Chapter 3 #2
His mom lived in Manchester now, about two hours away. She'd moved after his dad died, needed a fresh start somewhere without David Morrison's ghost in every corner. Jake tried to visit once a month, though lately it had been more like once every six weeks. He always meant to go more often.
He typed back: I'll be there. Love you.
The second text was from Derek, his agent:
Nashville scout will be at your game this Saturday. Make it count.
Jake stared at that one for a long time. Saturday's game. The scout would be there, watching, evaluating whether Jake Morrison at twenty-eight was worth an NHL roster spot.
This was what he'd been waiting for. Another shot. Maybe the last shot.
So why did the thought of leaving Timber Falls make him feel like he was drowning?
Jake deleted the text without responding and grabbed his gear bag.
The drive home took seven minutes, same as always. Jake parked behind the building, nodded to Tom from the hardware store (who was unloading boxes), and climbed the three flights to his studio.
Inside, he dropped his gear bag by the door and went straight to his desk—really just a card table he'd picked up from the Salvation Army three years ago. His laptop was already open to his online banking.
Every month, on the first Monday, Jake sent his mom $800. It was automatic now, barely even a conscious decision. Just something he did, the same way he taped his stick before practice.
His mom had protested at first. You don't need to do this, honey. I'm fine. Save your money.
But Jake knew the truth. His dad's life insurance had covered the funeral and a few months of expenses, but not much else. His mom was working part-time at a bookstore, living in a small apartment, trying to convince Jake she was happy.
The least he could do was help.
He initiated the transfer, watched the confirmation screen pop up, then closed his laptop.
The studio apartment looked exactly like it had when he'd moved in three years ago: IKEA furniture that came in flat boxes, walls he'd never bothered to paint, curtains he'd never bothered to hang.
The only personal touches were his skates by the door, the stack of movies next to the TV, and a single framed photo on his nightstand—him and his dad at the Bruins game, Jake's eighteenth birthday, three months before he got drafted.
Jake picked up the photo. His dad was grinning, arm around Jake's shoulders, both of them wearing matching Bruins jerseys.
Jake remembered that day with painful clarity: the excitement, the certainty that he was headed for greatness, the way his dad had said I'm proud of you, son at least fifteen times.
Would his dad be proud now? Of Jake playing in the ECHL, living in a studio apartment, sending money to his widow because the NHL dream hadn't quite panned out?
Your dad wanted you to be happy, Tommy had said.
But Jake didn't know if he knew how to be happy anymore. He only knew how to be disciplined, focused, efficient. How to show up and do the work and not think too hard about whether the work mattered.
His phone buzzed. Marcus, in the team group chat:
MANDATORY TEAM DINNER. FRIDAY. 7PM. MACS TAVERN. BE THERE OR FACE THE WRATH OF STONE.
Owen immediately responded: I'll be there!!!
Dmitri sent a thumbs up emoji.
Ryan sent: Can we make it 7:30? I have class until 7.
The chat devolved into scheduling chaos. Jake watched it scroll past, not participating, just observing. This was his team. These were his people. For three years, they'd been the closest thing he had to family in Timber Falls.
And if he took the Nashville offer—if the scout liked what he saw—Jake would leave all of this behind. Again.
Jake set down his phone and lay back on his bed. Through the wall, he heard his mysterious neighbor moving around. It was 2 PM on a Monday, which meant either his neighbor had the day off or they worked some kind of night shift. Jake had been living here for three years and still had no idea which.
Three years. That was longer than he'd spent anywhere since leaving for the NHL at eighteen. Longer than his college commitment would have been. Longer than some people's marriages.
At what point did "temporary" become "permanent"?
At what point did running toward something become running away?
Jake closed his eyes and thought about tomorrow. Wednesday. Pork bun day.
Maybe he'd sit down. Maybe he'd stay. Maybe he'd take one small step toward having a life instead of just a routine.
Or maybe he'd do what he always did: order, pay, leave. Keep everything simple. Keep everyone at arm's length.
Keep pretending that not feeling anything was the same as being strong.
Through the wall, his neighbor dropped something that sounded like a stack of pans. Jake smiled despite himself. At least someone in this building was living messily, chaotically, humanly.
At least someone was making noise.
Monday was Lucy's day off, which meant she was at the bakery by 7 AM doing paperwork.
