"That's your pep talk?"
"I'm not good at pep talks. I'm good at logistics." He shoved me toward the showers. "Move. You smell like a locker room."
The shower was too hot and too short. I scrubbed off the practice sweat but couldn't scrub off the anxiety residing deep in my chest.
I wrapped a towel around my waist and headed back to my stall, where Jake and Evan were staging an intervention. My gear bag was open, clothes spread across the bench.
"What is this?"
"This," Jake said, holding up my Storm hoodie, "is what you're not wearing. This—" He pulled out a dark blue henley I'd forgotten I owned. "—is better."
Evan held up a pair of dark jeans that weren't ripped or stained with gear oil. "These are clean. I checked."
"When did you check my jeans?"
"While you were showering. Someone had to make sure you weren't planning to wear sweatpants."
I grabbed the clothes, too anxious to argue, and pulled them on. The shirt fit better than I remembered—not too tight, but enough that I looked like I had a shape.
"Better," Jake declared. "Now do something with your hair."
I dragged a hand through it, which only made it worse. Evan appeared with a comb, and I let him fix whatever disaster was happening on my head.
"Okay." Jake stepped back, studying me like a project. "You look human. Maybe even attractive. Thoughts, Spreadsheet?"
Evan tilted his head. "He'll do."
"High praise," I muttered.
Jake softened his voice. "You're gonna be fine. Show up as yourself, the full disaster."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"I know." Jake gripped my chin. "But if he can't handle all of you, then he's not worth the carefully edited version either. You get that, right?"
I did, but I wasn't sure I believed it yet.
1:14. Forty-six minutes.
"I should go," I said, grabbing my jacket. My regular one, not the Storm-branded parka Jake had immediately vetoed. "Traffic might be—"
"It's Thunder Bay," Evan interrupted. "There is no traffic. You're going early because you'd rather pace outside Common Thread than sit here spiraling."
He wasn't wrong.
Pickle appeared, eyes wide and hopeful. "Good luck, Hog! Tell Rhett we said hi! Or don't tell him that if it's weird! I don't know what's normal!"
He hesitated, then added quietly, "If you can do the brave thing, maybe I can too."
"You will, kid," I said, and meant it.
Coach emerged from his office, took one look at me, and grunted. "You clean up okay, Hawkins."
"Thanks, Coach."
"Guy's got taste."
The words hit so unexpectedly that I almost missed a step.
