Page 10 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter seven

Jake

T he wind off Lake Superior had teeth. I'd walked into it for forty-three minutes without a proper coat because storming out of my apartment required sacrificing cold-weather survival instincts.

My sneakers squelched against the sidewalk—still damp with milk and wounded pride—as the chill seeped through the canvas like lake water through a leaky hull. Thunder Bay in October didn't mess around. It bit first and asked questions later.

The Common Thread coffee shop sat wedged between a used bookstore and a shop that sold crystals to people who believed in the healing power of overpriced rocks.

It featured a rainbow flag, chalkboard menu propped against the glass, and warm yellow light that made you want to press your face against the window like a feral cat.

I pushed through the door and stepped into other people's lives.

The café smelled like espresso, cardamom, and something sweet baking in the back. Indie folk played low from speakers I couldn't see—a woman's voice like honey and heartbreak singing about cities that forgot your name.

Students hunched over laptops, nursing drinks that had gone cold an hour ago. A couple by the window shared a muffin and whispered the sweet nothings of a great first date. An older woman in a hand-knitted sweater sat reading a paperback with a cover that was ninety percent shirtless abs.

Nobody looked up. Nobody cared that a hockey player fleeing his overly organized roommate had entered the shop.

I couldn't decide whether that was disappointing or a relief.

After I placed my order, the barista slid a latte across the counter. “Welcome to Thunder Gay.”

“Thunder Bay,” I corrected automatically.

She grinned. “Sure, if that helps you sleep at night.”

"Jake fucking Riley." A familiar voice cut through the ambient café noise. I turned to find Juno Park sitting alone at a corner table, with her laptop open and a mug of something suspiciously green clutched in both hands.

She grinned at me over the rim, blue hair catching the light from the vintage Edison bulbs strung above her table. "You look like someone who had a fight with gravity and lost."

"Gravity's a bastard. Always has been. It yanked Evan's vintage bowl right out of my hand, Rice Krispies and all."

"And I meant your hair." Juno smirked and gestured for me to sit.

I slumped into the empty chair at her small round table, reaching up to self-consciously smooth my hair.

The green drink turned out to be some kind of matcha situation.

I suspected it could cure cancer, summon ancient forest spirits, or both.

"So, the cereal killer strikes again. Should I be taking notes for the inevitable Netflix documentary about your reign of breakfast terror?"

I snorted. "That's good. Better than Milkfoot Menace, which is what I've been calling myself for the last hour."

"Oh, please. You've probably got a whole brand strategy worked out. Milkfoot Menace merch, sponsored cereal deals, maybe a TikTok dance." She leaned back, studying me with those sharp eyes. "Though honestly, your brand management could use work."

"Hey, breakfast disasters are authentic. Very relatable. I'm connecting with my audience through shared suffering."

"Right. And how's that working out for your relationship with your at-home audience of one? You know, the guy whose dishware you murdered?"

I tried for the lopsided grin that usually got me out of unwanted conversations. "It's not like it was a major catastrophe. Only a small kitchen incident involving physics, poor motor control, and a chipped bowl."

"Mm-hmm. Physics." Juno sipped her green drink. "And I suppose this physics lesson happened while you were… demonstrating the principles of gravity to your roommate?"

"Yeah. Very educational. I'm like Bill Nye, but with worse timing and better hair."

"And his reaction to this impromptu science class?"

"Oh, you know. Academic appreciation. Deep respect for the learning process." I gestured vaguely. "He's very into... educational opportunities."

Juno set down her mug with a deliberate clunk. "Jake."

"Yeah?"

"You realize I make a living getting people to tell me the truth, right? That's in my job description."

I shifted in my chair. "Right. The podcast thing."

"The podcast thing where I convinced a federal judge to admit he'd been shoplifting gum for twenty years, and a bestselling romance author to confess she'd never actually been in love.

" Her smile was as sharp as the wind off Lake Superior.

