Page 24 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter seventeen

Jake

T he protein shake tasted like chalk, but I'd already committed myself. Three more gulps and I could pretend I was a professional athlete who gave a shit about macronutrients instead of a guy stress-eating Evan's leftover cookies at seven in the morning.

An early snow had crusted itself across the window overnight, thick enough to blur the world outside into abstract shapes.

My phone buzzed against the counter. Unknown number. Area code I didn't recognize.

I almost ignored it—ninety percent chance it was someone trying to sell me car insurance or convince me my computer had a virus. The other ten percent was always what worried me. What if it was important? What if it were someone who mattered?

What if it was the call I'd been pretending not to wait for?

I fumbled for the phone, nearly knocking over my protein shake in the process. "Yeah, this is Jake."

"Jake Riley?" The voice was authoritative and unfamiliar. "This is Coach Monroe from the Rockford IceHogs."

"Coach Monroe." I tried to sound like everything was normal, like AHL coaches called me every weekday at dawn. "What's up?"

"We've got an injury situation. Carson's out two weeks minimum with a separated shoulder." No small talk. No pleasantries. Straight up slap shot facts. "I need a left wing who can skate, think, and not embarrass us on national television. Your name came up."

My brain lagged three seconds behind my mouth, which was already forming words. "Guess they've finally forgiven me for that rap about their mascot."

Coach Monroe's laugh was sharp and brief. "Kid, if I held grudges about mascot disrespect, I'd never find players. You interested or not?"

"Interested in what, exactly?"

"Two-week injury replacement. Emergency recall. You'd need to be in Rockford tomorrow afternoon for practice the next morning." He paused, and I heard papers rustling in the background. "No guarantees beyond that. You play well, maybe we can talk long-term. You don't, you go back to Thunder Bay."

The kitchen tilted slightly. Not metaphorically—actually tilted, like someone had bumped the foundation of the building and everything was sliding just enough to notice.

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow. I need an answer now, Riley. Got two other guys I can call if you're not interested."

Two other guys. Right. Because this wasn't fate or destiny or the universe finally paying attention to my highlight reel. This was just early morning roster management, and I was option number one on a very short list.

Still.

The AHL. One step from the show. Real money, real recognition, and everything I'd been chasing since I was twelve years old and decided hockey was the only thing that made sense in my life.

"Yeah." The word fell out of my mouth before my brain could catch up and start listing all the reasons to think twice. "Yeah, I'm interested."

"Good. I'll text you the details. Don't fuck this up, Riley."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone, trying to process what had just happened. My thumb was still hovering over the screen when I heard footsteps in the hallway.

Evan appeared, hair damp from the shower and wearing the gray hoodie I loved. He moved with his typical morning efficiency—straight to the electric kettle, filling it with water and plugging it in.

He said nothing about me standing frozen in place, phone in hand, with a face as white as a sheet.

"Everything okay?" he asked, not looking at me.

"That was Coach Monroe. From Rockford."

"And?"

"Two-week emergency. Injury replacement." I tried to inject some enthusiasm into my voice, making it sound like the good news it was supposed to be. "I leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow."

It wasn't a question. Only repeating the word back to me in that flat tone that meant Evan was processing information at lightning speed and coming to conclusions I couldn't see yet.

"Yeah. Tomorrow afternoon. Practice the day after that." I shoved my hands into my hoodie pocket to stop them from shaking. "It's only temporary. Two weeks, maybe less if their guy heals up faster than expected."

Evan nodded once, sharp and decisive. "Congrats."

His voice was quiet and sincere and heavier than the news from Rockford.

I'd been waiting for that call my entire adult life. I'd dreamed about it, planned for it, visualized it happening in a dozen different ways. I'd never imagined it would feel like this—standing on the edge, trying to decide whether I wanted to jump.

"Thanks." I immediately tried to figure out why the word sounded like an apology.

When I arrived for practice at the Barn, I walked in with what I hoped was conquering hero energy. I'd slung my gear bag over one shoulder, trying to channel the version of myself that belonged in highlight reels instead of blooper compilations.

"Guess who's going big league, boys?"

The words bounced off the concrete walls and died somewhere near the equipment bins. Twenty guys in various states of undress turned to look at me, but nobody rushed over for the congratulatory pile-on I'd been half-expecting.

Hog was the first to move. He lumbered over from his stall, massive frame unfolding like an ancient mountain coming to life. He clapped me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth.

"'Bout damn time." His voice was weirdly wobbly, like he was fighting off a cold or trying not to swallow his tongue. He cleared his throat and tried again. "'Bout damn time, Vegas."

