The laptop was still open on the counter where I'd left it that morning, cursor blinking in the familiar spreadsheet that tracked everything from grocery expenses to practice schedules and Jake's various infractions against household harmony.
I stared at the screen, thumb working unconsciously over the stitches of Hog's puck cozy. The current entry was from yesterday:Socks in Fridge: 4. Late-Night Singing: 5. Podcast Volume Violation: 7.
Clinical. Detached. A running tally of annoyances that reduced Jake to a series of problems to be managed.
Now, that wasn't the whole story.
What about how he'd made the team laugh on his first day, turning potential humiliation into something closer to celebration? What about his actual hockey skills, how he couldthread passes that shouldn't exist, and find scoring chances hidden in plain sight? What about the fierce protectiveness I'd witnessed when he'd stepped up without hesitation when someone tried to hurt me?
What about the cookies hidden in the fridge like a secret?
I deleted the current entry and typed something new:
October 15. Slash. No break. +1 save. -1 predictability.After scratching my head with my uninjured hand, I added:Note: Partnerships require adjustment.
I pressed the peas harder against my injured hand and wondered how long I could stay angry at someone who stood up for me.
I was beginning to suspect the answer was not very long at all.
Tomorrow there would be practice again, and Jake would be there with his ridiculous grins and his willingness to rewrite every system I'd spent years perfecting. For the first time, I was looking forward to it.
The realization should have terrified me.
Instead, it felt like coming alive.
Chapter five
Jake
The hallway reeked of industrial floor cleaner and whatever they used to mop up spilled beer from the junior game the night before.
I was sneaking past the media alcove, Gatorade in hand, trying to avoid warm-ups for another ten minutes. No one trusted a guy who stretched before he chirped, and I had a reputation to maintain.
What I hadn't counted on was Juno Park.
She was leaning against the wall like she'd been waiting for me specifically, one combat boot propped behind her, and a digital recorder in her hand. Her blue hair caught the overhead lights, and she wore a wicked smile.
"Jake Riley." She pushed off the wall. "Fancy meeting you here."
I stopped mid-stride. "Uh. Hi?"
"Walk with me." Not a request, an order.
We fell into step down the hallway, past old team photos. Juno moved like she owned the place. Basically, she did. Her podcast had more downloads than the Storm had season ticket holders.
She clicked the recorder on. "So, which came first? The rap video or the crisis of identity?"
I nearly choked on my Gatorade. "Holy hell. Right into it, huh?"
"I find it saves time." She kept walking. "Most people spend twenty minutes dancing around what they want to know."
"Fair enough."
Through the arena's main doors, I heard the Zamboni making its final pass. The sound usually grounded me.
"The crisis came first," I said. "And the video skipped along behind."
"First how?"
