Chapter 5
Emma nailed the spin move on her third try, stopping in a perfect spray of ice.
"Did you see that, Coach Jake? Did you see?"
"I saw. That was perfect."
"Can I show my dad? He's up in the stands."
Jake glanced toward the bleachers where a handful of parents sat with their morning coffee, watching their kids skate. Emma's dad—a dentist named Mike who'd introduced himself three weeks ago—waved.
"Go ahead. Take five."
Emma skated off, and Jake found himself checking his phone. 7:15 AM. Practice would wrap at 8, which gave him thirty minutes to get home, shower, and meet Lucy at 8:30.
His stomach did something complicated.
This wasn't a date. Lucy had been clear about that when she'd texted him last night to confirm: Looking forward to farmers market research tomorrow!
Research. Right. Because they were both professionals who needed to investigate local produce suppliers. Nothing romantic about it.
"Coach Jake!" Owen appeared at his elbow, somehow having volunteered for youth hockey duty despite the fact that he was barely old enough to buy beer. "Can I ask you something?"
"If it's about hockey, yes. If it's about anything else, probably not."
"It's about hockey. Kind of." Owen shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically nervous. "That scout who's coming to our game tonight—do you ever get nervous? Like, knowing someone's watching specifically to judge you?"
Tonight. Right. The Nashville scout would be there, watching Jake play, evaluating whether Jake Morrison at twenty-eight was worth an NHL roster spot.
Jake had been trying not to think about it.
"All the time," Jake admitted.
"Really? But you're so calm during games. Nothing rattles you."
"Being calm and being nervous aren't mutually exclusive." Jake watched Emma show her dad the spin move, both of them grinning. "You know what helps?"
"What?"
"Remembering why you started playing in the first place. Not for scouts or stats or contracts. Just because you loved it."
Owen was quiet for a moment. "Do you still love it?"
The question hit harder than it should have. Did Jake still love hockey? Or had it become just another routine, another thing he did because he'd always done it?
"I'm figuring that out," Jake said honestly.
Tommy's whistle cut through the rink. "All right, wrap it up! Final drill!"
The kids gathered at center ice, and Jake led them through one last exercise—a relay race that was more about fun than fundamentals. Emma's team won by half a second, and she celebrated like she'd just won the Stanley Cup.
This, Jake thought. This was why he'd started playing. The pure joy of it. The way it felt to move across ice with complete freedom.
When had he forgotten that?
By 8:15, Jake was showered and dressed in what Marcus would call "civilian clothes"—dark jeans, a gray sweater, his everyday jacket instead of his team gear. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and wondered if he should have tried harder. Should have worn something nicer. Should have—
His phone buzzed.
Marcus: good luck on your NOT DATE
Jake: It's not a date. It's farmers market research.
Marcus: sure jan
Marcus: wear protection
Jake: I hate you
Marcus: love you too. have fun. be yourself. don't overthink it.
Jake pocketed his phone and grabbed his keys. Don't overthink it. Right. Except overthinking was basically Jake's primary skill at this point.
The drive to The Bread Basket took six minutes. Jake parked across the street and sat in his truck for exactly thirty seconds, watching the bakery's windows.
The lights were on. Through the glass, he could see Lucy moving around inside, probably finishing up her Saturday morning rush. She was wearing what looked like an oversized flannel shirt over a t-shirt, her hair pulled back in its usual bun.
She looked beautiful.
Jake got out of the truck before he could talk himself out of it.
The bell chimed when he walked in. Lucy looked up from the register where she was ringing up Mrs. Henderson (ancient beagle in tow).
"Hey," Lucy said, and her smile was genuine. "You're early."
"Practice finished ahead of schedule. I can wait if you need—"
"No, I'm almost done. Mae's closing up." Lucy finished the transaction, handed Mrs. Henderson her bag of what looked like enough baked goods to feed a small army, then turned back to Jake. "Give me two minutes to grab my coat?"
"Take your time."
Lucy disappeared into the back. Jake stood awkwardly by the door, trying not to make eye contact with Mae, who was absolutely staring at him.
"So," Mae said. "Farmers market."
"Yep."
"For research purposes."
"That's right."
"Uh-huh." Mae's grin was unmistakable. "You know, in the three years you've been coming here, I've never seen Lucy take a morning off. Not once. But somehow, for farmers market research, she's leaving an hour before her usual Saturday closing time."
"I'm sure she's very dedicated to research."
