The room erupted in laughter and applause. Jake took the cozy with both hands.
"This is..." He paused, and for a second I thought he might get emotional about a piece of knitted hockey gear. "This is the most beautiful thing anyone's ever made for me."
"Wear it with pride, son."
"I'm gonna wear it to bed," Jake declared, which earned him a chorus of chirps and suggestions about what else he could wear it for.
As the celebration wound down, I sat in front of my stall, methodically packing my equipment bag. Jake appeared beside me.
"Nice goal tonight."
I smiled. "Nice pass tonight."
"Team effort."
"Yeah." I looked up at him. "Team effort."
He was still holding the glove cozy.
"Ready to get out of here?" he asked.
I zipped up my bag and stood. "Yeah. Let's go home."
The drive home was mostly silent, except for the sound of wind rattling my car windows.
Jake sat in the passenger seat, staring out at Thunder Bay's empty streets. I didn't fill the space between us with small talk. The game was over, and the adrenaline was fading.
The weight of everything we hadn't said yet returned. Rockford sat in the car with us as an uninvited passenger, taking up all the air.
Back at the apartment, we fell into our usual post-game rhythm. Skates on the drying rack by the door. Gear bags dumped in the hallway to be dealt with tomorrow. I put the kettle on while Jake disappeared into his room to change out of his game-day clothes.
The kettle was starting to whistle when Jake reappeared in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He'd left the glove cozy on the kitchen counter, positioned carefully next to the coffee maker like it belonged there.
"Tea?" I asked, already pulling two mugs from the cabinet.
"Yeah. Thanks."
I was reaching for the Earl Grey when Jake spoke again, his voice quieter than before.
"In Rockford, the guy I fought. Klondike."
My hand froze. The kettle's whistle grew louder, more insistent, but neither of us moved to turn it off.
"He was talking about you. In the locker room. Making jokes." Jake leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. "Called you the neurotic cookie gay. Said I had a type. Weird and organized."
I turned the kettle off, and the sudden silence was too loud.
"That's what you fought about?"
"That's what started it." Jake didn't look at me. "It got worse. He kept going, kept making these... comments. About you baking victory cookies, power bottom vibes, and how I only used you for stress relief."
The words were like one slap shot after another to my chest. I gripped the edge of the counter, trying to process the casual cruelty of it. Strangers reduced me to a punchline, turning my relationship with Jake into entertainment.
"Someone leaked it," Jake continued. "Screenshots from their group chat ended up on some gossip account. Twelve hundred likes overnight. Comments about how you looked, speculation about our sex life, people calling you the cookie fairy like that was the funniest fucking thing they'd ever heard."
My throat closed up. "Jake—"
"I told him to stop. Multiple times. He kept pushing, kept making these jokes like you were public property, fair game for whatever bullshit fantasy he wanted to spin." Jake's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "So I hit him."
