Page 18 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter thirteen

Jake

I 'd changed my shirt three times and was considering a fourth when I realized I was acting like someone who cared about podcasts.

The Common Thread's back room smelled like old books, espresso, and incense burned to mask the fact that it was basically a repurposed storage closet.

Juno had transformed it into something intentional—two mismatched chairs flanked a table that someone salvaged from a garage sale, and a microphone the size of a small planet loomed between them.

Juno was busy stringing everything together with cables when I arrived. She glanced up ."You're early and look like you're about to throw up. That's either nerves or you raided Evan's cookie stash again."

"Neither. I'm naturally this shade of green." I dropped into an available chair. "Very trendy. Very minor-league chic."

"Mm-hmm." She gave me the look. "Deep breaths, Riley. We're only talking."

"Right. Talking. On the record. With someone who can pick highlight reels that make me look like I learned hockey from YouTube tutorials."

The door chimed, and Nik Vanko walked in.

If skincare had a patron saint, it would be him. Perfect bone structure and hair that defied the October wind. He wore jeans and an expensive cashmere sweater, managing to make it look casual.

"Jake Riley." He extended a hand, and his grip was firm. "I've been following your comeback story. Impressive stuff."

"Story's not over yet." I tried to sound confident, but it might have been closer to defensive. "Still writing the ending."

"Aren't we all." His smile was warm, and that annoyed me. I'd prepared for Hollywood smugness, not genuine friendliness. "Nik Vanko. Though I guess you already knew that."

"Yeah, well… your follower count's hard to miss."

Juno swept in between us. "Boys. Settle in. We're going live in two minutes, and I want you both caffeinated and ready to generate some beautiful bedlam."

She handed us each a mug of something that smelled like it could strip paint. I sipped.

"What the—what is this?"

"Matcha with a shot of espresso." Juno grinned, sliding on her headphones. "My grandmother's recipe. She lived to ninety-seven and never backed down from a fight."

Nik raised his mug in a mock toast. "To inherited stubbornness."

"To not dying on air," I grumbled.

Juno's laugh blended whiskey and velvet as she leaned into the microphone. "And we're live in three, two..."

She pointed at us, and suddenly we weren't three people crammed into a storage closet anymore. We were On The Record with Juno Park , and I imagined the listeners settling in with better beverage choices.

"Good evening, you beautiful disasters. I'm Juno Park, and tonight we're diving into something close to my cold, journalistic heart: Queerness, Masculinity, and Minor League Mayhem."

Her voice took on a warm, conspiratorial tone. It would be hard to keep secrets when she spoke like that.

"With me are two players who've been making waves—and occasionally making headlines for all the wrong reasons. Jake Riley from the Thunder Bay Storm, and Nik Vanko from the Sudbury Wolves."

I waved before realizing gestures didn't translate on a podcast.

"So, gentlemen. Let's start with the hard-hitting journalism. If your rap persona and your locker room self had to co-parent a queer awakening, what would they name the child?"

I choked on my paint-stripping matcha. "Damn, Juno. We're not even five minutes in."

"Clock's ticking, Riley. This is live for many of my listeners."

Three seconds passed before I grunted out an answer. "Regret Riley."

Nik snorted. "Middle name: Viral."

"Oh, that's good." Juno smiled. "Regret Viral Riley. Future Thunder Bay legend or cautionary tale?"

"Both." I meant it. "Probably both."

The conversation flowed like the best brandy after that—smooth until it burned. Nik talked about growing up closeted in a small town and how social media became both his armor and his prison. I nodded along, recognizing pieces of my own story.

When Nik took a breath, Juno leaned forward. "Here's what I want to know. Jake, you've gone from reality TV villain to viral rap disaster to... whatever this is. What changed?"

I stared at the microphone. The honest answer was likely sitting in our kitchen, updating a spreadsheet about optimal cookie storage temperatures. The safe answer was some bullshit about personal growth and second chances.

My final choice wasn't half bad. "I stopped trying to be the guy everyone likes. Started trying to be someone I like when the game ends."

Nik shifted in his chair, but he was silent. Something about what I said landed.

Juno let it sit for half a beat before sliding back into host mode like a professional.

"Well. That's either profound or the caffeine talking.

Speaking of games ending—follow-up question is something my listeners desperately want to know: who would win in a bake-off?

