Page 16 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter eleven

Jake

T hree perfect passes, one stolen puck, and zero faceplants into the boards—by my standards, I was Wayne Gretzky with better hair.

Still riding the high, I spotted Juno Park lurking near the media alcove. She had that look on her face. Was she planning to offer me something to make my career or end it in a spectacular crash and burn? Given my track record, the odds weren't in my favor.

"Riley." She pushed off the wall as I passed, falling into step beside me. Her combat boots clicked against the concrete, and she carried a steaming cup that reeked of mysterious herbs. "Got a minute?"

"That depends. Are we talking a friendly conversation or professional evisceration?"

"Little of both." She grinned, pulling out her recorder. "Live taping. Friday night. Me, you, and Nik Vanko."

I stopped walking. "Nik Vanko? That pretty boy from Sudbury? The one with the skincare sponsorships and the TikTok following?"

"That's the one." Juno's eyes glittered. "Theme of the night: queerness and masculinity in minor-league hockey."

My stomach dropped. "What, you need someone to add a little mayhem? A token disaster to balance out the golden boy?"

"I need someone real." She fixed me with her sharp gaze. "Not an attention hound performing for the cameras."

Real? Me? I tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strangled. "Sounds like a blast. Can I rap about it? Maybe dust off the sequins?"

"Jake." She stopped walking and turned to face me full-on. For a second, the journalist's mask slipped. "You don't have to be anyone but you. Unless you're scared of what that actually means."

Unless you're scared of what that actually means.

I was always terrified of what that meant.

"I'll think about it." I backed away, headed toward the locker room.

"That's not a yes."

"It's not a no either."

The apartment was dark when I got home, except for the soft glow from the kitchen.

I found Evan at the counter, two mugs steaming before him.

He'd been waiting for me. He wore that gray hoodie that made his eyes look more blue than gray, and his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing the lean muscle of his forearms and those veins I wanted to trace.

"Tea?" He pushed one of the mugs toward me without looking up.

I took it, wrapping my fingers around the warm ceramic. Earl Grey—he'd remembered I liked the fancy stuff, not only whatever was cheapest at the grocery store. It was a small kindness that hit me sideways.

"You looked good at practice."

"Aww, thanks. Another day, another dollar… or maybe only fifty cents." I sipped, letting the bergamot settle on my tongue. "Coach almost smiled. I hope it was me and not a medical emergency."

Evan was halfway to a smile. We stood facing each other, comfortable together.

I had to say something to add some noise. "Juno cornered me in the Barn."

"About what?"

"Live podcast taping. Friday night. She wants me and some TikTok golden boy to talk about being queer in hockey." I tried to keep my voice light and casual.

Evan looked up from his mug with an eyebrow raised. "Nik Vanko?"

"You know him?"

"Everybody knows him. Kid's got like two million followers." Evan paused. "That could be good. Juno's got real reach. The community respects her. You'd be framing your own story for once."

I sipped again, buying time. "Yeah, maybe."

"I'm serious, Jake. This could change things for you. Show people you're more than the memes."

My gut clenched. "Right. More than the memes."

"That's not—" Evan caught himself and set his mug down. "I just meant you deserve to have people see who you actually are."

"And who is that?" I didn't mean to ask the question harshly.

Evan blinked. "Someone who cares about the game. Someone who shows up for his teammates. Someone who's been through hell and still has the guts to keep trying."

He was attempting a compliment. It was a compliment, but all I heard was how he'd been thinking about my image problem for a while. I heard that I was damaged goods.

"Sounds like you've got my whole redemption arc planned out."

"That's not what I'm doing."

"Isn't it?" I set my mug down harder than necessary, and the ceramic clanked against the counter. "You want to fix my image. Like rehabilitation with better lighting."

"That's not what I—"

"No, that is what you meant." I detected a panicky edge in my voice. "Poor Jake needs to clean up his act. Poor Jake needs better PR. Poor Jake needs someone to hold his hand while he figures out how to represent queer hockey properly."

Evan's jaw tightened. "No, I only meant if you want people to see the real you, this might be a start."

"Maybe I'm not interested in being your project."

It was a verbal slap. Evan flinched, and something cold settled in my stomach. I couldn't stop the self-destructive spiral that always kicked in when things were too good and too much like something I wanted to earn.

"You think you're helping," My voice increased in volume with each word, "but it's more like appointing yourself my manager. More labels on the fridge. More ways to organize me into something that makes sense in your perfectly controlled world."

Evan turned away from me, moving to the sink. He rinsed his mug under the tap, scrubbing at it, and when he spoke, his words were quiet and clipped.

"I believed in you before anyone else around here did."

His statement plowed into me like a freight train. It was true—damn, it was so fucking true. Evan had seen something in me when everyone else only saw the memes and the viral disasters. He'd given me that unmarked game puck and stood up for me in a dozen small ways.

