Page 22 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter fifteen

Jake

I was halfway through convincing myself that Evan's post-shower morning smile meant something when Pickle's words destroyed my day.

"—scout showing up tomorrow, right? From Rockford?"

I froze.

Near me, Hog complained about Murphy's snoring and someone's missing mouthguard. I'd been floating on the memory of Evan humming while he made tea, and how he'd bumped my hip when he suggested indulging in cookies for breakfast.

Now the word scout drifted through the air like smoke from a house fire.

I scraped together a response. "What scout?"

Pickle bounced upright, his mullet echoing his movements. "Rockford, man! Coach mentioned it yesterday. They want to see you play." He beamed like he'd delivered the best news in hockey history instead of lighting a fuse to blow up my life.

An eerie silence reigned in the locker room.

Twenty guys focused on their equipment and pretended they weren't listening. Someone's gear bag zipped shut too loudly.

"Guess I better keep my trap shut during warm-ups then." I glared at Pickle.

Hog laughed, and a couple of other guys joined in. Usual locker room activities resumed.

Except for me. When I looked up, I saw Evan staring at me.

Our eyes met across the rubber mats and scattered gear, and an impenetrable fog descended over him.

He turned back to his skates, fingers working at the laces.

My heart pounded. It wasn't excitement. It was panic about what might happen next.

To say I was distracted during practice is an understatement. Coach's voice echoed around the arena. "Vegas! Stop trying to impress your imaginary girlfriend and play hockey!"

I couldn't stop thinking—the scout.

Tomorrow.

Watching.

My blade caught an edge during a simple crossover, and I nearly ate the boards. Pickle shot past me with a sympathetic wince.

Meanwhile, Evan had transformed into a defensive savant. Every breakout pass threaded perfectly through traffic. He calculated every angle to kill plays before they developed. His movements were precise and unstoppable.

I tried to catch his eye during line changes. He looked past me. I was as transparent as glass.

A play developed around me while I tracked Evan's movements instead of the puck. He picked off a pass at the blue line and immediately hit Kowalczyk with a stretch pass that carved through three defenders. It was a perfect tape-to-tape delivery.

Kowalczyk buried it five-hole.

Evan coasted back to position without celebrating. He didn't acknowledge the assist and didn't high-five anyone.

Is he angry? Disappointed? Already writing me off?

I bobbled the next puck that came my way and watched it squirt into the corner like a dying fish.

"Riley!" Coach yelled across the rink. "Water break. Now."

He skated over while I hunched against the boards, sucking air through my mouth guard. The rest of the team scattered toward the bench, but Coach planted himself between me and any escape routes.

"You're overthinking." His voice was almost fatherly in tone. "Don't get fancy tomorrow. All you need to do is show them you belong."

I nodded, but I heard his words wrong in my head. Show them. That wasn't show us. Was it an indication he thought I was already gone, bailing out on my Thunder Bay family?

"Yeah, Coach. I got it."

During the water break, I skated up close to Evan. He stood rigid, helmet tucked under his arm, staring at the far boards.

I wanted to say something. I could apologize for sucking at practice, promise I wasn't going anywhere, or ask what the hell was happening behind those gray eyes that used to see me.

I couldn't find the words. I watched the tension in his jaw and realized we could have been on opposite ends of the continent. Coach blew his whistle. Evan put his helmet back on and skated away without a word.

I meant to drive straight home after practice. Instead, I zoned out and cruised down Red River Road with no destination in mind.

The thoughts clattered together in my head like hockey sticks. The scout. Tomorrow. Evan's face when he'd looked right through me.

I parked outside the Bay Centre and wandered in, hoping the fluorescent lights and generic mall atmosphere might lobotomize whatever part of my brain was currently eating itself alive.

Twenty minutes later, I'd opted for big box stores instead and ended up standing in the yarn aisle of Michaels.

I thought perhaps I could figure out how to make the world's biggest stress puck. I was going to need it.

"Vegas?"

I spun around and nearly knocked over a display of crochet hooks.

Hog stood three feet away, massive arms cradling what appeared to be half the store's inventory of pastel-colored yarn. He's tucked his beard into a hand-knitted scarf and wore reading glasses that made him look like a lumberjack librarian.

"What the actual fuck are you doing here?" I was a little too loud, as usual. A mom and her teenage daughter turned and stared.

"Yarn shopping. You?" Hog raised an eyebrow. "Having an existential crisis in the crafts section?"

"I—" I gestured vaguely at nothing. "I was just—"

"Avoiding going home to Spreadsheet." Hog's voice was matter-of-fact. "Yeah, I figured."

He shifted his yarn haul to one arm and studied my face.

"Heard about tomorrow. The scout."

My stomach dropped. "Word travels fast."

"Pickle's got a mouth like a megaphone. The kid's probably on the phone with his grandmother by now." Hog paused. "How you feeling about it?"

"Terrified."

Hog nodded. "Good. Means it matters."

A woman with a toddler squeezed past us, shooting judgmental glares at the two grown men blocking the aisle with an impromptu therapy session. Hog gestured toward the front of the store.

"Come on with me to the checkout. We can talk in my car."

After Hog paid for his massive yarn haul, I followed him through the parking lot, expecting to climb into some massive truck or SUV that matched his lumberjack aesthetic. Instead, he stopped beside a pristine silver Prius and clicked the key fob.

I stared. "You drive a Prius?"

"Gets great mileage, and it's big enough to hold my yarn.

" He opened the hatchback to reveal an organizational system that would make Evan weep with joy—labeled bins, a fold-out shelf, and what appeared to be a custom-built rack for transporting finished knitted goods. "Plus, it's got excellent cup holders."