You, your teammate Evan, or Connor 'Hog' Hawkins? "

The whiplash from serious to absurd was so sharp I chuckled. "Evan, hands down. Only because he'd give the cookies names like Nut-Free Confidence Booster and methodically track their structural integrity."

Nik butted in. "I feel like there's a story there."

"There's always a story with Evan's cookies. Last week he made something called Emotional Support Snickerdoodles because Pickle was having an existential crisis about his plus-minus."

Juno raised an eyebrow. "Did they work?"

"Kid scored two goals in the next game, so either the cookies were magic or Evan's breaking open hockey psychology with baked goods."

Nik nodded. "I'm putting my money on magic. My teammates only give each other energy drinks and questionable life advice."

I perked up. "That's what teammates are for."

"Speaking of teammates." Juno leaned back in her chair, "I have to ask about the elephant in the room. Jake, rumors are flying around Thunder Bay about you and a certain defenseman who shall remain nameless, but it rhymes with Heaven Hearter."

"What the hell, Juno?"

"I'm not asking you to confirm or deny anything. I'm just saying the internet has opinions. Nik, you've got two million followers. What's your take on hockey players and public relationships?"

Nik's grin was wicked. "I think the internet ships everyone with everyone. Last week, they were convinced I was dating my goalie because we shared a water bottle."

"Were you?" Juno asked.

"God, no. Plank's got terrible taste in music, and he steals my protein bars."

"See? This is the hard-hitting journalism my listeners expect." Juno laughed. "But seriously, Jake—how do you navigate being openly queer in a sport that's still figuring out how to spell diversity?"

It was a heavy question. I took a breath, surprised by how much I wanted to answer honestly.

"You know what's weird? The hockey part isn't the hard part anymore.

It's the... everything else. Like, my teammates don't give a shit who I'm sleeping with as long as I show up and play.

But then I do a podcast, and suddenly I'm representing all queer hockey players everywhere, and that's..." I gestured vaguely. "Terrifying."

Nik leaned toward me. "Terrifying how?"

"What if I fuck it up? What if I say the wrong thing, play badly, or have another viral meltdown? Then it's not only Jake Riley who's a disaster—it's proof that queer guys can't handle the pressure."

A beat of silence followed while Juno rolled her hands to encourage us to speak up.

"That's a lot of weight," Nik said finally.

"Yeah, well, I've got strong shoulders. Comes from carrying all my emotional baggage."

Juno snorted. "Deflection via self-deprecation. Classic Riley move."

"Hey, it's gotten me this far."

"Has it, though?" She leaned forward, going full investigative journalist. "From where I'm sitting, the moments when you drop the act are when you're most compelling."

"Someone's been doing their homework."

"I told you I make a living getting people to tell the truth." Her smile was sharp. "So here's the real question: what scares you more—being seen as just another hockey player, or being seen as just Jake? Being seen as authentically you?"

Nik cut in. "Honestly? Sometimes I don't know if I'm being authentic or just performing authenticity really well."

He got it, and I nodded in agreement.

As the podcast wound down, a voice in my head interrupted my thoughts. This is home.

My emotional high lasted until I walked into the Fort William Barn.

The trinity of minor league hockey smells—wet concrete, old leather, and groomed ice—greeted me. The building was alive with pre-game electricity. Voices bounced off the walls as early arrivals staked territorial claims and debated line combinations like theologians arguing scripture.

I was still buzzing from Juno's interview. I believed what I said, and Nik was unexpectedly kind. Progress, maybe. Or at least progress-adjacent.

"Vegas!" They could have heard Hog's voice in Winnipeg. "Celebrity interview survival report. Scale of one to career-ending disaster?"

"Shockingly, I almost passed for human." My gear bag hit the floor. The ritual began—civilian to gladiator in twenty-three familiar steps. "Juno only had to cut three existential spirals and one accidental feelings confession."

"Feelings?" Pickle's head popped up. "What brand of feelings? Hockey feelings or—"

"The kind that mind their own business, junior."

Coach Rusk appeared in the doorway. "Gentlemen." The room was suddenly library-quiet. "Tonight's not about pretty. When they write us off, we write back in permanent fucking ink."

He glanced at me, quick and sharp. "Don't trip over your own spotlight, Vegas. Save the victory dance for after we earn it."

Hog snorted. "That's Coach-speak for proud of you. Practically a love letter."

"I'm drowning in the warmth."

I spotted Evan across the room. He was readying himself for the game with his usual methodical precision. When he looked up, he caught me staring.