Thinking of you, honey. Call when you can. Love you.
He stared at the message for a long time. Then he typed back:
love you too mom. i'll call tomorrow
And then, because Tommy and Emma and even Mae's indie playlist had gotten into his head:
i'm doing okay. better than i thought i'd be
His mom replied with a heart emoji.
Jake set his phone aside and closed his eyes. Through the wall, he heard his neighbor drop something and curse quietly. For the first time, instead of being annoyed, Jake found himself wondering who they were. What kept them up at odd hours. Whether they were running from something or toward it.
Whether they were settling or choosing.
Whether they'd figured out the difference.
Outside his window, Timber Falls hummed with Saturday afternoon life. The bakery was probably still open. Lucy was probably still behind the counter, flour on her cheek, laughing with customers.
And Jake was here, in his temporary apartment, starting to wonder if maybe temporary didn't have to mean forever.
Chapter 3
The locker room at the Timber Falls Ice Center smelled like every locker room Jake had ever been in: sweat, rubber, industrial cleaner, and the faint metallic tang of blood from someone's split lip last week. It was oddly comforting.
Monday morning practice was optional—technically—but Jake had never missed one in three years. He was always the first to arrive, usually by twenty minutes, giving himself time to tape his stick in peace before the chaos of his teammates showed up.
Today he was taping his third stick (backup for the backup) when Owen Fletcher burst through the door like an overexcited golden retriever.
"Coach! I mean—Jake. Sorry. Coach Tommy says I'm not supposed to call you that, but it's weird calling you Jake when you're basically my coach—"
"I'm not your coach," Jake said, not looking up from his tape job. "Tommy's your coach. I'm just a guy who plays on the same team."
"But you help coach youth hockey on Saturdays, so technically—"
"Owen."
"Right. Sorry." Owen dropped his massive gear bag on the bench across from Jake with a thud that echoed through the empty locker room. "Did you see the game last night? Bruins versus Lightning? That goal in the third period was insane. Pasta justwalked through the entire defense like they weren't even there. I've been practicing that move, do you think—"
Jake held up a hand. Owen stopped mid-sentence, vibrating with barely contained energy.
"It's 8:30 in the morning," Jake said. "Coffee first. Pasta analysis second."
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Owen started unpacking his gear with the methodical precision that was the only thing about him that wasn't chaotic. "I'm just excited about practice. Coach Tommy said we're working on powerplay formations today, and I've been studying video all weekend—"
"Of course you have."
"—and I think if we adjust the setup so I'm on the right side instead of the left, I can get a better shooting angle, because my backhand is actually stronger than my forehand right now, which is weird but also kind of cool, and—"
The door opened again, mercifully cutting off Owen's monologue. Marcus Williams strolled in carrying two coffee cups and looking far too awake for someone who'd allegedly been out until 2 AM.
"Morning, sunshine," Marcus said to Jake, handing him one of the cups. "Morning, puppy." This to Owen.
"I'm not a puppy," Owen protested.
"You're twenty-one, you weigh maybe 170 soaking wet, and you have the energy of a caffeinated Labrador. You're a puppy." Marcus settled onto the bench next to Jake and took a long drink of his coffee. "So. You actually came out Saturday night. I'm still in shock."
"It was two beers."
