The same words people used to describe Lucy.
The game was fast and confusing and Lucy only understood about half of what was happening. But she understood when Jake got the puck, the way the entire arena seemed to hold its breath. She understood when he made a pass that led to a goal, the way his teammates mobbed him even though he hadn't been the one to score.
She understood that he was good at this. Really good.
And she understood, watching his face during a stoppage in play, that he looked like someone going through the motions.
Efficient. Not happy.
The Wolves won 4-2. Jake had two assists and what the announcer called "a dominant performance." The camera caught him skating off the ice, face neutral, completely unaffected by the win.
Lucy closed her laptop and sat in her quiet apartment, thinking about what Jake had said at the farmers market:I've been running from and toward things for so long I forgot how to just stand still.
She understood that too.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Hi Lucy, this is Jake. Marcus gave me your number - hope that's okay. Just wanted to say thanks for this morning. See you tomorrow?
Lucy stared at the message for a long moment. Then she typed back:
Saw your game tonight. You were amazing.
Three dots appeared immediately. Then:
You watched?
I wanted to see what you do when you're not eating pork buns.
And?
You're really good. But you looked like you were thinking about something else the whole time.
The three dots appeared and disappeared several times. Finally:
I was thinking about butternut squash muffins.
Lucy laughed out loud in her empty apartment.
Liar.
Okay maybe I was thinking about a few things. But butternut squash muffins were definitely on the list.
Get some sleep. You played a hard game.
You get some sleep. You have muffins to bake tomorrow.
See you at noon.
See you at noon.
Lucy set down her phone and allowed herself to smile like an idiot for exactly three minutes. Then she went to her closet and pulled out the gray sweater Rei had mentioned.
It was soft cashmere, another gift from her grandmother. Lucy had worn it maybe twice in five years, convinced it was too nice for everyday life.
But tomorrow wasn't everyday life.
Tomorrow was Jake Morrison in her apartment, eating butternut squash muffins, being honest about whatever this thing was between them.
