Page 84 of Puck Wild


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It may have said I was growing up. Maybe it said I was an idiot.

Both could be true.

What I knew for sure was that in a week, I'd be back in Thunder Bay, explaining to Coach Rusk why his faith in me had been misplaced. I'd be sitting in our apartment, trying to find words for what Evan meant to me and why I'd been willing to throw away everything else to defend him.

The cold air outside hit my face like a slap, but I didn't flinch.

The hotel room looked like a crime scene where the victim was my hockey career.

I sat on the edge of the bed closest to the window, staring at the Rockford IceHogs practice jersey in my hands. Number 47. The nameplate that had looked so permanent yesterday was a temporary tattoo—something that was always meant to wash off.

My gear bag lay open on the floor, half-packed. I'd done this dance before. Pack light, pack fast, and don't get attached to spaces that were never really yours. I'd learned that lesson in juniors, bouncing between billet families who treated me like a temporary houseguest with a bedtime.

Sitting there with the jersey in my hands, I thought about the first goal I'd ever scored in organized hockey. Twelve years old, house league in Calgary, wearing a hand-me-down jersey that was two sizes too big and smelled like someone else's sweat.

The shot had been ugly. It had bounced off my skate and somehow found its way past the goalie.

I'd raised my arms anyway and skated around like I'd won the Stanley Cup instead of scoring a garbage goal in a game that didn't matter to anyone except the parents keeping score in the stands.

My dad was there. Mom, too, with her thermos of coffee that was mostly Bailey's. They'd cheered like I'd won the Hart trophy instead of accidentally redirecting vulcanized rubber past a ten-year-old in oversized pads.

I was twelve years old, and I'd decided hockey would save me.

Now I was twenty-six, trying to figure out what the hell would save me next.

My phone buzzed against the nightstand.

I almost ignored it, but picking it up was automatic. I glanced at the screen before I could stop myself.

Juno:You finally stopped performing.

I stared at the message for a long time. Finally, I responded.

Jake:Not sure that's a good thing.

Juno:Depends on what comes next.

What comes next? Right. Like I had any fucking clue.

Thunder Bay? The Fort William Barn with its suspicious plumbing and scoreboard that worked only when it felt like it?

The more immediate matter was explaining to Evan why I'd thrown away everything we'd both worked toward for a locker room fight. Why I'd let my temper override my brain, again, and prove that Jake Riley was the kind of liability everyone said he was.

I set the phone aside and reached for the rest of my gear. I nested my shin pads into my elbow pads. Tucked the gloves into the spaces between. Everything was in its place, organized with the efficiency Evan would appreciate.

The last thing I packed was my stick. Custom curve, perfect weight, taped the way I liked it. I'd probably have to buy a new one when I got back to Thunder Bay—the professional sticks were expensive as hell, and minor league budgets didn'tstretch far enough to waste money on equipment for players who couldn't control their tempers.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was an X notification—someone had tagged me in a thread about the fight, complete with amateur lip-reading analysis and speculation about what had set me off. I turned off notifications without reading it.

Sitting in the quiet hotel room that would forget I existed the moment I checked out, I realized something that surprised me. I wasn't sorry.

Not about defending Evan and choosing him over my second chance. Not about finally, for once in my fucking life, putting someone else's dignity before my desperate need to be wanted.

Maybe Juno was right. Perhaps I had finally stopped performing.

I picked up my phone one more time and started typing. I had no reason to stick out another week in a hotel room in Rockford.

Jake:Flying back to Thunder Bay tomorrow. Got some things to figure out.