Shoulder pads first, adjusting the straps to exact specifications. Elbow pads next, testing the range of motion. Everything had to be perfect, predictable, and controllable—particularly when the rest of my life felt like I'd sketched it in pencil.
"Well, well, well." Hog's voice boomed across the room. "Look who's got that post-cuddle glow this morning."
Across the room, Jake's head snapped up from his gear, and I saw a flash of panic in his eyes before he grinned.
"Don't know what you're talking about, Hog. I always look this pretty."
"Uh-huh", Hog smirked. "And I suppose Spreadsheet over there just happens to be humming a show tune for no reason while he gets dressed."
I wasn't humming. Was I humming?
"That's not a show tune," I said, pulling my jersey over my head. "It's—"
"It's adorable, is what it is." Hog clapped his massive hands together. "Roomie reunion energy! I fucking love it!"
Before either Jake or I could respond, Hog launched into full-bore hockey motivator mode.
"You know what we got tonight, boys? We got chemistry! We got passion! We got two guys who've remembered how to play for something bigger than themselves!"
Pickle's head popped up from his phone. "Are we talking about hockey or—"
"HOCKEY!" Hog roared, though his grin suggested otherwise. "Always hockey, Junior. Hockey played with heart, purpose, and—"
"With less talking and more taping," Coach Rusk's voice cut through Hog's speech. He'd pulled his backward cap down lower than usual. "Save the poetry for after we win."
I glanced over at Jake's stall. He was stretching his hip flexors, movements fluid and controlled—no sign of the manic energy that usually preceded his best games. If anything, he looked... settled. Like he'd found his center.
Interesting.
"Let's go earn it!" Coach barked, and twenty bodies moved as one toward the tunnel.
The first period was pure grinding hockey.
I spent most of the period moving pucks under pressure, making the basic plays, trying not to get cute when cute would get me killed. Jake's line got limited ice time in the defensive slugfest, but I noticed something different when he was out there.
He wasn't forcing it.
The old Jake would have been trying to thread passes through traffic that didn't exist. He would have been hunting for the highlight-reel play that would make everyone forget aboutLove on Iceand viral rap videos.
Instead, he played within the system. Made the safe passes. Backchecked hard and picked his spots instead of creating them out of thin air.
The second period started with us down 1-0. Three shifts in, Kowalczyk buried a rebound to tie it up, and the Barn exploded like someone had lit a fuse under the bleachers. I watched Jake celebrate from the bench—arms up, mouth open in a genuine yell of joy. No performance. Pure happiness for his teammate.
Two minutes later, Pickle had the puck along the boards, looking for an outlet, and Jake broke toward center ice, calling for it. The pass was there, barely, threading through two defenders' skates.
The old Jake would have taken it. Would have tried to deke around the defenseman and create something magical out of nothing.
This Jake pulled up. Let the puck slide past him to Hog, who chipped it out safely.
I blinked, sure I'd misread the play. But no—Jake had made the mature choice. The team-first choice.
Who the hell was this guy, and what had he done with my chaos-agent roommate?
The third period hit like a freight train with caffeine jitters.
Two minutes in, their defenseman took a stupid penalty, slashing Pickle behind the play. Our power play had been garbage all season, but tonight something clicked. Jake won the face-off clean, Hog walked the blue line like he owned it, and when the puck squirted loose, Kowalczyk was there to bury it.
2-2. Game on.
