They were invitations.
A way of saying, "Look, I made this beautiful, organized space. Will you share it with me?"
She opened her car door. "Hey, Evan?"
"Yeah?"
"That compass thing? That's going to matter. More than you know."
She climbed into the Honda, and I watched her navigate the complicated process of getting the engine to turn over—three tries, a concerning grinding noise, and then success. The headlights swept across me as she pulled away, leaving me alone under the amber streetlight.
The cold seeped through my jacket, but I didn't move. The world was different—not bigger, exactly, but broader. Someone had adjusted the aperture on my personal camera lens and let in more light.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled to Jake's contact. Then, I started typing half a dozen messages that all sounded wrong.
Just did something terrifying.
Told Juno you're my compass.
Pretty sure I just grew as a person and it was awful.
I deleted them all and stared at the blank message field, cursor blinking expectantly. In the distance, a freight train called out,its horn echoing off the downtown buildings before fading into the Thunder Bay night.
I closed the message app without typing anything and slipped the phone back into my pocket.
Some things were better said in person.
Some things needed the right moment.
The right words.
The right courage.
As I walked back to my car, I smiled at nothing in particular, and for once, I didn't try to organize it into something more manageable.
I let myself exist.
Chapter seventeen
Jake
The protein shake tasted like chalk, but I'd already committed myself. Three more gulps and I could pretend I was a professional athlete who gave a shit about macronutrients instead of a guy stress-eating Evan's leftover cookies at seven in the morning.
An early snow had crusted itself across the window overnight, thick enough to blur the world outside into abstract shapes.
My phone buzzed against the counter. Unknown number. Area code I didn't recognize.
I almost ignored it—ninety percent chance it was someone trying to sell me car insurance or convince me my computer had a virus. The other ten percent was always what worried me. What if it was important? What if it were someone who mattered?
What if it was the call I'd been pretending not to wait for?
I fumbled for the phone, nearly knocking over my protein shake in the process. "Yeah, this is Jake."
"Jake Riley?" The voice was authoritative and unfamiliar. "This is Coach Monroe from the Rockford IceHogs."
"Coach Monroe." I tried to sound like everything was normal, like AHL coaches called me every weekday at dawn. "What's up?"
"We've got an injury situation. Carson's out two weeks minimum with a separated shoulder." No small talk. No pleasantries. Straight up slap shot facts. "I need a left wing who can skate, think, and not embarrass us on national television. Your name came up."
