Chapter 22
Jacob
The series against the Titans was all set at three games apiece.
Tight didn’t do it justice. This was going to the wire.
Game Seven loomed tomorrow night at Pine Rise Arena—winner takes all, home ice, the whole city holding its breath.
Jacob had spent the morning in light skate, then film review, then a quick nap that did nothing to quiet the buzz in his veins. By mid-afternoon he needed air, noise, anything that wasn’t another loop of defensive-zone coverage on a tablet screen.
Roast Days was the obvious choice. The coffee shop sat two blocks from the arena, tucked between a vinyl record store and a tattoo parlor.
It had become the unofficial off-day hangout for half the team ever since Harry—one of the co-owners and a die-hard Enforcers season-ticket holder—started comping espressos for anyone in team gear.
Oh, and the delightfully appealing private kink room there added to the appeal too!
Today the place smelled like fresh-ground beans and warm cinnamon scones, the kind of smell that made everything feel momentarily less high-stakes.
Jacob pushed through the door, the bell jingling overhead.
Ricki was already there, sprawled in the corner booth with two tall glasses sweating condensation onto the scarred wooden table. Harry leaned against the counter in a faded Roast Days apron, chatting with a new trainee barista while he frothed milk.
“Gosling!” Harry called, waving a milk pitcher like a flag. “Your usual is coming right up.”
Jacob slid into the booth opposite Ricki. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Ricki pushed one of the glasses toward him. “Espresso milkshake. Triple shot, extra vanilla, whipped cream on top. Harry’s patented playoff motivator.”
Jacob took a long pull through the striped straw. Cold, sweet, caffeinated heaven. The brain freeze hit almost immediately, but it was the good kind, the kind that shoved tomorrow’s game to the back of his skull for a few blissful seconds.
Harry appeared with a fresh one for himself and dropped into the seat next to Ricki. “So. Game Seven. You nervous?”
Jacob shrugged, playing with the straw. “I mean… yeah. But it’s the good nervous. The kind where you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
Ricki raised his glass. “To being exactly where we’re supposed to be.”
They clinked. For a while they just talked.
Stupid stuff, safe stuff. Harry’s latest failed attempt at baking sourdough.
Ricki’s ongoing feud with the new massage gun that kept overheating.
Jacob’s discovery that Tane had started hiding the good protein bars in the back of the pantry so Jacob wouldn’t eat them all in one sitting.
It was a good time. No stress.
Laughter came easy, loose, the kind that made the knot in Jacob’s stomach loosen a fraction.
Eventually Harry checked his watch. “I’ve got an hour before the evening rush. Wanna stretch the legs? The park is right there.”
Jacob glanced out the window. The late-afternoon sun had broken through the clouds, turning the city soft gold. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
They stepped outside, coffees in hand, and wandered the short block to Crescent Park.
The green space wasn’t huge—just a loop of paved path around a pond, some benches, a playground where kids shrieked on swings—but it felt like breathing room after weeks of rinks and hotel corridors.
Trees were starting to bud, early spring stubbornness pushing through the last chill.
They walked in easy silence at first, then Ricki nudged Jacob’s shoulder. “You’ve been quiet about Tane lately. Everything okay at home?”
Jacob’s steps slowed.
He stared at the pond, watching a pair of ducks paddle in lazy circles.
“He’s… dealing with stuff,” Jacob said. “Shoulder’s been bugging him. More than he’s letting on.”
Ricki nodded, unsurprised. “I figured. He skipped our last scheduled rehab session. Said he had a “personal commitment.” I didn’t push, but… yeah. I noticed.”
Jacob winced. He hadn’t meant to spill it—not like this—but the words were already out. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s his business.”
“Hey.” Ricki stopped walking, turning to face him. “I’m not gonna run to Tremaine or anything. But if he’s hurting, someone should know. That’s all.”
Jacob rubbed the back of his neck.
“He’s seeing someone” Jacob replied. “Private physio. Comes to the apartment a couple times a week. It’s not about you being bad at your job or anything. Seriously, Ricki, you’re the best. He just… likes keeping it quiet. Controlled. You know how he is.”
Ricki exhaled, slow and thoughtful. “Yeah. I get it. Big personalities don’t like showing cracks. I won’t say a word.”
Jacob searched his friend’s face.
