"Someone's been doing their homework."
"I told you I make a living getting people to tell the truth." Her smile was sharp. "So here's the real question: what scares you more—being seen as just another hockey player, or being seen as just Jake? Being seen as authentically you?"
Nik cut in. "Honestly? Sometimes I don't know if I'm being authentic or just performing authenticity really well."
He got it, and I nodded in agreement.
As the podcast wound down, a voice in my head interrupted my thoughts.This is home.
My emotional high lasted until I walked into the Fort William Barn.
The trinity of minor league hockey smells—wet concrete, old leather, and groomed ice—greeted me. The building was alive with pre-game electricity. Voices bounced off the walls as early arrivals staked territorial claims and debated line combinations like theologians arguing scripture.
I was still buzzing from Juno's interview. I believed what I said, and Nik was unexpectedly kind. Progress, maybe. Or at least progress-adjacent.
"Vegas!" They could have heard Hog's voice in Winnipeg. "Celebrity interview survival report. Scale of one to career-ending disaster?"
"Shockingly, I almost passed for human." My gear bag hit the floor. The ritual began—civilian to gladiator in twenty-three familiar steps. "Juno only had to cut three existential spirals and one accidental feelings confession."
"Feelings?" Pickle's head popped up. "What brand of feelings? Hockey feelings or—"
"The kind that mind their own business, junior."
Coach Rusk appeared in the doorway. "Gentlemen." The room was suddenly library-quiet. "Tonight's not about pretty. When they write us off, we write back in permanent fucking ink."
He glanced at me, quick and sharp. "Don't trip over your own spotlight, Vegas. Save the victory dance for after we earn it."
Hog snorted. "That's Coach-speak for proud of you. Practically a love letter."
"I'm drowning in the warmth."
I spotted Evan across the room. He was readying himself for the game with his usual methodical precision. When he looked up, he caught me staring.
Our eye contact that said everything our mouths hadn't figured out how to say.
Be smart out there.
Find me on the ice.
Come back whole.
Pickle face-planted over his laces, shattering the moment.
"Move your asses!" Coach's bark launched us toward the tunnel—twenty armored bodies headed for the arena lights.
As we entered, I scanned the crowd—four hundred souls who'd exchanged real money for the privilege of watching us chase vulcanized rubber. Someone had crafted a glittery "RILEY'S REDEMPTION TOUR" sign.
While we lined up for the anthem, Kowalczyk eyed me. "Dialed in tonight?"
"We'll see."
Dialed in was an understatement. Electricity surged through my body. The anthem played, the lights dimmed, and the puck dropped.
We flew.
First shift: intercepted their breakout pass and threaded it through three bodies to Pickle. It was a five-hole finish before their goalie processed the threat. Pickle's collision hug nearly relocated my spine.
"Feed me all night!" he screamed over the noise. "I got fucking hands!"
