Marcus kicked him under the table—a gentle reminder not to crush the kid's enthusiasm. Jake got the message.
"Keep working on your positioning," he told Owen. "You've got a good shot but you're not using your body right. I'll show you after practice tomorrow."
Owen lit up like Jake had just offered him a million dollars. "Really? That would be amazing. Thank you so much. I won't let you down."
After Owen wandered off to order food, Marcus gave Jake a look.
"What?" Jake said.
"You're good with the kids, you know. The mentoring thing. You should lean into it."
"I'm not a coach."
"You could be. Tommy's been dropping hints about retirement. Says his knees can't take another season. The organization's going to need someone to step up."
Jake's chest tightened. "That's not—I'm still playing."
"I know. But after? Have you thought about after?"
After. The word that Jake spent most of his insomnia hours trying not to think about. After hockey, after the Wolves, after this strange limbo of a life he'd been living for three years. What came after?
"I'm twenty-eight," Jake said. "I've got time."
"Sure." Marcus went back to his pancakes, but Jake could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air:But how much time? And what are you waiting for?
His phone buzzed. A text from his mom:How are you, honey? You haven't called in two weeks.
Guilt twisted in his stomach. Jake typed back:I'm good. Busy with the season. I'll call soon. Promise.
His mom responded immediately with a heart emoji, which made the guilt worse. She'd moved to Manchester after his dad died, closer to her sister, leaving Jake alone in Timber Falls with a studio apartment and a minor league contract and the weight of every disappointed expectation his father had never quite voiced.
A man's gotta be what he is.
Jake finished his pork buns and stood. "I've got to go."
"It's 9:30 in the morning. Where are you going?"
"Home. I need to sleep."
"Jake—"
But Jake was already walking toward the door, toward his truck, toward the studio apartment where he'd lie awake for another three hours pretending that if he just tried hard enough, he could turn his brain off.
He drove past The Bread Basket on his way home. Through the window, he could see Lucy behind the counter, her dark hair falling out of its bun, flour on her cheek, laughing at something one of her customers said.
She looked tired. She also looked like the kind of person who knew exactly where she belonged in the world.
Jake drove home and tried not to think about what that must be like.
By 11 PM, Jake had slept exactly forty-seven minutes and given up on sleep entirely. He made himself a protein shake—dinner, technically—and settled back on the couch withShaneplaying on mute again.
Through the wall, his noisy neighbor was moving around. Again.
Jake listened to the footsteps, the occasional thump, the sound of what might have been a door closing or might have been a drawer slamming. His mysterious neighbor seemed to be having a rough night.
Join the club, Jake thought.
His phone buzzed: another text from Marcus.stop watching westerns and go to sleep
