Chapter 1 #3
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."
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 with Shane playing 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
Jake typed back: how did you know I was watching westerns
because that's what you always do when you can't sleep
creepy that you know that
creepy that you're so predictable. Go. To. Sleep.
Jake put his phone face-down on the coffee table and pulled the blanket over his legs. On the screen, Shane was saying goodbye to Joey, riding off into the mountains, choosing to leave before he destroyed the thing he was trying to protect.
Sometimes leaving was the right choice. Sometimes staying was.
Jake just wished he knew which one applied to him.
Through the wall, something crashed. His neighbor swore—loud enough that Jake actually heard words this time.
And that's when he realized: his noisy neighbor was a woman.
For some reason, that made it worse. A woman, living alone, moving around at all hours, dropping things. Was she okay? Should he check? That felt creepy. But ignoring it also felt wrong.
Jake lay there, frozen with indecision, while his neighbor moved around on the other side of the wall. So close. So far.
Story of his life, really.
At 11:47 PM, the noise finally stopped. Jake's phone buzzed one more time: his alarm, set to remind him that if he wanted to get to the rink before sunrise, he needed to leave in four hours.
Four hours. Maybe this time he'd actually sleep.
(He wouldn't. He never did.)
Outside, Timber Falls was dark and quiet. Inside, Jake stared at the ceiling and thought about pork buns and hazel eyes and the way Lucy had smiled when she handed him his coffee this morning like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Maybe Marcus was right. Maybe he thought too much.
Or maybe he didn't think enough about the right things.
Jake closed his eyes and tried to sleep and failed, same as always.
Four floors down, in the bakery kitchen, Lucy was already awake, kneading dough for tomorrow's bread, flour on her cheek and pencils in her hair and absolutely no idea that the guy in the apartment next door had finally learned her name.