Page 20 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter fourteen

Evan

T wenty-three perfect balls of dough waited on the counter for the oven to heat up.

The shower turned on down the hall. His voice drifted through the bathroom door—singing something that might have been Adele if caffeinated wolves had raised Adele.

I listened for the specific pitch that meant he was rinsing the shampoo.

He would pause before applying conditioner, and an off-key finale would signal he was almost done.

I'd memorized Jake's shower routine.

The bathroom door opened with a bang—Jake had never learned the concept of "gently"—followed by footsteps that sounded like someone tap-dancing in combat boots. He appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing an inside-out hoodie and mismatched socks.

"Morning, Cookie Commander." He squinted at the perfectly arranged dough balls. "What's the baking situation? Are we talking stress cookies or celebration cookies? I need to calibrate my enthusiasm accordingly."

"Just cookies."

"Just cookies." He nodded solemnly, then grinned. "Cookie assembly line. I like it. Perfect spheres, optimal spacing, probably calculated for maximum air circulation."

My mouth twitched despite my best efforts. "That's not how assembly lines work."

"Says the guy with a color-coded spreadsheet for optimal sugar ratios.

" Jake moved to the counter where I'd left a steaming mug of Earl Grey—his favorite, though he'd never admit to having sophisticated tea preferences.

He wrapped his hands around the mug and sipped. "Holy shit. This is the fancy stuff."

"It's our day off."

"Right. Celebration tea. Of course." Jake leaned against the counter, steam rising from his mug, and studied my face like I was a hockey play he couldn't quite read. "So, day off. No practice. No game. No mandatory team bonding activities involving Pickle's endless TikTok tutorials."

"That would be an accurate assessment."

"What do people do on days off? I mean normal people who don't alphabetize their sock drawers. Not that—"

I opened my mouth to point out that sock organization was a perfectly reasonable life choice, then caught the look in his eyes. He wasn't mocking me. He was asking. Maybe he considered us both unique and unusual.

"Walk?" It landed somewhere between a question and a suggestion. "The waterfront's quiet this time of day, if you're up for it."

Jake paused, mug halfway to his lips. His eyebrows lifted slightly, his mouth opening like he was about to say something important. Then, he closed it and sipped again.

"Yeah, we could do that. Sure."

I waited. There was something in his pause—a sentence he swallowed, or a thought that didn't make it past his teeth. Instead, he headed toward his room, calling over his shoulder about finding his "good walking socks."

I waited in the kitchen, staring at the cookie dough, considering how to properly store it in the fridge until we returned.

Downtown, Prince Arthur's Landing stretched ahead of us, all gray concrete and bare trees shivering in the late October wind. Lake Superior stretched to our left, dark water fading into a sky that looked like it might snow.

I'd always liked the starkness of gray days. Clean lines. No surprises. Water, shore, horizon—right where they belonged.

Jake walked beside me with his hands jammed deep in his hoodie pocket. He was unusually quiet for someone who typically provided running commentary on everything from the weather to the existential implications of parking meters. His gaze kept drifting to the lake, waiting for it to speak.

He finally spoke, his breath making small clouds in the cold air. "So, I've been thinking about your reputation."

"My reputation?"

"Cookie guy. Baker of Emotional Support Snickerdoodles. Maker of stress-relief chocolate chip wonders." He bumped his shoulder against mine. "The whole team's probably gonna start showing up at our door with feelings and empty stomachs."

I pulled my jacket tighter against the wind. "I don't think that's how it works."

"No? Pickle asked me yesterday whether you take requests. He's been craving something he calls Confidence Brownies since his last penalty kill went sideways."

I almost smiled. "Confidence Brownies aren't a real thing."

"Tell that to Pickle. The kid's got faith in your baking superpowers." Jake flashed a lopsided grin. "Speaking of which, is your baking where that nickname Cereal Carter came from? Is it about the cornflakes in your cookies?"

I stopped walking.

Jake took three more steps before he realized I wasn't beside him anymore. He turned, an eyebrow raised.

"That's not where it came from."

"Okay." He waited, hands still buried in his hoodie pocket. "Where did it come from?"

The wind cut across the lake, sharp enough to make my eyes water. I started walking again, slower this time, choosing my words how you'd handle thin ice.

