Chapter 5 #2
"And you're mine." Lucy smiled. "I've been wondering about you for three years. Whether you were okay. What kept you up at odd hours. Whether you were running from something or toward it."
"Both," Jake admitted. "I think I've been running from and toward things for so long I forgot how to just stand still."
"Me too."
They stood there in the middle of the farmers market, surrounded by people buying vegetables and homemade jam, and Jake felt something click into place.
This was it. This was what Marcus had been talking about.
Not the grand gesture or the perfect moment—just two people, equally stuck, equally scared, finally being honest.
"I have a game tonight," Jake said. "Nashville scout will be there. It's probably my last real shot at the NHL."
"That's huge."
"Yeah. And I don't know if I want it anymore. Which feels like betraying everything I've worked for. Everything my dad wanted for me."
Lucy was quiet for a moment. Then: "Can I tell you something my grandmother used to say?"
"Please."
"She said that sometimes the bravest thing you can do is choose a different path than the one you planned. That changing your mind isn't failure—it's growth."
"She sounds wise."
"She was. And she would have liked you."
"How do you know?"
"Because you appreciate her pork buns. That was her main criteria for judging people."
Jake laughed again, and it felt good. Natural. Like something he used to do before he forgot how.
They bought Lucy's blue mug (Jake insisted on paying, Lucy insisted on splitting it, they compromised with Lucy buying them both coffee from the market's coffee stand), then walked slowly back toward The Bread Basket.
The morning had warmed slightly, the sun breaking through November clouds. Timber Falls looked almost pretty like this—the mountains in the distance, the old buildings lining Main Street, the sense of community that came from everyone knowing everyone else.
"Can I ask you something?" Lucy said as they approached the bakery.
"Yeah."
"Why did you come back here? After the NHL, after the injury—you could have gone anywhere. Why Timber Falls?"
Jake thought about it. "Because it's home. Even when I was trying to escape it, trying to prove I was meant for something bigger—it was always home. And after the injury, after everything fell apart, this was the only place that made sense."
"Do you regret it?"
"I used to. I spent three years thinking I was settling for less, that I'd failed." He stopped walking, turned to face her. "But lately I've been wondering if maybe I didn't fail. Maybe I just ended up where I was supposed to be all along."
Lucy's eyes were bright with something that might have been tears. "I understand that. More than you know."
They'd reached the bakery. The morning had slipped away faster than Jake expected—it was already 10:30. His phone had buzzed twice with texts from Marcus that he'd ignored.
"So," Lucy said, clutching her farmers market bags. "Tomorrow? For butternut squash muffin testing?"
"What time?"
"Noon? I'll have the first batch done by then."
"Perfect. Should I bring anything?"
"Just your honest opinion. And maybe low expectations."
"I've been eating your pork buns for three years. My expectations are extremely high."
Lucy laughed, and Jake committed the sound to memory.
She started toward her apartment entrance, then turned back. "Jake? Good luck tonight. With the game and the scout. Whatever you decide—I hope you choose what makes you happy."
"Thanks. That means a lot."
She disappeared up the stairs, and Jake stood on the sidewalk for a moment, holding his sourdough and his impossible-to-kill succulent, feeling lighter than he had in years.
His phone buzzed. Marcus, of course.
Marcus: how was the NOT DATE?
Jake: Good. Really good.
Marcus: details????
Jake: I'll tell you later. I have to go home and figure out where to put a plant.
Marcus: A PLANT?? YOU BOUGHT A PLANT TOGETHER??? THIS IS SERIOUS
Jake pocketed his phone, smiling. It was serious. Or it could be. And maybe—maybe—that was okay.
Lucy made it exactly three steps into her apartment before she texted Rei.
Lucy: I invited him to my apartment tomorrow to taste-test muffins.
Rei's response was immediate: YOU WHAT
Lucy: It's not a big deal. Just baking research.
Rei: LUCY CHEN YOU INVITED A MAN TO YOUR APARTMENT
Lucy: We're neighbors! Technically he's already at my apartment, just on the other side of the wall.
Rei: THIS IS HUGE
Lucy: It's muffins.
Rei: IT'S A STEP
Lucy: Okay yes it's a step. A small step.
Rei: IM SO PROUD. What are you going to wear???
Lucy: Rei it's noon on a Sunday. I'm going to wear whatever's clean.
Rei: wear the gray sweater. the soft one. and actual jeans not your flour pants.