Ricki looked sincere—brown eyes steady, mouth curved in that easy half-smile—but a small, uneasy voice in Jacob’s head whispered anyway.
Ricki and Antonio Cardini had been circling each other for months now, casual at first, then not-so-casual.
Late-night texts, “coffee” meetups that lasted until dawn.
If Antonio asked, Ricki would probably tell him.
Not out of malice. Just… loyalty. The kind that came with tangled sheets and whispered promises.
Jacob forced a smile. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
They walked on for another loop, Harry filling the silence with a story about a customer who’d tried to pay with crypto last week. Jacob laughed in the right places, but the unease lingered like a bad hit he couldn’t shake off.
When they circled back to the park entrance, Jacob checked his phone. “I should head back. Tane might be home soon.”
Ricki bumped his fist. “Get some rest, superstar. We need you flying tomorrow.”
“Ha! I’ll do my best,” Jacob said, pumping his fist.
Harry pulled him into a quick side-hug. “Tell Tane we’re rooting for him.”
Jacob nodded, throat tight. “Will do.”
He waved them off and started the walk to Tane’s apartment, only fifteen minutes away if he cut through the side streets. The city felt alive around him: cars honking, a busker playing acoustic guitar on the corner, a waft of street-cart pretzels drifting on the breeze.
Halfway there, a kid—no older than ten—darted out from behind a parked car, eyes wide, wearing an oversized Enforcers jersey with Jacob’s number on the back.
“C-C-C-Jacob Gosling” the boy breathed, like he couldn’t believe it. “Is that really you?”
Jacob stopped, crouching to the kid’s level. “Hey, buddy,” Jacob said, a smile on his face. “Yeah, it’s me. What’s up?”
The boy thrust out a puck and a Sharpie, hands shaking. “Can you… can you sign this? Please? You’re my favorite. I started playing right wing because of you. My mom says I’m fast like you too but I need to keep practicing if I want to make the school team!”
“I know you’ll make the team,” Jacob smiled. “ I can see you’ve got it.”
Jacob’s chest expanded, warm and bright. He took the puck, signed it with a quick flourish—Keep flying, buddy — Jacob Gosling #17—then added a little stick-figure skater underneath for good measure.
“That’s awesome,” he said, handing it back. “You keep working hard, okay? Speed is only half the game. Gotta have heart too. You got heart?”
The boy nodded furiously. “Yes!”
“Good. Then you’re already ahead of most guys,” Jacob said as he ruffled the boy’s hair. “Tell your mom thanks for letting you play. And always respect her too.”
The kid beamed, clutching the puck like it was gold, then ran back toward a woman waiting on the sidewalk who waved gratefully.
Jacob stood there a second longer, watching him go.
Pride bloomed sharp and sweet in his ribs. He couldn’t wait to tell Tane, and he could already picture the soft, proud smile Tane would try to hide behind a sip of coffee, the way he’d say something gruff like Told you you’re good for the kids while his eyes said everything else.
The rest of the walk passed in a warm haze.
Jacob took the stairs to Tane’s floor two at a time, key already in hand.
The apartment door swung open to silence.
No TV murmur. No low hum of the espresso machine. No footsteps from the hallway. Just the faint scent of Tane’s cedarwood cologne lingering in the air and the soft click of the door shutting behind him.
“Tane?” Jacob called.
Nothing.
He dropped his keys on the console table, kicked off his sneakers, and padded into the living room. The place looked exactly as they’d left it that morning: Tane’s hoodie slung over the armchair, two empty smoothie glasses still in the sink, the blanket they’d shared last night folded on the couch.
Jacob checked the bedroom—bed made, no note on the pillow. Kitchen again—still empty. He pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over Tane’s contact.
No new messages.
He typed quickly…
JACOB: Home. Where are you?
Jacob hit send.
The little read receipt didn’t appear.
Jacob leaned against the counter, staring at the blank screen. The earlier unease—the conversation with Ricki, the whisper of Antonio’s name—crept back in, colder now.
Jacob exhaled and set the phone face-down and crossed to the window. The city sprawled below, lights just starting to flicker on as dusk settled. Somewhere out there, Tane was dealing with his shoulder, or the team, or the pressure of Game Seven, or maybe just needing space to breathe.
Jacob inhaled and exhaled again slowly, fogging the glass.
Tomorrow they’d face the Titans. Tomorrow he’d fly.
But what about Tane?