Chapter 3
The locker room at the Timber Falls Ice Center smelled like every locker room Jake had ever been in: sweat, rubber, industrial cleaner, and the faint metallic tang of blood from someone's split lip last week. It was oddly comforting.
Monday morning practice was optional—technically—but Jake had never missed one in three years. He was always the first to arrive, usually by twenty minutes, giving himself time to tape his stick in peace before the chaos of his teammates showed up.
Today he was taping his third stick (backup for the backup) when Owen Fletcher burst through the door like an overexcited golden retriever.
"Coach! I mean—Jake. Sorry. Coach Tommy says I'm not supposed to call you that, but it's weird calling you Jake when you're basically my coach—"
"I'm not your coach," Jake said, not looking up from his tape job. "Tommy's your coach. I'm just a guy who plays on the same team."
"But you help coach youth hockey on Saturdays, so technically—"
"Owen."
"Right. Sorry." Owen dropped his massive gear bag on the bench across from Jake with a thud that echoed through the empty locker room.
"Did you see the game last night? Bruins versus Lightning?
That goal in the third period was insane.
Pasta just walked through the entire defense like they weren't even there.
I've been practicing that move, do you think—"
Jake held up a hand. Owen stopped mid-sentence, vibrating with barely contained energy.
"It's 8:30 in the morning," Jake said. "Coffee first. Pasta analysis second."
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Owen started unpacking his gear with the methodical precision that was the only thing about him that wasn't chaotic. "I'm just excited about practice. Coach Tommy said we're working on powerplay formations today, and I've been studying video all weekend—"
"Of course you have."
"—and I think if we adjust the setup so I'm on the right side instead of the left, I can get a better shooting angle, because my backhand is actually stronger than my forehand right now, which is weird but also kind of cool, and—"
The door opened again, mercifully cutting off Owen's monologue. Marcus Williams strolled in carrying two coffee cups and looking far too awake for someone who'd allegedly been out until 2 AM.
"Morning, sunshine," Marcus said to Jake, handing him one of the cups. "Morning, puppy." This to Owen.
"I'm not a puppy," Owen protested.
"You're twenty-one, you weigh maybe 170 soaking wet, and you have the energy of a caffeinated Labrador. You're a puppy." Marcus settled onto the bench next to Jake and took a long drink of his coffee. "So. You actually came out Saturday night. I'm still in shock."
"It was two beers."
"For you, that's basically a rager. I'm proud of you, man. Character growth."
Jake rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Marcus had been his closest friend on the team since Jake signed three years ago—mostly because Marcus was the only person who could make Jake laugh when he was in one of his moods.
Marcus "Stone" Williams was twenty-six, from San Diego, and the most laid-back person Jake had ever met.
He was also one of the best goalies in the ECHL, which people tended to forget because he showed up to games wearing neon slide sandals and Hawaiian shirts.
He'd been playing professional hockey for four years—two in the AHL, two in Timber Falls—and he treated every day like a vacation.
"You know what we should do?" Marcus said. "Team dinner. Friday night. Mandatory fun."
"Mandatory fun is an oxymoron," Jake said.
"So is 'Jake Morrison having a social life,' but here we are, living in unprecedented times." Marcus grinned. "Come on. Mac's Tavern. The whole team. We can carbo-load before Saturday's game, bond, tell embarrassing stories about Owen—"
"Hey!"
"—and you can practice this new thing you're doing where you occasionally interact with other humans."
"I interact with other humans."
"Grunting at us during practice doesn't count."
Other players started filtering in—Dmitri Volkov, their Russian winger who spoke approximately five words per day; Ryan Chen, their enforcer who was actually a philosophy major; Hank the equipment manager, who'd been with the team for twenty years and functioned as everyone's surrogate father.
The locker room filled with the familiar sounds of morning practice prep: skates being sharpened, sticks being taped, the low hum of conversation punctuated by laughter. This was Jake's other routine, as established as his 4 AM wake-ups and Wednesday pork buns.
"Okay but seriously," Owen said, appearing at Jake's elbow like a persistent mosquito, "can I ask you something?"
"You're going to anyway."
"How do you do it?"
Jake looked up. Owen's face was earnest, open, painfully young. "Do what?"
"Stay focused. Everyone talks about how you're like, the most mentally tough player they've ever seen. Stone-faced, never rattled, totally locked in. How do you get like that?"
