I sat back, immediately missing the warmth of Jake's body while I watched him frantically dig around the cushions. I could still taste him on my lips.
"Got it," Jake said, pulling the phone free and glancing at the screen. His expression shifted from frustrated to resigned. "It's Pickle."
RING.
"This late?"
"Kid has a gift for timing." Jake swiped to answer the call. "This better be life or death, Pickle."
I couldn't hear the other side of the conversation, but I watched Jake's face cycle through disbelief, amusement, and weary acceptance in thirty seconds.
"Your car door is what? Frozen shut?" Jake ran his free hand through his already disheveled hair. "How are you even—no, don't answer that. Are you hurt?"
A pause. Jake's mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.
"Okay, but why didn't you call a locksmith? Or AAA? Or literally anyone else?" Another pause. "Right. Because I'm experienced with emergencies. That's not... okay, fine. Where are you?"
The last shreds of the moment dissolved around us. Jake shifted away from me, his attention divided between the phone call and internal calculations about rescue logistics.
"No, do not try to climb out through the sunroof. Just... stay put. I'll be there in twenty minutes." Jake ended the call. "Duty calls. Rookie rescue mission."
"Of course."
He ran both hands through his hair, trying to tame the damage my fingers had done, but only succeeded in making it worse. The result was charmingly disheveled, like he'd been thoroughly kissed on his roommate's couch.
Jake explained the situation to me. "Kid's trapped in his car in the Walmart parking lot. He says the door handle froze, and instead of calling anyone with actual problem-solving skills, he decided I was his best option."
"Sounds about right for Pickle."
"Yeah, well." Jake shoved his hands into his pockets, then immediately pulled them out again. "He's got snacks, so it's not life-threatening, but I can't leave a teammate stranded."
An awkward pause stretched between us. Jake hovered near the coffee table, weight shifting from foot to foot like he was waiting for permission to leave.
I didn't offer it.
He seemed to understand my silence, or at least accept it. He grabbed his jacket from where he'd draped it over the back of the kitchen chair.
"Later, Spreadsheet."
"Later, Vegas."
The apartment was too still after he left. I stared at the closed door for a long time before returning to the couch. After I sat, I didn't reopen my laptop. I didn't move at all.
Chapter nine
Jake
The tape went around my stick blade in perfect spirals, black on black, each layer tight enough to strangle doubt.
I'd been sitting in my stall for twenty minutes, rewrapping the same piece of composite, hoping that it held the secrets to not fucking up. Third time was the charm, or the curse. I was never sure.
"Vegas, you planning to mummify that thing or play hockey with it?"
Hog's voice boomed across the locker room, cutting through my ritual like a foghorn blasting through lake mist. He lobbed a Gatorade bottle at my head—orange flavor, the good stuff—and I caught it without looking up from my tape job.
"Just making sure it's perfect. You know. Professional standards."
"Professional standards?" Hog's laugh ricocheted off the walls. "You look like a hockey player today. Should we be worried?"
