"Be careful what you teach him."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Tommy's expression was kind but firm. "Means you've spent three years teaching yourself not to feel things. Don't teach him the same lesson."
Before Jake could respond, Tommy was already heading toward the ice, whistle around his neck, yelling something about Dmitri's skate laces.
Jake stood in the hallway for a moment, surrounded by the cold air and the sound of his teammates on the ice, and wondered when exactly he'd become someone who needed to be warned about his own influence.
The practice was hard—Tommy ran them through defensive drills that left everyone gasping—but good. Jake found his rhythm halfway through, that place where his brain shut off and his body just did what it had been trained to do for twenty years. Skating, passing, shooting. The holy trinity of hockey, burned into muscle memory so deep he could probably do it in his sleep.
By the time Tommy blew the final whistle, Jake's legs were screaming and his shoulder was sending up warning flares. He'd aggravated it Saturday at youth hockey, overdoing a demonstration for the kids, and now it was reminding him that he was twenty-eight, not eighteen.
In the locker room, the team was loud and loose, already planning where they'd get lunch. Jake changed quickly, planning to slip out before anyone could rope him into group plans.
Marcus appeared beside him. "Wednesday pork bun day tomorrow."
"Yeah. So?"
"So, you've been getting pork buns from that bakery every Wednesday for three years."
"Your observation skills are incredible."
"Have you ever actually talked to Lucy? Like, had a conversation?"
Jake's hands stilled on his laces. "Why are you asking?"
"Because Rei mentioned that Lucy mentioned that you mentioned—actually, I'm not totally sure what got mentioned, but there was definite mutual mentioning happening." Marcus grinned. "And I'm invested in your personal growth journey."
"My what?"
"Your journey from 'sad hermit who lives above a hardware store' to 'functional human with interests and relationships.' It's very inspiring. I'm thinking of documenting it for my podcast."
Marcus did, in fact, have a podcast—"Minor Adjustments," where he talked about life in the ECHL with surprising honesty and even more surprising popularity. Jake had been on it exactly once, had spoken approximately twelve words, and had never agreed to return.
"Don't put me on your podcast."
"I'm just saying, maybe tomorrow you could do something radical. Like sit down. Have your pork buns there instead of taking them to go."
"Why?"
"Because you're clearly interested in her, she's clearly interesting, and you both need to leave your respective caves occasionally." Marcus stood and slung his gear bag over his shoulder. "Also Rei says Lucy works too much and needs friends. You work too much and need friends. I'm practically doing a public service here."
"You're meddling."
"I prefer 'aggressively supportive.'" Marcus headed toward the door, then turned back. "Friday. Team dinner. You're coming. And bring your personality—I know you have one hidden somewhere."
After he left, Jake sat in the quiet locker room and thought about tomorrow. Wednesday. Pork bun day.
He could do what he always did: show up at 8:17, order six pork buns and a black coffee, exchange minimal pleasantries with Lucy, leave.
Or he could do what Marcus suggested. Sit down. Stay. Talk.
The thought made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the three-mile skate they'd just done.
Jake pulled out his phone. Two texts waiting.
The first was from his mom:
