"Right. Because that works so well." I stepped closer, unable to stop myself from examining the damage. "Damn, Jake. What did you do?"
"Guy had it coming." He shifted his weight, and I thought the injury made him look younger than twenty-six. "And before you ask, yes, it was worth it."
It was still Jake, willing to turn everything into a joke. I already knew he was still mine, too, even if he'd nearly gotten himself killed proving it.
I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him, probably tighter than necessary. He tensed for half a second—surprise or pain, I couldn't tell—then melted into the embrace.
He smelled like jet fuel and stale air, with an undertone of something medicinal, probably ice packs and painkillers. His hoodie was soft against my cheek, and when I pressed closer, he exhaled like he'd been holding his breath since leaving Rockford.
I mumbled into his shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay."
"I'm glad you're here." His arms tightened around my waist. "Missed your face. Even when you glare at me. Mostly when you glare at me."
I pulled back enough to look at him again, taking in the full extent of the damage. "We're going to talk about this."
"I know."
"All of it."
"I know." His good eye was serious, no trace of his usual deflection. "Can we get out of here first? Airports make me feel like I'm about to get called to the principal's office."
I grabbed his duffel before he could protest, slinging it over my shoulder. "Come on. Let's go home."
The smile that spread across his bruised face was worth every sleepless minute I'd spent overnight waiting to see him.
"So," I said, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag as we walked toward the parking garage, "we could head to The Drop. Everyone will want to see you."
It was a no-brainer. Jake's return from his first call-up—even a disastrous one—was the kind of news that would have Pickle bouncing off the walls and Hog demanding a complete debrief.
The team would want details, war stories, and probably a dramatic reenactment of whatever fight had left Jake looking like someone fed him through a wood chipper.
He stopped walking.
I turned, expecting to see him grinning at the prospect of holding court at our usual table, regaling everyone with tales of AHL glory and minor league politics. Instead, he stared down at the concrete beneath us..
"Not tonight. I just want to go home."
I blinked. "Home?"
"Yeah. You know, that place with the alphabetized spice rack and the cookies that don't judge me for making terrible life choices."
The words were classic Jake—self-deprecating humor wrapped around something real—but his delivery was different. Softer. Quieter. He wasn't going for laughs.
"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Riley?" I asked. "The Jake I know would've been texting the entire team from the plane, planning some dramatic entrance complete with a curated soundtrack."
His laugh was rough around the edges. "Maybe that was my problem."
We started walking again, our footsteps echoing in the parking garage. A car alarm went off somewhere in the distance.
"Your problem?"
"Always performing. Always trying to make everything into a show. Guess it's time to try something different."
He was different. It wasn't the damage to his face. It was how he didn't fill every silent moment with noise.
He looked tired.
"Try something different in what way?" I asked.
