Evan
Twenty-three perfect balls of dough waited on the counter for the oven to heat up.
I opened the fridge and rearranged the leftover containers by expiration date, then closed it and opened it again to double-check my work. I was up at 7:47 AM on our day off. Jake had a phenomenal game yesterday, and that meant I couldn't sleep in. I couldn't wait to see him, basking in the afterglow.
The shower turned on down the hall. His voice drifted through the bathroom door—singing something that might have been Adele if caffeinated wolves had raised Adele. I listened for the specific pitch that meant he was rinsing the shampoo. He would pause before applying conditioner, and an off-key finale would signal he was almost done.
I'd memorized Jake's shower routine.
The bathroom door opened with a bang—Jake had never learned the concept of "gently"—followed by footsteps that sounded like someone tap-dancing in combat boots. He appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing an inside-out hoodie and mismatched socks.
"Morning, Cookie Commander." He squinted at the perfectly arranged dough balls. "What's the baking situation? Are we talking stress cookies or celebration cookies? I need to calibrate my enthusiasm accordingly."
"Just cookies."
"Just cookies." He nodded solemnly, then grinned. "Cookie assembly line. I like it. Perfect spheres, optimal spacing, probably calculated for maximum air circulation."
My mouth twitched despite my best efforts. "That's not how assembly lines work."
"Says the guy with a color-coded spreadsheet for optimal sugar ratios." Jake moved to the counter where I'd left a steaming mug of Earl Grey—his favorite, though he'd never admit to having sophisticated tea preferences. He wrapped his hands around the mug and sipped. "Holy shit. This is the fancy stuff."
"It's our day off."
"Right. Celebration tea. Of course." Jake leaned against the counter, steam rising from his mug, and studied my face like I was a hockey play he couldn't quite read. "So, day off. No practice. No game. No mandatory team bonding activities involving Pickle's endless TikTok tutorials."
"That would be an accurate assessment."
"What do people do on days off? I mean normal people who don't alphabetize their sock drawers. Not that—"
I opened my mouth to point out that sock organization was a perfectly reasonable life choice, then caught the look in his eyes. He wasn't mocking me. He was asking. Maybe he considered us both unique and unusual.
"Walk?" It landed somewhere between a question and a suggestion. "The waterfront's quiet this time of day, if you're up for it."
Jake paused, mug halfway to his lips. His eyebrows lifted slightly, his mouth opening like he was about to say something important. Then, he closed it and sipped again.
"Yeah, we could do that. Sure."
I waited. There was something in his pause—a sentence he swallowed, or a thought that didn't make it past his teeth. Instead, he headed toward his room, calling over his shoulder about finding his "good walking socks."
I waited in the kitchen, staring at the cookie dough, considering how to properly store it in the fridge until we returned.
Downtown, Prince Arthur's Landing stretched ahead of us, all gray concrete and bare trees shivering in the late October wind. Lake Superior stretched to our left, dark water fading into a sky that looked like it might snow.
I'd always liked the starkness of gray days. Clean lines. No surprises. Water, shore, horizon—right where they belonged.
Jake walked beside me with his hands jammed deep in his hoodie pocket. He was unusually quiet for someone who typically provided running commentary on everything from the weather to the existential implications of parking meters. His gaze kept drifting to the lake, waiting for it to speak.
He finally spoke, his breath making small clouds in the cold air. "So, I've been thinking about your reputation."
"My reputation?"
"Cookie guy. Baker of Emotional Support Snickerdoodles. Maker of stress-relief chocolate chip wonders." He bumped his shoulder against mine. "The whole team's probably gonna start showing up at our door with feelings and empty stomachs."
I pulled my jacket tighter against the wind. "I don't think that's how it works."
"No? Pickle asked me yesterday whether you take requests. He's been craving something he calls Confidence Brownies since his last penalty kill went sideways."
I almost smiled. "Confidence Brownies aren't a real thing."
