Still, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
That's what happened when good things found me—they lasted long enough for me to believe in them before exploding in my face. The goal was real enough, but my sense of belonging…
It was dangerous.
"YO, VEGAS!" Pickle's voice cut through my internal spiral. He'd climbed onto the bench in front of his stall, using it as a makeshift stage. He gave off manic post-game energy like lightning had struck him.
"Speech time!" he announced to the room. "Big ups to Vegas—big-time goal tonight, and we didn't even get a TikTok dance!"
A chorus of cheers and laughter erupted. Someone threw a towel at Pickle's head.
"DON'T GIVE HIM IDEAS!" Hog roared, pointing at me with a protein bar. "Kid's got enough viral content for one lifetime!"
I opened my mouth to chirp back, but then I thought a little celly dance could be fun. Something stupid and self-aware that would get the guys laughing and trending on social media for the right reasons this time.
The thought lasted precisely two seconds before I shoved it down. That was the old Jake, who turned every moment into viral content. This Jake—sweaty, tired, floating on the aftertaste of his first real goal—deserved better than a punchline.
"Thanks, Pickle, but I'm saving my moves for when I score a hat trick."
"When, not if," someone called out. "Confidence!"
The celebration continued around me—guys comparing battle scars, rehashing plays, and planning whatever ruckus they'd cause at The Drop later. I started peeling off my gear methodically, shoulder pads first, then shin guards, each piece hitting the floor with a satisfying thunk.
That's when Coach Rusk reappeared.
He held the game puck like it was a precious stone. "Gentlemen, hell of a game tonight. Hell of a team effort."
He paused, scanning the room with his sharp eyes.
"There's one guy who reminded us tonight that ugly goals count double. Showing up matters more than showing off."
He wasn't looking at me, but I knew who he was talking about.
"Cereal." Coach used the old nickname and tossed the puck to Evan, who caught it with reflexes that would make a cat envious. "This one's yours to give."
Evan stared down at the black rubber in his palm. The room held its collective breath.
He stood and walked directly to my stall.
He didn't say anything at first. When he held out the puck, I saw it was completely blank. No label. No Sharpie inscription. No "Game Winner - 10/15" or "First Goal - J. Riley" or any of the usual hockey memorabilia bullshit.
It was a puck. Raw. Unmarked. Real.
"You earned it," Evan said quietly.
His hand brushed mine when I took it from him. That wasn't an accident.
I swear the floor tilted. The noise of the locker room faded to background static. Evan's gray eyes were darker than usual, focused entirely on me.
"Thanks" was the only word I could force out.
He nodded once and returned to his stall, leaving me sitting there with a game puck, my first in Thunder Bay.
The celebration continued around us, but I barely heard it. I turned the puck over in my hands, feeling its weight and perfect imperfection. No label meant no categorization. No filing system. No way for Evan to organize it in his carefully controlled world.
He'd given me something that existed outside his rules.
That was everything.