"Hog. You're six-foot-three and weigh two-fifty. How do you even fit in that thing?"

"Seat goes all the way back." He grinned, settling behind the wheel with surprising ease. "And before you ask—yeah, I get shit from the guys. But you know what I tell them?"

"What?"

"This car's paid for, gets forty miles to the gallon, and has never left me stranded on the side of the highway." He adjusted his rearview mirror with thick fingers. "Sometimes the practical choice is the right choice, even if it doesn't look like what people expect."

While we sat together there in the parking lot, Hog began the interrogation. "So, talk."

"About what?"

"About why you're so miserable you ended up staring at yarn." His eyes were kind. "About why getting scouted—the thing every player dreams about—has you whimpering like a lost puppy."

I exhaled long and low.

"What if I don't want to leave?"

Hog didn't reply immediately. He waited for me to continue.

"I know that sounds crazy. Moving up is the point, right? But Thunder Bay..." I trailed off, unsure how to explain that a broken-down team in a frozen city had become the first place I felt at home since I was twelve years old.

"And Evan," Hog said quietly.

"What about Evan?"

"Kid, you've looked at that boy like he hung the moon since day one. You think I haven't noticed?" Hog's smile was gentle. "Question is: what are you gonna do about it?"

"I don't know if there's anything to do. He barely looked at me today after Pickle dropped the scout bomb. Maybe he's already writing me off."

"Or maybe he's protecting himself." Hog leaned toward me. "You know what Evan's story is? All those foster homes?"

I nodded.

"He's learned that caring about people who leave hurts like hell. So, when someone he cares about starts looking like they might disappear..." Hog shrugged. "Walls go up. It's not personal. It's survival."

I fidgeted.

"I keep thinking about what I'd be leaving behind. Not only Evan. All of it. The team. Coach's terrible motivational speeches. Your banana bread—"

Hog smirked. "That would suck. My banana bread is legendary."

"—even Pickle's stupid questions about my reality TV past." I looked up at Hog. "Does that make me an idiot? Choosing minor league hockey and a guy who organizes his spice rack alphabetically over a shot at the show?"

Hog tugged his beard out of his scarf.

"You know what I think? I think maybe the question isn't whether you're choosing wrong. Maybe it's whether you're choosing at all, or letting other people choose for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Scouts come. Doesn't mean you have to go. Rockford calls. Doesn't mean you have to answer." His eyes took on a serious glow. "The show's only worth it if you want it. Not if you're chasing it because someone else said that's what success looks like."

I leaned back in my seat. "And Evan?"

"Tell him the truth. All of it. What you're thinking, what you're scared of, and what you want." Hog grinned. "Kid's got a spreadsheet for everything else. Maybe he can make one for this, too."

Despite everything, I laughed. "A relationship crisis management spreadsheet?"

"Color-coded tabs for different scenarios. I'd pay to see it."

We sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by the mundane activity of the parking lot. A lanky teen pushed a long line of carts toward the front door, tails of his scarf catching the breeze behind him.

"Thanks," I said finally.

"For what?"

"For being here. In the yarn aisle. And for," I gestured between us, "this."

Hog's smile was warm. "That's what family does, Vegas. We show up. In craft stores, dive bars, and locker rooms. Anywhere everything's falling apart. The question is: what kind of family do you want to build?"

I thanked him again and climbed out of the Prius. An hour later, I stood outside the apartment door with takeout bags, Hog's words echoed in my head. What kind of family did I want to build? Was I brave enough to find out whether Evan wanted to build it with me?

I stood there for thirty seconds, plastic bags cutting off circulation to my fingertips, while I tried to decide if bringing home Evan's favorite dumplings qualified as bribery or an actual peace offering.

The apartment was too quiet when I walked in. No laptop clicking. No soft humming from the kitchen. Only Evan seated at the dining table, surrounded by color-coded folders and that label maker he treated like a prized possession.

"I got the good stuff." I held up the bags to prove my reformed character. "Dragon Palace. Even remembered the extra sauce packets you hoard like the apocalypse is coming."

Evan looked up from whatever organizational crisis had captured his attention. His expression was neutral—the face he wore when trying not to give anything away.

He stood and moved to the kitchen with mechanical efficiency. Plates from the cabinet. Chopsticks from the drawer. Paper towels folded into precise triangles. He was trying extra hard to pretend everything was normal.

I emptied the containers onto the plates, ginger and garlic scented steam rising from the dumplings and lo mein.

Evan arranged his chosen food on his plate with the same care he used for everything else. One dumpling. A small portion of noodles. Vegetables separated from the sauce. He sat and picked up his chopsticks, then set them down again without taking a bite.

I tried for light conversation. "So, fortune cookie predictions. I'm betting yours says something about organization bringing inner peace, and mine warns against viral rap videos."

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

I couldn't bear the silence and had to ask about it. "Are we okay?"

Evan's chopsticks clattered against his plate. "Don't leave without telling me."

He went there right away. Not angry. Not accusatory. Raw and small and terrified in a way that made my throat close up.

I stopped breathing.

Evan stared at his untouched food, shoulders rigid, bracing for me to confirm his worst fear.

He was waiting to hear that I was already gone.

That scouts and call-ups mattered more than whatever we'd accidentally built in a cramped apartment with weird fridge notes, perfect cookies, and moments when he looked at me and made me feel like I mattered.

You didn't think you were that important.

The thought lodged sideways in my chest. I'd spent so much time worried he'd figure out I wasn't worth the trouble. Instead, he was scared I'd disappear.

I couldn't find words that wouldn't sound like lies or promises I wasn't sure I could keep.

I reached across the table and slid the plate of dumplings closer to him. Only a few inches. Close enough that he could reach them without asking.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.

But it was everything I had.