"That wasn't a conversation. That was a transaction."
"He complimented the pork buns."
"He's been eating them for three years. He probably felt obligated."
But as Lucy went back to the kitchen, she couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. Something small and probably meaningless, but something nonetheless.
Above her, through the ceiling, she heard her upstairs neighbor moving around again.
Mystery Neighbor was going to be a problem. She could feel it.
The team breakfast was at Mac's Tavern, the same as it was every Wednesday. Jake showed up at 9 AM with his container of pork buns and found Marcus already there, sprawled in a booth with a plate of pancakes the size of a small country.
"Look who finally decided to join us," Marcus said. "How's the insomnia?"
"Fine."
"Liar."
Jake slid into the booth and opened his container. The pork buns were still warm, the dough soft and perfect, the filling exactly the right combination of savory and sweet. He'd been eating these for three years and they still tasted like the best decision he made all week.
"You know what your problem is?" Marcus said.
"I have a feeling you're going to tell me."
"You think too much. You need to learn to just... be. Embrace the moment. Live in the now."
"Did you read another self-help book?"
"It was a podcast. Very enlightening. The guy said that most of our anxiety comes from living in the past or the future instead of the present."
Jake took a bite of pork bun. "Profound."
"I'm serious, man. You've been miserable for three years. At some point, you have to either make a change or accept where you are."
"I accept where I am."
"Bull. You're still waiting for that call from the NHL. Still thinking someday, somewhere, a scout is going to see you and decide you're worth another shot." Marcus leaned forward. "It's not going to happen, Jake. And that's okay. This is a good life. Good team, good town, good hockey. When are you going to let yourself enjoy it?"
Jake didn't answer because he didn't have an answer.
Owen Fletcher chose that moment to bounce into the tavern like an overeager puppy, all wide eyes and nervous energy. The kid had been with the team for three weeks and still acted like every day was Christmas morning.
"Coach!" Owen slid into the booth next to Marcus. "Did you see that goal I scored yesterday in practice? Top shelf, backhand. It was—"
"I saw," Jake said. He wasn't technically a coach—Tommy was the coach—but the team had taken to calling him that anyway, especially the younger guys. "Your weight was too far forward. You got lucky it went in."
Owen's face fell for exactly two seconds before bouncing back. "I'll work on it. Hey, is it true you played in the NHL?"
"Three seasons."
"That's so cool. What's it like? Playing in the big leagues? Must've been incredible."
Jake looked down at his pork bun. "It was fine."
"Fine? Dude, it's the NHL. It's the dream."
"Yeah," Jake said quietly. "It was."