Lucy: I'm making muffins in my kitchen. I'm going to have flour on my pants regardless.
Rei: LUCY
Lucy: Fine. Gray sweater. Real jeans. But I'm not doing my hair.
Rei: baby steps. I'll take it.
Lucy set down her phone and looked around her apartment. When was the last time she'd had someone over who wasn't Rei or Uncle Walter? When was the last time she'd cared what her living space looked like?
The apartment was clean—Lucy was too disciplined for it not to be—but it was also... sad? Impersonal? The furniture was her grandmother's, the decorations were minimal, the only personal touches were the stack of cookbooks on the coffee table and the framed photo of her grandmother on the mantle.
It looked like someone who was afraid to take up space.
Lucy spent the rest of Saturday cleaning things that didn't need cleaning, rearranging furniture that was fine where it was, and generally spiraling about the fact that Jake Morrison would be in her apartment in less than twenty-four hours.
By evening, she was exhausted from anxiety and ready for bed. But then she remembered: Jake had a game tonight. The Nashville scout would be there.
Lucy pulled out her laptop and found the Timber Falls Wolves website. They streamed home games online for a small fee—mostly for parents and family members who couldn't make it to the arena.
She'd never watched a full game before. Had barely paid attention the two times Uncle Walter had dragged her to the rink. But tonight felt different.
Tonight she wanted to watch.
The game started at 7 PM. Lucy made herself a grilled cheese (dinner of champions), settled on her couch, and pulled up the stream.
The Timber Falls Ice Center looked different on camera—smaller, more intimate than she remembered. The stands were maybe three-quarters full, which the announcer noted was a good crowd for a Saturday night.
And then the teams took the ice.
Lucy spotted Jake immediately. Number 19, dark hair just visible under his helmet, skating with a precision that made it impossible to look away. The announcer mentioned the Nashville scout in attendance, talked about Jake's NHL history, called him "one of the most consistent players in the ECHL."
Consistent. Reliable. Professional.
The same words people used to describe Lucy.
The game was fast and confusing and Lucy only understood about half of what was happening.
But she understood when Jake got the puck, the way the entire arena seemed to hold its breath.
She understood when he made a pass that led to a goal, the way his teammates mobbed him even though he hadn't been the one to score.
She understood that he was good at this. Really good.
And she understood, watching his face during a stoppage in play, that he looked like someone going through the motions.
Efficient. Not happy.
The Wolves won 4-2. Jake had two assists and what the announcer called "a dominant performance." The camera caught him skating off the ice, face neutral, completely unaffected by the win.
Lucy closed her laptop and sat in her quiet apartment, thinking about what Jake had said at the farmers market: I've been running from and toward things for so long I forgot how to just stand still.
She understood that too.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Hi Lucy, this is Jake. Marcus gave me your number - hope that's okay. Just wanted to say thanks for this morning. See you tomorrow?
Lucy stared at the message for a long moment. Then she typed back:
Saw your game tonight. You were amazing.
Three dots appeared immediately. Then:
You watched?
I wanted to see what you do when you're not eating pork buns.
And?
You're really good. But you looked like you were thinking about something else the whole time.
The three dots appeared and disappeared several times. Finally:
I was thinking about butternut squash muffins.
Lucy laughed out loud in her empty apartment.
Liar.
Okay maybe I was thinking about a few things. But butternut squash muffins were definitely on the list.
Get some sleep. You played a hard game.
You get some sleep. You have muffins to bake tomorrow.
See you at noon.
See you at noon.
Lucy set down her phone and allowed herself to smile like an idiot for exactly three minutes. Then she went to her closet and pulled out the gray sweater Rei had mentioned.
It was soft cashmere, another gift from her grandmother. Lucy had worn it maybe twice in five years, convinced it was too nice for everyday life.
But tomorrow wasn't everyday life.
Tomorrow was Jake Morrison in her apartment, eating butternut squash muffins, being honest about whatever this thing was between them.
Tomorrow was her choosing to show up instead of hiding.
Lucy hung the sweater on her bedroom door where she'd see it first thing in the morning, then finally let herself go to bed.
The locker room after the game was loud with victory, but Jake felt strangely detached from it. They'd won. He'd played well. The Nashville scout had watched the entire game from his seat behind the bench.
And Jake had spent three periods thinking about farmers markets and blue ceramic mugs and the way Lucy's eyes had crinkled when she laughed.