"Junior hockey camp. I was seventeen. Showed up with labeled Ziploc bags for every day of the week. Monday: Cheerios and banana slices. Tuesday: granola with dried cranberries. Wednesday—"

"Fuck, you really labeled your breakfast?"

"Everything. Portion-controlled, nutritionally balanced, organized by day." I kept my eyes on the path ahead. "The other guys thought it was hilarious. Called me Cereal the first day."

Jake's footsteps fell into rhythm beside mine. "They knew you were sweet."

"They knew I was individually packaged and hard to read."

Jake laughed—not the performative guffaw he used for crowds, but something smaller and more real. I loved the sound of it.

"Fuck, that's brilliant. Individually packaged. Did they know you came with an instruction manual and safety warnings?"

I smirked. "It stuck. Like the tape residue on your stick if you don't replace it for three weeks."

"And now you're Spreadsheet." His voice was suddenly quieter, more thoughtful. "Evolution of a nickname."

I glanced at his profile beside me. He had his jaw set in a way that meant he was thinking too hard about something.

"You were going to say something. Again.

Jake shrugged, kicking at a piece of loose concrete. "Not sure how to yet."

We walked in silence for a few minutes. The bare trees kept rattling in the wind, and somewhere in the distance, a ship's horn called out across the water—long and low and lonely.

I wasn't lonely. Not with Jake beside me, holding his secrets close and giving me space to keep mine.

We found a bench facing the water. Jake flopped down beside me with his usual lack of ceremony, pulling one leg up and wrapping his arms around his knee. Gulls cried in the distance.

It was as good a time as any to explain more of my past. "My mom died when I was ten."

Jake blinked hard and looked at me.

"Cancer. The kind that takes eighteen months to kill you, so you have plenty of time to watch it happen.

" I turned my attention to the lake. Whitecaps tore across the surface, shredded by the wind before they could crest cleanly.

"My dad didn't handle it well. Started drinking more, working less.

By age twelve, the state decided I'd be better off elsewhere. "

Jake didn't say anything. He didn't reach for me or make the soft sounds people make when they think you need comfort. He merely stayed where he was—close to me.

"The first placement wasn't bad. The Kellys.

They had three other kids, all younger. I kept my head down, did my homework, and helped with dishes.

Model foster kid." I picked at a splinter in the bench's armrest. "The second one was different.

The Hardings. They were... strict. Religious.

Had particular ideas about what boys should and shouldn't do. "

A gull landed on the rocks near us, then took off again when a wave crashed too close. I watched it disappear into the gray sky.

"I was careful. Respectful. Quiet. One day, I looked too long at a boy in gym class. Jimmy Fremont. He had freckles across his shoulders, and when he changed his shirt, I..." I shrugged. "I was fourteen. I looked."

Jake's breathing was steady beside me, but his body tensed subtly.

"Mr. Harding called it disruptive behavior. He said I influenced the other kids in the house negatively. They moved me within a week." My voice stayed even and controlled. I'd practiced the story in my head so many times that the sharp edges had worn smooth. "No one said gay. They didn't have to."

A ship appeared on the horizon, looking tiny, probably heading for the grain elevators at the port. I watched it cut through the water and wondered who was on it, where they were going, and whether they knew how lucky they were to be moving toward something instead of away.

"So yeah," I said finally. "I like labels. They make things harder to misinterpret."

Jake was quiet for a long time.

"How many more?" he asked softly.

"Placements?"

He nodded.

"Four more. Until I aged out." I turned back to the lake. "Got good at reading houses. Learning the rules fast. Staying small enough that getting rid of me was harder than keeping me."

Jake was there. Present in a way that most people weren't when you handed them pieces of yourself with jagged edges.

"That's why you organize everything."

I nodded. "Control is an illusion, but it's a useful one."

Jake shifted on the bench and turned toward me. "Evan—"

"You still haven't said whatever you keep trying to say."

He blinked, caught off guard. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—small and real and a little sad.

"No, I haven't."

"It's okay. I'm not going anywhere."

Jake reached out, his fingers brushing mine where they rested on the bench between us.

When we returned to the apartment, I hung my jacket on the hook by the door while Jake kicked off his boots with unnecessary force, sending one careening into the wall.

"Subtle," I said.

"Layers. I've got layers." He padded toward the kitchen in his mismatched socks, then stopped halfway there. "Tea? I could make tea. Or coffee. Or..." He trailed off, hands hanging loose at his sides.