And here I was, throwing it back in his face because I was too scared to accept that someone might actually care.

The corners of my eyes burned. "Yeah, and maybe that was a mistake."

Evan was quiet. The only sound was the refrigerator's steady hum.

"Maybe it was."

He set the clean mug in the drying rack and walked past me toward the hallway. He didn't slam the door to his room when he left. Evan never slammed doors. Somehow, the soft click of the latch was worse than any amount of shouting could have been.

I stood alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the evidence of his care for me—a labeled cookie container in the fridge and the tea he'd had waiting. He always tried to show me I mattered, and I'd just told him it was a mistake to believe in me.

The worst part? I meant it. In that moment, with panic crawling up my throat, I meant every cruel word.

My phone buzzed on the counter—probably Juno, following up on the podcast invitation. I didn't look at it. Instead, I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair and headed for the door.

I needed air. I needed space. I needed to get away from the kitchen that smelled like Earl Grey and good intentions before I did something even more stupid than I already had.

I drove through Thunder Bay's mostly empty streets while my brain tried to catch up with what I'd just done. The dashboard clock read 8:04 PM. It was already dark out, and the radio played some mournful country song about broken hearts and bad decisions. It was a little too on the nose.

I ended up at Hillcrest Park. Hog suggested I go there. He claimed it was the most beautiful view in Western Ontario.

I parked near the overlook and killed the engine, surrounded by silence while Lake Superior stretched below me like a dark mirror.

The wind off the lake cut through my jacket when I stepped out of the car, sharp enough to make my eyes water.

October in Thunder Bay didn't mess around.

I should have gone back inside, cranked the heat, and driven home like a rational person.

Instead, I gazed at the overlook. The city spread out below me, all scattered lights and quiet streets. If I'd come in the daylight, I could have seen the sleeping giant in the distance, a massive collection of stone hills that merged on the horizon.

From a distance, Thunder Bay was peaceful, a place where people made good decisions and didn't blow up their lives over cups of tea. I saw the arena, a squat building that had become the closest thing to home I'd known in years.

As I rubbed my chin, I remembered hiking with my dad when I was maybe ten, somewhere in the Rockies during a family vacation. The trail had seemed endless, all switchbacks and false summits, and I'd complained the entire way up.

I whined. "What's the point? It's just more walking."

Dad was patient. "Sometimes the point isn't the destination, Jake. Sometimes it's proving to yourself you can make it to the top."

We'd reached the summit as the sun was setting, painting the mountains gold and orange and purple in ways that made my ten-year-old brain go quiet for once. Dad put his hand on my shoulder. "See? Worth it."

I'd felt proud that day. Accomplished. Like I'd earned something real.

Standing at the overlook, I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt that way about anything.

I pulled a notebook out of my jacket pocket—the same dog-eared spiral I'd been carrying for months, filled with half-finished thoughts and lyrics that never quite said what I meant. The cover was soft from handling, and it had bent corners from being shoved into pockets and gear bags.

I opened it to a blank page and stared at the white space, pen hovering uselessly in my hand. Nothing came—no words or clever turns of phrase. I couldn't make sense of the mess I'd just made.

I thought about Evan's face during our fight. His face went blank when I suggested believing in me was a mistake. Now, he was probably filing away my words in some mental spreadsheet labeled "Reasons Jake Riley Is What Everyone Said He Was."

I believed in you before anyone else around here did.

He'd seen something worth protecting in me when I was still the reality TV villain who rapped about puck life. I threw it back in his face.

The wind picked up. My hands were numb around the pen, but I didn't move. I didn't go back to the car or try to write or do any of the things that usually helped when my brain started eating itself alive.

I stood there and thought about what we were—Evan and me. Teammates, for sure. Roommates by necessity. Something more by choice, if I hadn't successfully torched it with my spectacular talent for self-destruction.

I wanted him to believe in me. I wanted Evan Carter—Mr. Spreadsheet, Lord of Alphabetized Spice Racks—to look at my mess of a life and decide it was worth sticking around. I wanted him to see me, all of me, and not run.

A freight train called out from somewhere near the port, its horn echoing across the water in long, mournful tones. The sound seemed to go on forever before finally fading into the Thunder Bay night.

I closed the notebook without writing anything and shoved it back in my pocket.

My phone was still in the car, probably buzzing with texts I didn't want to read.

The apartment was probably dark by now, Evan winding down to sleep behind his closed door, dreaming of proper defensive positioning and perfectly baked cookies.

As I returned to the car, my sneakers crunched against the gravel.

I sat behind the wheel without starting the engine.

Maybe Dad had been right about the hike.

Perhaps the point wasn't reaching the summit—maybe it was proving you could climb at all, even when the trail looked impossible and your legs were shaking and you wanted to quit at every step.

Maybe it was time to find out if I was brave enough to keep climbing, even when I couldn't see where the path was leading.

The engine turned over on the second try, and I pointed the car toward home.