"Because apparently everyone on the Wolves is coming. It's mandatory. Which means you'll see him. In a social setting. Outside the bakery." Mae clutched the twenty to her chest dramatically. "This is the beginning of something beautiful. I can feel it."
Lucy rolled her eyes, but the truth was, she could feel it too. Something had shifted this morning. Some unspoken acknowledgment that they'd both been circling each other for three years, both stuck in their routines, both too scared or tired or stubborn to break the pattern.
Until today.
Her phone buzzed.
Rei:Mae just texted me. JAKE MORRISON SAT DOWN AND TALKED TO YOU???
Lucy:It was a three-minute conversation about pork buns.
Rei:IT'S A START
Rei:You're definitely coming Friday now right
Lucy:I already said I was coming
Rei:Yes but now you MEAN it
Rei:Wear the blue sweater. The soft one. It makes your eyes look good
Lucy:I'm not trying to impress anyone
Rei:Sure Jan
Lucy put her phone away and went back to her bread. But she was smiling. And when she caught her reflection in the industrial oven door, she barely recognized herself—flour in her hair, exhausted from another 4:45 AM wake-up, but somehow looking more alive than she had in months.
Maybe showing up to her own life wasn't such a bad idea after all.
Thursday afternoon practice was brutal. Tommy ran them through defensive drills that had everyone gasping, then added conditioning work that left even Marcus—who prided himself on being in peak shape—bent over his knees.
"Trying to kill us before Saturday?" Ryan called out between gasps.
"Trying to make sure you're ready," Tommy shot back. "That Nashville scout isn't coming to watch you coast."
Jake felt every eye in the locker room turn to him. Right. Because the scout was there for Jake. Nobody else.
Owen, sitting next to him, nudged Jake's shoulder. "That's so cool, man. The NHL is watching you."
"It's just a scout," Jake said. "Doesn't mean anything."
"Doesn't mean anything? Dude, it's the NHL. If they're interested—"
"They're not interested," Jake interrupted. "They're looking. There's a difference."
Marcus, across the room, gave Jake a long look but didn't say anything.
After practice, Jake was the last to leave the locker room—his usual pattern. Tommy caught him at the door.
"Got a minute?"
"Sure."
They walked to Tommy's office—a small room off the main corridor, walls covered with team photos going back thirty years. Jake spotted himself in the youth hockey team photo from 1998, gap-toothed and tiny, holding a stick almost as tall as he was.
Tommy settled behind his desk. "How you feeling about Saturday?"
"Fine."
