"No, I mean..." He paused, searching for words. "I mean, they're perfect. The cornflakes add something I wasn't expecting. Sweet, but with texture. Complex."
Goosebumps rose on my forearms. He gave my cookies a thoughtful review, treating them like they deserved consideration. It shouldn't have meant anything, but it meant everything.
"I stress-bake." Immediately after I said it, I bit my lip, regretting my words.
"Good stress, or bad stress?"
"Is there a difference?"
Jake took another bite. "Good stress makes better cookies."
He finished his cookie and brushed crumbs from his fingers. "So, what happens now?"
We both migrated to the living room without discussion, settling onto opposite ends of the couch with safe distance between us, or so I thought. It wasn't defensive. It was comfortable.
Jake tucked one leg under himself. I sat with both feet on the floor, laptop closed on the coffee table in front of me, hands resting on my knees like I was attending a formal meeting.
Outside, Thunder Bay settled into its evening rhythm. Wind off Lake Superior rattled the windows, and the smell of the cold water seeped in around the edges, signaling approaching winter. A freight train called out from somewhere near the port, its horn echoing across the downtown core in long, mournful notes.
Jake broke the silence first. "What changed?"
I stared at his face, focusing on his hair falling in waves across his forehead. "What do you mean?"
"You hated me. Last week, you updated spreadsheets about my sock infractions and gave me looks that could freeze antifreeze. Now you're offering me unmarked baked goods." He gestured toward the kitchen. "That's not incremental progress. That's a complete system overhaul."
It was a perceptive observation.
"I was wrong." The words came out in a tentative tone. I rarely admitted personal failures.
"About what?"
"I didn't think you could actually play."
Jake shifted restlessly. "You're not the only one."
"I thought you were all performance. I thought the hockey was just another stage for the Jake Riley show."
"And now?"
I considered the question, thinking about how he'd defended me from Murphy's slash. He'd positioned himself between me and a potential threat without hesitation or calculation. That hadn't been performance. It was instinct—the same instinct that made him a better player than his reputation suggested.
"I think I missed something important. You don't play like someone who's performing. You play like someone who's trying to prove something."
Jake laughed, a soft, brittle chuckle. "Story of my life. Always trying to prove something."
"What are you trying to prove?"
He was quiet momentarily, drumming his fingers against his leg. "That I exist, I guess. That I'm more than the space I take up." He shifted position, pulling his other leg onto the couch to face me fully. "I grew up in a house with four kids. Big family, everyone loud and competing for attention. My parents are good people, but they had this system—squeakiest wheel and all."
I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
"So I learned to be more… there. Funnier. A lot more drama. Whatever it took to cut through the noise."
I swallowed hard. I understood the mechanics of performance as survival. I'd perfected my version with control instead of chaos.
"That sounds exhausting," I said.
"Yeah, well. At least people remember you when you've exhausted them."