"So, maybe try again. And this time, try not to be an idiot. "

I sighed, reaching up to smooth my hair again. "Okay, fine. I fucked up. I broke his stuff, we yelled at each other, and I ran away like I'm twelve years old. There. Happy?"

"Getting warmer. But you're still performing." She leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You know what's interesting? I've watched every episode of Love on Ice . Twice."

"Fuck. Why would you do that to yourself?"

"Research. And because I wanted to see you when you weren't trying to be charming." Her expression softened. "There were maybe three moments in the entire season where you forgot the cameras were there. And in those moments? You were a guy I wanted to have coffee with."

The comment rattled me. "And the rest of the time?"

"The rest of the time, you were someone auditioning for the role of Jake Riley." She traced the rim of her mug with one finger. "So I'm curious. Which version walked out of your kitchen this morning?"

Words spilled out of my mouth without thinking.

"You know what's fucked up? I keep thinking about how he organizes the spice rack.

Alphabetical order, obviously, because why would you do it any other way if you're Evan Carter?

He puts the cinnamon between the cardamom and the cumin, and there's something about that—how he makes space for everything to have its place—that makes me want to. .."

I stopped and stared at my hands.

"Want to what?"

"Miss someone who alphabetizes cinnamon. Is that weird? Because it feels weird."

Juno smiled gently. "Not weird. Specific. There's a difference."

She closed her laptop with a soft click and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You know what I think? You've been performing so long that you forgot people might want to see the guy behind the curtain even when he's messy. Especially when he's messy."

Something began to crack in my funny guy facade. "What if the man behind the curtain is just... more mess?"

"Then maybe that's precisely what someone needs to see."

We were both quiet for a moment. The café hummed around us—espresso machine hissing, someone laughing at a table near the window, and the soft tapping of fingers on laptop keys. Normal noises. It was the soundtrack of other people's lives.

Juno reached out and tapped the back of my hand. "Want some unsolicited advice from your friendly neighborhood podcast host?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really. Here it is: maybe you don't need to be so loud all the time to be heard."

"Wisdom or bullshit? How do I know which it is?"

"Could be both. I contain multitudes." She grinned and pulled out her phone, and began to type. "Okay, let me take your emotional inventory. You're giving me some seriously advanced soul spillage vibes."

"Soul spillage?"

"Technical term. Very scientific." She stopped typing. "Patient presents with wet sneakers, defensive humor, and an alarming tendency to wax poetic about spice organization. Diagnosis: acute feelings disorder with complications."

Despite everything, I laughed. "What's the prognosis, doc?"

"Depends. Are you willing to try saying sorry in your own language instead of everyone else's?"

I touched a stray paper napkin near Juno's mug and tilted my head. She nodded, and I slid it in front of me. "What if I don't remember how to speak my language anymore?"

Juno tapped the back of my hand again with a silver-ringed finger. "Then you learn again. One word at a time."

Juno stood and stretched, joints popping audibly. "I need more caffeine before my brain starts staging a rebellion. Want anything?"

"I'm good."

"No, you're not, so I'll grab you something anyway." She headed toward the counter, leaving me alone with my thoughts and her half-empty green drink.

I stared out the window at Memorial Avenue, watching cars navigate the intersection. A woman in a red coat waited for the light to change, holding a to-go cup in both hands like it was a lifeline.

Then, I spotted it—a small wicker basket on a shelf along the wall, full of pens and markers. It was a set of communal art supplies that existed in places where people trusted each other not to steal the good pens.

I walked over and reached for a black ballpoint. Returning to my table, I unfolded the napkin. The paper was thin, the kind that would tear if you pressed too hard, but it was there, and I needed to get something out of my head before it poisoned the rest of my day.

