"Different, like maybe I don't need to be the center of attention every second of every day." We reached my car, and Jake leaned against the passenger door while I fumbled with the keys. "Different, like maybe I'm tired of turning myself into a punchline."
"You've never been a punchline to me."
Jake's good eye opened wide.
"Evan—"
"Get in the car. We're going home."
The apartment smelled like vanilla and brown sugar—evidence of my stress-baking marathon. I stepped aside to let Jake enter first, watching his face as he looked around.
He headed directly to the counter. Twelve cookies sat on my favorite plate—the white ceramic one with the hairline crack I'd never gotten around to replacing.
I'd arranged them in a perfect grid: three rows of four, golden brown cookies with dark chocolate chips visible on the surface. A small paper tent card sat beside them, written in my neat block letters:Welcome Back (Don't Get Used to It).
Jake paused.
"You made these for me?"
"Well, you coming back isn't an everyday thing."
He moved closer to the counter, studying the cookies.
"Chocolate chip. Not the fancy cornflake ones. These are..."
"Basic. Easy. Nothing special." I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious about the precision of their arrangement. "I had flour. I had time. It's not a declaration of undying devotion."
"Right." He stared directly at me. "Just happened to have twelve perfectly identical cookies sitting here when I got home."
"Thirteen, actually. I ate one for quality control."
That comment earned a laugh—hoarse and slightly painful-sounding, but genuine. He reached for one of the cookies, breaking off a piece and popping it into his mouth.
"Dangerous move, Carter. Now I'm tempted to mess up to get more."
"You mess up plenty without trying. These are for not getting yourself killed in Rockford. Don't expect them in the future."
"What if I promise to only get into fights about important things?"
"What if you promise not to get into fights at all?"
"That's less realistic." He finished the cookie and reached for another. "But I'll take it under advisement."
I watched him eat, noting how he favored his left side and how the simple act of chewing seemed to cause him discomfort. The anger I'd been carrying since Juno's call flickered back to life, and it had a clear focus. I was angry at whoever had put their hands on him.
"The guy who did this. What did he say about me?"
Jake shook his head. "Not important."
"I want to know."
"No, you don't."
"Yes, I do." I moved closer. "I want to know what was worth throwing away your shot at the AHL."
For a moment, I thought he might tell me. His jaw worked like he was trying to find the right words, and his fingers tightened around the half-eaten cookie.
Then, he set it down and reached for me instead, pulling me into his arms.