This was not technically working, she told herself.
This was administrative necessity. If she didn't review supply orders and respond to emails and update the inventory spreadsheet, everything would fall apart.
Mae couldn't do it—Mae was a college student with her own schedule.
Sara, the new part-time baker Lucy had hired last week after Rei's nagging, was still learning the recipes.
So here Lucy was, on her supposed day off, sitting at her corner table with her laptop and a stack of invoices.
The bakery was closed, which meant it was blissfully quiet. No customers asking questions, no phone ringing, no Mae humming along to her indie playlists. Just Lucy, her coffee, and the soft sounds of the building settling around her.
She'd gotten through three supply orders when her phone buzzed.
Rei: what are you doing right now
Lucy: Nothing. Relaxing. Taking my day off.
Rei: liar. you're at the bakery doing paperwork aren't you
Lucy: ...
Lucy: How did you know?
Rei: because I know you. stop working. it's literally your ONE day off.
Lucy: I'm just finishing a few things.
Rei: lucy chen I swear to god
Lucy: FINE. I'll leave in an hour.
Rei: you'll leave NOW. I'm tracking your location. if you're still at the bakery in 10 minutes I'm coming over there and physically removing you
Lucy: That seems extreme.
Rei: desperate times. GO HOME. TAKE A NAP. READ A BOOK. BE A HUMAN PERSON.
Lucy sighed and closed her laptop. Rei was right—she was always right—but the thought of going back to her apartment with nothing to do made Lucy's skin itch. What was she supposed to do with free time? She'd forgotten how to have hobbies. Forgotten how to just... be.
She packed up her things and headed for the stairs to her apartment. Might as well do laundry. That was productive but not technically working. A good compromise.
Her apartment was directly above the bakery, accessible through an internal staircase or the separate entrance on the side of the building.
It was small—one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen that was basically a hallway—but it was hers.
Her grandmother had lived here for forty years before moving to the nursing home in her final months.
Lucy had changed almost nothing when she moved in five years ago. Same furniture, same dishes, same floral curtains that were probably from the 1990s. It felt wrong to change things, like she'd be erasing her grandmother's presence.
The laundry was in the basement, shared with the other tenants in the building. Lucy gathered her clothes and headed down the narrow back stairs.
The basement was dimly lit and smelled like detergent and old concrete. Two washers, two dryers, and a folding table that had definitely seen better days. Lucy loaded her clothes into a washer, added detergent, and set it running.
She should go back upstairs. Read that book Rei had recommended. Or finally watch the new season of that show everyone kept talking about. Or do literally anything that qualified as "relaxing."
Instead, she stood in the basement and watched her clothes spin through the washer window, mesmerized by the repetitive motion.
This was the problem, Lucy realized. She didn't know how to turn her brain off.
Even when she wasn't working, she was thinking about work.
Mentally reviewing recipes, planning tomorrow's prep, worrying about supply costs and equipment maintenance and whether she should expand the breakfast sandwich menu.
Your grandmother didn't leave you this place so you could disappear into it.
Uncle Walter's words from Saturday kept circling. Two days later and Lucy still couldn't shake them.
Her phone buzzed.
Rei: better not still be at the bakery
Lucy: I'm not. I'm doing laundry.
Rei: ...that's not what I meant by relaxing
Lucy: It's the best I can do right now.
Rei: okay. baby steps. proud of you for leaving the bakery at least.
Rei: btw Marcus told me Jake Morrison is probably going to come to team dinner Friday night. you should come too.
Lucy: Why would I come to team dinner?
Rei: because you're friends with me, I'm team PT, therefore you're team-adjacent. also because you never go anywhere and you need to be social.
Lucy: I'm social. I talk to people all day.
Rei: taking bakery orders doesn't count as socializing. come to dinner. it'll be fun. Marcus is buying appetizers.
Lucy: I'll think about it.
Rei: you'll be there. I'm manifesting it.
Lucy put her phone away and tried to imagine herself at Mac's Tavern on Friday night, surrounded by hockey players and their partners, trying to make small talk. The thought was exhausting.
But maybe that was the point. Maybe she needed to be exhausted by something other than work. Maybe she needed to remember how to exist outside the bakery walls.
The washer chimed. Lucy transferred her clothes to the dryer and headed back upstairs.