Jake would arrive in three hours with whatever chaos he considered essential belongings.
I sat on the couch with my laptop balanced on my knees, still wearing the plaid button-up I'd pulled on after my shower. The cookie on the plate beside me had cooled completely, and I broke off a piece, savoring how the cornflakes added texture to the familiar sweetness.
The cursor blinked in the search bar. I'd been sitting there for ten minutes, telling myself I was checking email, updating my training log, doing anything except what I was actually doing.
Finally, I typed:Jake Riley highlight reel.
I expected lowlights. Blooper reels. More footage of sequined jerseys and autotuned disasters. The internet loved a good trainwreck, and Jake Riley had given them plenty of material to work with.
What I found surprised me.
The first video was from three seasons ago, before the shoulder injury that derailed everything. Jake streaked down the left wing, stick handling through traffic with the kind of quick hands that coaches couldn't teach. He threaded a no-look pass between two defenders, finding his teammate's blade in the precise spot the goalie couldn't reach.
I clicked on another clip. Jake scored from an impossible angle, the puck somehow finding the top shelf despite three bodies in front of the net. What caught my attention most wasn't the goal—it was what happened after.
He'd collided with the opposing defenseman on his way to the boards, and instead of celebrating, he'd turned back to check if the guy was okay. Helped him to his feet. Patted his shoulder.
The camera had caught it all, including the act of kindness, but the announcers didn't mention it. Too busy replaying the goal from six different angles.
I scrolled through more videos. Jake set up plays that never made the highlight packages because assists didn't trend like goals. He backchecked hard in the defensive zone, throwing his body in front of shots that would leave bruises for weeks.
It wasn't only flash. There was instinct. Awareness. And something else—a carefulness with other people that didn't match the mayhem of his public persona.
I paused on a frame of Jake mid-laugh, head thrown back, completely unguarded. Not the practiced grin from the locker room or the deflective smirk fromLove on Ice. Pure joy.
I slammed the laptop shut, heart hammering. Jake Riley wasn't supposed to be complicated. He was supposed to be noisy and chaotic and easy to dismiss.
Another memory hit me without warning. Junior hockey, six years ago. A kid named Aiden Walsh, who played right wing and never went to the team parties. Quiet, serious, the kind of player who arrived early and left late. He'd come out to a few of us after a road game in Barrie, sitting in the hotel room we shared, speaking barely above a whisper.
"I wanted you guys to know." He stared at his hands. "In case it matters."
Three weeks later, the team cut him—no explanation given. No warning. Gone.
I'd known it wasn't about how he played. Aiden had been solid, reliable, fast, and had good vision. He was the kind of player coaches built teams around.
I didn't say anything. Not to the coaches, other players, or even to Aiden himself before he'd packed his gear and disappeared. I'd watched it happen and convinced myself it wasn't my business.
It had felt like betrayal then. Six years later, it still did.
The apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator cycling on and the distant sound of traffic on Memorial Avenue. I picked up the cookie and took another bite, tasting butter and vanilla.
Jake Riley would arrive soon with his duffel bags and his complicated history. He'd disrupt my routines, test my carefully maintained boundaries, and probably leave his gear scattered across the living room floor.
I didn't know whether I liked him, but I couldn't ignore him.
The front door lock clicked, and I heard the sound of someone juggling keys and luggage in the hallway.
I set the laptop aside and stood, brushing cookie crumbs from my shirt. Time to find out what sharing space with a chaos agent was like.
Chapter three
Jake
Iwasn’t snooping.
Not really.
I was just… walking past the bathroom door when Evan stepped out in nothing but a towel, hair damp and dark against his forehead, steam curling off him like he’d been boiled to perfection.
