A kitchen in Mississauga. Age fifteen. Third foster placement in two years. This one a split-level in the suburbs with stained carpet and a foster dad who didn't speak unless it was about hockey stats or car repairs.
The house smelled like cigarettes and instant coffee, and the pantry was a disaster—cereal boxes shoved behind canned soup, peanut butter jars with lids sticky from fingers that never got washed, and oatmeal packets scattered like someone had given up halfway through putting groceries away.
Three other boys lived there. Marcus, who hoarded food under his bed. Danny, who'd been there two years and acted like he owned the place. And Kyle, who cried at night when he thought no one could hear.
I'd spent my first week keeping my head down, learning the unspoken rules. Don't touch Marcus's stuff. Don't challenge Danny's authority. Don't ask Kyle if he's okay.
The kitchen drove me insane. Every morning, I'd watch people dig through the mess looking for cereal, getting frustrated, and slamming cabinet doors. I feared the infectious disorder wouldspread to the rest of the house and my life until nothing made sense anymore.
So, one night, after everyone had gone to bed, I snuck downstairs and started organizing. Alphabetized the condiments. Grouped the oatmeal packets by flavor. Turned all the labels to face forward. It took two hours, and my knees ached from kneeling on the linoleum, but when I finished, the pantry looked like it belonged to people who planned ahead. People who stayed.
No one noticed the next morning. Marcus found his cereal faster, but he didn't say anything. Danny grabbed the peanut butter without cursing at the sticky lid. Kyle got his instant oatmeal—apple cinnamon, his favorite—without first digging through six other flavors.
That night, for the first time since arriving, I slept through until morning without waking up to check if my duffel bag was still packed by the door.
Back in the present, I smoothed the label onto the sock drawer and pressed down each corner until it held firm. The memory faded, but the emotions lingered. I had a desperate need to impose order and prove I could make things better, even if no one requested my assistance.
The equipment room was perfectly organized. Labels crisp and straight. Gear sorted by size and function. Everything in its place.
That was at the barn. I had a bigger question to face later. Jake Riley would be in our apartment tonight, and there wasn't a spreadsheet in the world that could prepare me for what he might do to the careful balance I'd built.
They traded my old roommate, and the Storm didn't pay enough for solo units—unless you were a goalie or dating the GM's nephew. Coach Rusk said he didn't believe in meddling.
The apartment was silent when I got home, except for the steady hum of the refrigerator and the soft beep of the thermostat resetting itself to evening mode. I hung my keys on the hook by the door and carried my grocery bags to the kitchen.
Flour. Butter. Vanilla extract. Cornflakes.
I unpacked each item, placing them on the counter in the order I'd use them. The butter needed to soften, so I unwrapped it and set it on a plate near the window where the late afternoon sun could work on it. The flour canister was nearly empty—just enough for one batch, which was perfect. I didn't like having too much of anything sitting around.
Chocolate chip-cornflake cookies.
Lorraine had taught me the recipe at my second placement, the house in Hamilton with yellow curtains and a garden that actually grew things. She'd called them "first-day cookies"—the kind you made when someone new was coming, or when you needed people to try a little harder to like you.
"Sweeter than regular chocolate chip," she'd said as she measured cornflakes into a bowl. "But with that crunch that surprises people. Makes them remember you."
She'd paused, flour dusting her dark hands, and looked at me with the kind of directness that foster kids learned to fear. "It's harder to send someone away when they smell like vanilla."
I'd been eleven. Too young to understand that she was teaching me survival, not merely baking skills.
Fifteen minutes later, the butter had softened enough. I creamed it with sugar until the mixture turned pale and fluffy, the electric mixer's whir filling the quiet apartment. Eggs next, then vanilla—the real stuff, not the imitation that smelled like plastic.
I didn't mean to think about Jake while I folded in the flour.
I did anyway.
That ridiculous theatrical bow in the locker room, acceptance of an award for getting through his first day without combusting. The overly practiced deflection smile and how he'd looked straight at me when twenty guys were deciding whether to laugh with him or at him.
He sat too close, talked too loud, and wore that stupid hoodie like a shield. He wasn't scared. Not of being seen. Not the way I was. Not the way I still was.
The cornflakes crackled as I stirred them into the dough, along with chocolate chips that would melt just enough to bind everything together. I shaped the cookies with a spoon, dropping them onto parchment paper—two inches apart, room to spread but not touch.
I set the oven timer for twelve minutes. While the cookies baked, I washed the mixing bowl and spoon, dried them, and put everything away in its designated place.
The kitchen smelled like butter and brown sugar, warm and comforting.
When the timer chimed, I pulled the cookies from the oven and set them on the cooling rack. Golden brown with dark chocolate chips peeking through the cornflake crunch. Perfect.
I transferred two to a plate and left the rest on the counter.