"Oh, absolutely. Very dedicated." Mae leaned against the counter. "Just so you know—she's nervous. Like, really nervous. Which means she likes you. So don't screw it up."
"I'll try not to."
"Good. Because if you hurt her, Rei will destroy you. And if Rei doesn't get to you first, I will. And I'm scrappier than I look."
Lucy reappeared before Jake could respond, wearing a dark green jacket and with her hair down instead of up. She'd clearly spent the two minutes doing more than just grabbing her coat.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Ready."
They walked out into the cold November morning. The farmers market was only four blocks away, held every Saturday in the parking lot behind the old Methodist church. It was small—maybe twenty vendors on a good day—but it was a Timber Falls institution.
"So," Lucy said as they walked. "Tell me about youth hockey this morning. Did Emma nail that spin move?"
"You remember Emma?"
"You talked about her at dinner last night. The seven-year-old who learns tricks from YouTube."
Jake felt something warm spread through his chest. Lucy had been listening. Really listening.
"She nailed it on the third try. Her dad almost fell out of the bleachers he was so excited."
"That's sweet. You're good with the kids."
"They're easier than adults. They still think hockey is fun instead of work."
"Is that what it is for you? Work?"
The question was gentle, but it cut deep. Jake shoved his hands in his pockets.
"Sometimes. I'm trying to remember what it feels like when it's not."
"And? Any luck?"
"Getting there. Slowly."
They'd reached the market. Even at 8:40 AM, it was already busy—locals getting their weekly vegetables, tourists buying maple syrup and artisanal cheese, families browsing handmade crafts.
"Where do you usually start?" Lucy asked.
"Produce. I don't cook much, but I like seeing what's seasonal."
"I love seeing what's seasonal. Gives me ideas for the bakery menu."
They wandered through the stalls, falling into an easy rhythm. Lucy would stop to examine apples or squash, talking to vendors about growing conditions and harvest timing. Jake found himself fascinated by how much she knew, how easily she connected with people.
At the third produce stand, run by an older woman named Martha, Lucy picked up a butternut squash and turned it over in her hands.
"These are perfect," Lucy said. "Mind if I buy a few? I'm thinking butternut squash muffins for next week."
"You make butternut squash muffins?" Jake asked.
"Every fall. My grandmother's recipe. They're savory, not sweet—sage and brown butter. People either love them or hate them."
"Which category do I fall into?"
"I don't know. You've never tried them." Lucy glanced at him, something playful in her expression. "Want to be my taste-tester?"
"When?"
"I'm baking test batches tomorrow. It's my day off, but I usually spend it in the kitchen anyway." She paused. "You could come by? If you want. No pressure."
Jake's brain short-circuited for a second. Lucy was inviting him to her apartment. To taste-test baked goods. On a Sunday.
"Yeah," he said. "I'd like that."
"Really?"
"Really."
Lucy's smile could have powered the entire town. She bought three butternut squashes, chatting with Martha about the unseasonably warm October they'd had, then led Jake to the next stall.
They spent an hour wandering the market. Lucy bought ingredients—apples, fresh herbs, a jar of local honey. Jake bought a loaf of sourdough from a vendor Lucy recommended, and a small potted succulent that the plant lady insisted was "impossible to kill."
"Famous last words," Jake said, examining the succulent.
"You'll be fine. Just water it once a week and put it by a window."
"What if I forget to water it?"
"Then it dies and you learn a valuable lesson about responsibility."
Jake laughed—actually laughed, not the polite chuckle he usually gave—and Lucy looked pleased with herself.
They were browsing a stall selling handmade pottery when Lucy's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, and her expression shifted.
"Everything okay?" Jake asked.
"Yeah, just—" Lucy sighed. "Uncle Walter. He wants to know if I've thought about hiring more help. He's been on this kick lately about me working too much."
"Are you working too much?"
"Probably." Lucy picked up a blue ceramic mug, turning it over. "But I don't know how to not work too much. The bakery is... it's everything. It's my grandmother's legacy. If I let it slip, if I mess something up—"
"It doesn't all fall apart," Jake said quietly. "You're allowed to have help. You're allowed to have a life outside that building."
"Says the guy who lives in a studio apartment and watches old movies at 3 AM."
Jake blinked. "How did you—"
"You're not the only one who's been paying attention for three years." Lucy set down the mug, her expression softening. "I hear you sometimes. Through the wall. We're neighbors."
Jake felt his face heat. "You're my mystery neighbor?"