Jake felt something twist in his chest. Stone-faced. Locked in. All the things people said when they meant "emotionally shut down."
"It's not a skill you want to learn," Jake said quietly.
"But—"
"Owen." Jake set down his stick and looked the kid straight in the eye. "You know why they call me Reaper?"
"Because you're deadly accurate?"
"Because I stopped enjoying it. The game.
Hockey. I show up, I do the work, I score goals, and I feel nothing.
You know what that makes me? Efficient. Not better.
Not happier. Just... efficient." Jake picked up his tape again.
"You've still got joy in your game. Don't trade that for whatever the hell it is I'm doing. "
Owen was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Do you wish you still had it? The joy?"
"Every single day."
Marcus, who'd been pretending not to listen, kicked Jake's shin gently. A reminder: You're not alone in this.
Tommy's whistle cut through the chatter. "All right, ladies, let's go! Ice time's expensive and my knees are telling me it's gonna rain!"
The team filed out toward the ice, Jake bringing up the rear as always. As he passed Tommy, the coach grabbed his arm.
"Owen's looking up to you," Tommy said quietly.
"I know."
"Be careful what you teach him."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Tommy's expression was kind but firm. "Means you've spent three years teaching yourself not to feel things. Don't teach him the same lesson."
Before Jake could respond, Tommy was already heading toward the ice, whistle around his neck, yelling something about Dmitri's skate laces.
Jake stood in the hallway for a moment, surrounded by the cold air and the sound of his teammates on the ice, and wondered when exactly he'd become someone who needed to be warned about his own influence.
The practice was hard—Tommy ran them through defensive drills that left everyone gasping—but good.
Jake found his rhythm halfway through, that place where his brain shut off and his body just did what it had been trained to do for twenty years.
Skating, passing, shooting. The holy trinity of hockey, burned into muscle memory so deep he could probably do it in his sleep.
By the time Tommy blew the final whistle, Jake's legs were screaming and his shoulder was sending up warning flares. He'd aggravated it Saturday at youth hockey, overdoing a demonstration for the kids, and now it was reminding him that he was twenty-eight, not eighteen.
In the locker room, the team was loud and loose, already planning where they'd get lunch. Jake changed quickly, planning to slip out before anyone could rope him into group plans.
Marcus appeared beside him. "Wednesday pork bun day tomorrow."
"Yeah. So?"
"So, you've been getting pork buns from that bakery every Wednesday for three years."
"Your observation skills are incredible."
"Have you ever actually talked to Lucy? Like, had a conversation?"
Jake's hands stilled on his laces. "Why are you asking?"
"Because Rei mentioned that Lucy mentioned that you mentioned—actually, I'm not totally sure what got mentioned, but there was definite mutual mentioning happening." Marcus grinned. "And I'm invested in your personal growth journey."
"My what?"
"Your journey from 'sad hermit who lives above a hardware store' to 'functional human with interests and relationships.' It's very inspiring. I'm thinking of documenting it for my podcast."
Marcus did, in fact, have a podcast—"Minor Adjustments," where he talked about life in the ECHL with surprising honesty and even more surprising popularity. Jake had been on it exactly once, had spoken approximately twelve words, and had never agreed to return.
"Don't put me on your podcast."
"I'm just saying, maybe tomorrow you could do something radical. Like sit down. Have your pork buns there instead of taking them to go."
"Why?"
"Because you're clearly interested in her, she's clearly interesting, and you both need to leave your respective caves occasionally.
" Marcus stood and slung his gear bag over his shoulder.
"Also Rei says Lucy works too much and needs friends.
You work too much and need friends. I'm practically doing a public service here. "
"You're meddling."
"I prefer 'aggressively supportive.'" Marcus headed toward the door, then turned back. "Friday. Team dinner. You're coming. And bring your personality—I know you have one hidden somewhere."
After he left, Jake sat in the quiet locker room and thought about tomorrow. Wednesday. Pork bun day.
He could do what he always did: show up at 8:17, order six pork buns and a black coffee, exchange minimal pleasantries with Lucy, leave.
Or he could do what Marcus suggested. Sit down. Stay. Talk.
The thought made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the three-mile skate they'd just done.
Jake pulled out his phone. Two texts waiting.
The first was from his mom:
Dinner this Sunday? I'm making your favorite. Would be nice to see you.