I started writing. Not the polished bars from "Puck Life," or the kind of verse designed to go viral and make people laugh. It was a stream of words pouring out of me like water from a broken pipe:

Kitchen collisions, milk on the floor I'm the hurricane you didn't ask for Broke your bowl, broke the quiet Now I'm walking through the riot In my head, where the noise lives And I can't find the exit

I paused, pen hovering over the napkin. The words were raw on the thin paper, unfinished and honest. I bit my lip and continued.

Miss the way you move like music Even when you're just making tea Alphabetized your cinnamon Never alphabetized me

The last line hit me in my gut. I folded the napkin quickly, before I could second-guess the words or try to make them better. I didn't write them to be good. I wrote them to be true.

I stuffed the napkin into my hoodie pocket, next to my phone and a growing collection of random shit.

"Cinnamon chip muffin." Juno's voice made me jump. She set a plate in front of me, the muffin still warm, scent reminding me of my angry roommate. "Couldn't resist. Seemed thematically appropriate."

I looked down at the muffin—golden brown with visible chunks of cinnamon throughout, the kind of baked good that someone had made with care instead of pulling from a plastic wrapper.

"Thanks."

"You write something?" She nodded toward the pen I was still holding.

"Maybe. Probably garbage."

"The best stuff usually starts as garbage." She wrapped her hands around her fresh coffee. "You heading back?"

I broke off a piece of the muffin and tasted cinnamon and sugar. "Yeah. Probably should face the music."

"Remember what I said. Your language, not the TV version."

I stood, pocketing the pen without thinking about it. "What if he doesn't speak my language?"

Juno smiled. "Teach him. One word at a time."

The apartment was quiet when I returned. It wasn't the usual comfortable quiet of Sunday mornings or the focused quiet of Evan updating spreadsheets. It was a hollow silence that colonized spaces where people had said things they couldn't take back.

I stood in the entryway momentarily, listening—no shower running or soft click of laptop keys. I didn't hear Evan moving through the kitchen with his methodical precision. Either he was hiding in his room, or he'd left entirely.

A familiar aroma hit me as I rounded the corner into the kitchen.

Vanilla. Brown sugar. Something warm and impossibly perfect.

He'd arranged golden brown cookies on a cooling rack in perfect rows—dark chocolate chips and what looked like cornflakes mixed into the dough. It was homemade perfection that someone spent hours creating, measuring each ingredient with the same care Evan brought to labeling leftover containers.

I counted them. Thirty-six cookies. Three dozen. Enough to feed the entire team, or one guilt-ridden roommate forever.

He'd made cookies. After our fight. After I'd stormed out and left him standing in a kitchen full of milk and ceramic shrapnel.

I picked one up—still warm at the edges, perfect weight in my palm—and took a bite. The cornflakes added texture, a satisfying crunch that paired with the melted chocolate in a surprising and inevitable way. He'd figured out the precise formula for comfort and baked it into edible form.

Evan Carter stress-baked.

I stood there for a long moment, cookie melting on my tongue, staring at the evidence of his care. The kitchen was spotless again—no trace of our morning disaster except for the empty space on the drying rack where his blue bowl used to sit.

I reached into my hoodie pocket for the napkin, soft edges worn smooth from my nervous handling. The words I'd written sounded different in my head after the walk home, less like bleeding and more like breathing.

I grabbed a Post-it from the stack by the phone—yellow, because it seemed like the most apologetic option—and found a pen that didn't belong to a café basket.

Sorry I touched your face. Also your soul. – The Milkfoot Menace

I placed the note on top of one of the cookies, the bright yellow paper contrasting with the golden brown surface. Not perfect. Not polished. Still, it was honest in a way that would make Juno proud.

As I headed toward my room, I pulled the napkin from my pocket and unfolded it carefully.

Miss the way you move like music

Even when you're just making tea

Alphabetized your cinnamon

Never alphabetized me

I smoothed it flat against my palm and read the words over and over.

Maybe Juno was right. Maybe it was time to learn my own language again.

One word at a time.