Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
JACKO
Training smells like liniment and sweat and the faint whiff of stale protein bars. Not exactly Bake Off tent vibes. But it’s home, in a grimy, gear-soaked, testosterone-fuelled sort of way.
I pull on my warm-up gear slowly, careful not to jar the shoulder Mia’s been rebuilding like it’s the Millennium Dome. Not that I’d say that out loud. She’d laugh, then probably make me do another three sets of isometric holds for insolence.
“You alright there, Grandpa?” Ollie calls across the changing room, already half-kitted and bouncing like he’s pre-gamed on Red Bull.
“Shut it, Ol. Some of us have a shoulder made of shredded newspaper.”
“Still looks better than Dylan’s fashion choices,” Murphy adds, flipping a puck between his fingers.
Dylan doesn’t even look up. “I’m ignoring you all until there’s caffeine or silence.”
Standard pre-training banter. It’s comforting, like background noise on a rainy day. I grin, shift my shoulder, and test the movement. Still sore. But less knife-in-the-joint, more dull-throb-with-a-side-of-annoyance. Progress.
Mia’s waiting by the physio bench, arms folded, hair up in one of those no-nonsense buns that means business. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just points to the bench and gives me a look like I’ve walked mud into her clean kitchen.
“You’ve been baking again.”
I blink. “You can tell?”
“There’s flour in your beard, Jacko.”
I rub my face instinctively. “Dave was lively this morning.”
She sighs, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “Lie back. We’re testing external rotation today.”
I comply, wincing slightly as she starts manipulating the joint. It’s not awful, but it’s enough to remind me I’m not game-fit yet. Not by a long shot.
“Keep up with the rehab and you’ll be cleared for full contact soon,” she says. “But only if you stop pushing it. I know what ‘rest’ means to you, and it isn’t six dozen croissants at four in the morning.”
“They were for the bakery program,” I mutter.
She raises an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling the cute single mum now?”
“Mia.”
She lets me go, just enough to let me sit up. “I’m just saying. Be careful. If you like her, like really like her, don’t do the thing where you pretend you’re just being nice. You’re not subtle.”
“I’m not doing anything,” I grumble.
“You brought her supplies. You offered to bake. You talked about her like she’s a Bakewell tart.”
“I talked about her like she was serious,” I correct. “Because she is. Not someone you joke about. Not someone you mess with.”
That shuts Mia up for a moment. Then she nods. “Good.”
“Dylan needs to learn about confidentiality.” I mutter almost under my breath.
We don’t say much after that. She tapes my shoulder, gives me a schedule for the week, and shoves me out to join modified training.
On the ice, I feel like a bloody elephant doing ballet. No checking, no shots over at full throttle, and absolutely no fights, even if Murphy keeps chirping me just to tempt fate.
“Nice pirouette, Gingerbread Man!”
“Keep it up, I’ll laminate your face into the boards,” I call back.
Coach keeps a close eye but lets me skate drills. I focus on clean transitions, and edge control. The things that get missed when the job’s usually to smash and clear.
Afterwards, I help collect stray pucks and swap stick tape on the bench, ignoring the pang that comes from not scrapping in the corners like usual. I miss it. The hit, the adrenaline. But I miss Maya’s bakery even more.
Which is mad.
She’s probably elbow-deep in dough by now, scowling adorably at a batch that’s risen unevenly. The idea makes my chest ache in a weird, warm way.
Post-training, I shower quickly and head across town to the community centre. I’ve got a Tupperware box full of honey oat rolls in my rucksack and a laminated recipe card Maya said she was missing.
Bright posters line the walls. Kids’ voices echo from a games room. It feels lived-in. Like a real hub.
Inside the kitchen, Maya’s just pulling a tray from the oven. Her cheeks are flushed, hair tied back in a messy ponytail, forearms dusted in flour. She looks like art. Domestic, radiant chaos.
“Hey,” I say, holding up the bread. “Peace offering?”
She smiles, soft and surprised. “You bake more than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Of being a pro athlete?”
“Of having anxiety that kneads itself into bread. Meet Dave.”
She laughs, genuine and low. I feel it everywhere.
I lean on the counter, watching her pipe icing onto cooled cinnamon buns. “You’ve got good hands.”
She glances at me, expression unreadable. “That supposed to be a line?”
“No,” I say quickly. “Just a compliment. You work like you care.”
She studies me for a second, then nods. “So do you.”
It’s quiet for a bit. Just the hum of the oven and the rustle of parchment paper.
“I skated today,” I offer. “First time in what feels like weeks. Not full contact, but...”
“Felt good?”
“Felt like a start.”
She nods, wiping her hands. “Good. You looked like you were going stir-crazy yesterday.”
“I was. Until I met you.”
She stills for a second. Then she nods again, more cautious this time. “Well. Dave and the muffins helped.”
I want to ask about her past, about the scar I think I saw when she reached up for a mixing bowl earlier. But I don’t. Not yet.
Instead, I say, “Want a tea?”
Her eyes flick to mine. “You drink tea?”
I smirk. “I’m not a savage.”
She laughs. “Alright. One tea. Then you’ve got to go. The kids are making pizza from scratch in an hour and I’m already ten minutes behind on prep.”
“Deal.”
I stay until the kettle whistles and the kitchen smells like herbs and home.
And for a little while, I forget about rehab, the playoffs, the ache in my shoulder.
For a little while, it’s just Maya, warm tea, and a honey oat roll between us.
And the steady, slow sense that something good is finally beginning.