The worst part? I meant it. In that moment, with panic crawling up my throat, I meant every cruel word.
My phone buzzed on the counter—probably Juno, following up on the podcast invitation. I didn't look at it. Instead, I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair and headed for the door.
I needed air. I needed space. I needed to get away from the kitchen that smelled like Earl Grey and good intentions before I did something even more stupid than I already had.
I drove through Thunder Bay's mostly empty streets while my brain tried to catch up with what I'd just done. The dashboard clock read 8:04 PM. It was already dark out, and the radio played some mournful country song about broken hearts and bad decisions. It was a little too on the nose.
I ended up at Hillcrest Park. Hog suggested I go there. He claimed it was the most beautiful view in Western Ontario.
I parked near the overlook and killed the engine, surrounded by silence while Lake Superior stretched below me like a dark mirror. The wind off the lake cut through my jacket when I stepped out of the car, sharp enough to make my eyes water.October in Thunder Bay didn't mess around. I should have gone back inside, cranked the heat, and driven home like a rational person.
Instead, I gazed at the overlook. The city spread out below me, all scattered lights and quiet streets. If I'd come in the daylight, I could have seen the sleeping giant in the distance, a massive collection of stone hills that merged on the horizon.
From a distance, Thunder Bay was peaceful, a place where people made good decisions and didn't blow up their lives over cups of tea. I saw the arena, a squat building that had become the closest thing to home I'd known in years.
As I rubbed my chin, I remembered hiking with my dad when I was maybe ten, somewhere in the Rockies during a family vacation. The trail had seemed endless, all switchbacks and false summits, and I'd complained the entire way up.
I whined. "What's the point? It's just more walking."
Dad was patient. "Sometimes the point isn't the destination, Jake. Sometimes it's proving to yourself you can make it to the top."
We'd reached the summit as the sun was setting, painting the mountains gold and orange and purple in ways that made my ten-year-old brain go quiet for once. Dad put his hand on my shoulder. "See? Worth it."
I'd felt proud that day. Accomplished. Like I'd earned something real.
Standing at the overlook, I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt that way about anything.
I pulled a notebook out of my jacket pocket—the same dog-eared spiral I'd been carrying for months, filled with half-finished thoughts and lyrics that never quite said what I meant. The cover was soft from handling, and it had bent corners from being shoved into pockets and gear bags.
I opened it to a blank page and stared at the white space, pen hovering uselessly in my hand. Nothing came—no words or clever turns of phrase. I couldn't make sense of the mess I'd just made.
I thought about Evan's face during our fight. His face went blank when I suggested believing in me was a mistake. Now, he was probably filing away my words in some mental spreadsheet labeled "Reasons Jake Riley Is What Everyone Said He Was."
I believed in you before anyone else around here did.
He'd seen something worth protecting in me when I was still the reality TV villain who rapped about puck life. I threw it back in his face.
The wind picked up. My hands were numb around the pen, but I didn't move. I didn't go back to the car or try to write or do any of the things that usually helped when my brain started eating itself alive.
I stood there and thought about what we were—Evan and me. Teammates, for sure. Roommates by necessity. Something more by choice, if I hadn't successfully torched it with my spectacular talent for self-destruction.
I wanted him to believe in me. I wanted Evan Carter—Mr. Spreadsheet, Lord of Alphabetized Spice Racks—to look at my mess of a life and decide it was worth sticking around. I wanted him to see me, all of me, and not run.
A freight train called out from somewhere near the port, its horn echoing across the water in long, mournful tones. The sound seemed to go on forever before finally fading into the Thunder Bay night.
I closed the notebook without writing anything and shoved it back in my pocket. My phone was still in the car, probably buzzing with texts I didn't want to read. The apartment was probably dark by now, Evan winding down to sleep behindhis closed door, dreaming of proper defensive positioning and perfectly baked cookies.
As I returned to the car, my sneakers crunched against the gravel. I sat behind the wheel without starting the engine. Maybe Dad had been right about the hike. Perhaps the point wasn't reaching the summit—maybe it was proving you could climb at all, even when the trail looked impossible and your legs were shaking and you wanted to quit at every step.
Maybe it was time to find out if I was brave enough to keep climbing, even when I couldn't see where the path was leading.
The engine turned over on the second try, and I pointed the car toward home.
Chapter twelve
Evan
The ceiling had exactly fourteen water stains, and I'd counted them twice.
