without hesitation.
When it mattered, he'd chosen action over silence.
The apartment was quiet when I got home. Jake's gear bag wasn't by the door, he hadn't scattered his shoes across the entryway, and there was no sound of off-key singing drifting from the bathroom.
He was out. Probably at The Drop with half the team, rehashing the practice and collecting high-fives for his heroic defense of my honor. His absence should have brought relief—a few hours of peaceful solitude to process my day.
Instead, the emptiness weighed heavily on my chest.
The kitchen called to me how it always did when my thoughts were too loud in my head. I pulled cookie dough from the freezer—chocolate chip, pre-portioned and ready to bake—and set it on the counter to soften.
Next, I opened the fridge to reach for my pitcher of iced tea.
There was a note stuck to one of Jake's containers, written in his distinctive scrawl on a piece of tape from the medical kit:For whoever's bleeding but still hot. (Yes, that's you.)
I stared at it. He'd assumed I'd find it, understand what he meant, and accept my roommate calling me hot.
I did.
A sensation swept through me, something akin to fondness.
I opened the container. Inside were three of the chocolate chip-cornflake cookies I'd made the night Jake moved in. They were the ones I'd left on the counter as a peace offering, not expecting him to notice or care.
He'd saved them and hidden them in the fridge with a label that was half-joke and half-confession.
I had to sit on one of the kitchen stools before my knees gave out entirely.
I pulled a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and pressed it against my injured palm, hissing slightly at the cold shock. The medical tape was already loosening at the edges, and I'd need to change the dressing soon. Luka's instructions echoed in my head: keep it dry, change it daily, and don't do anything stupid with it.
It was reasonable advice, and I'd follow it to the letter.