A few guys offered scattered applause. Kowalczyk called out "Nice" from across the room. Murphy managed a "That's sick, man" without looking up from his skate laces.

Nobody hollered. Nobody was starting a ridiculous celebration chant. Even Pickle—who turned everything into a TikTok-worthy moment—sat on his bench with a weak half-grin on his face.

I tried for damage control. "Don't worry, it's only a short-term upgrade.

Remember getting called up to the varsity squad in high school?

This is that, except with better catering and health insurance.

" I dropped my gear bag next to my stall and started pulling out my practice gear.

"And don't touch my shit while I'm gone.

I've got everything organized exactly how I like it. "

The joke landed with all the grace of a Zamboni on black ice.

Coach Rusk appeared in his office doorway, with a coffee mug in one hand and his backward cap casting shadows on his neck. He chewed his gum methodically.

"Don't forget where you learned to backcheck."

That was the most affection he'd ever shown me. It wasn't a lecture about representing the organization or playing with heart or any other motivational bullshit. Only a reminder that Thunder Bay had taught me something worth knowing.

My throat tightened. "Won't forget, Coach."

He nodded and disappeared back into his office.

Evan was three stalls down, taping his stick. He hadn't looked at me since I'd made my announcement.

Suddenly, he spoke. "You'll crush it." It was flat and professional. He might have been reading stats off a score sheet instead of offering encouragement to someone he'd been sharing a bed with.

I wanted to say something—ask if he was okay, or make another joke and bridge whatever gap had opened up between us. Then, Hog started making weird sniffling noises, and I got distracted.

"You good, man?" I asked.

He waved me off without looking up, fumbling with a roll of tape that kept sticking to his massive fingers. "I'm fine. Just... damn onion bagels, man. They put too much seasoning on everything these days."

Hog hadn't eaten an onion bagel in his life. He was a banana bread purist who treated processed breakfast foods like they were personally offensive.

The silence in the room wasn't cold. It was tentative. Careful. Like they were all bracing for something they didn't want to name.

Like they were bracing for me not to come back.

The realization knocked the air out of my lungs. They weren't celebrating because they didn't think it was an occasion for celebration. They thought it was goodbye.

And maybe it was.

I sat on the bench in front of my stall, and I finally understood why getting the thing I'd always wanted felt less like victory and more like trying to decide if falling off the cliff was worth it.

Back home after practice, the living room looked like a crime scene where the victim was my normal life.

My duffel bag lay sprawled half-open on the coffee table, spilling clothes and toiletries across the surface.

I'd laid out hockey gear on the couch in precise rows—shoulder pads, elbow pads, shin guards—forming a suit of armor that would either protect me or bury me, depending on how the next two weeks went.

Evan stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching me fold and refold the same practice jersey for the third time. His expression was unreadable.

"So, should I label everything in the fridge before I go? Color-code my leftover takeout containers? I know how much you love a good organizational system."

Nothing.

I tried again. "Don't forget to miss me while I'm gone. I mean, who's gonna leave socks in the butter compartment? Who's gonna sing "Rolling in the Deep" in the shower at 7 AM?"

Evan's jaw tightened. "You don't have to pretend this isn't a big deal."

I stopped folding. "It is a big deal, but it's also temporary."

"Right. Temporary. Two weeks. Maybe less."

I nodded. "Exactly. I'll probably be back before you notice I'm gone."

"I'll notice."

The tips of Evan's ears turned slightly pink, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot like he wanted to take the words back.

"You mad I'm going?" I asked.

"No. I'm mad it took them this long."

My mouth dropped open, and I couldn't think of what to say. I'd been bracing for resentment or anger or the kind of passive-aggressive commentary that came with feeling abandoned. Instead, he sounded... protective. He was pissed at the universe for not recognizing my value sooner.

"Evan—"

"You deserve this. You've always deserved this. And if they don't see it or send you back after two weeks, it's not because you weren't good enough. It's because they're idiots."

I stared at him across the chaos of my half-packed life, trying to process the fact that Evan Carter was giving me a pep talk.

"What if I screw it up? What if I get there and remember that I'm still the guy who rapped about puck life and made out with people on reality TV?"

"Then you'll figure it out. You always do that." Evan moved closer. "You're not that guy anymore, Jake. Maybe you never were."

I wanted to close the distance between us and kiss him until we both forgot about call-ups and temporary assignments and all the ways this could go wrong.

Instead, I reached for another shirt and added it to the pile.

"Two weeks," I said.

"Two weeks," he agreed.

Neither of us sounded like we believed it.

An hour after I'd zipped my duffel bag, I kept finding reasons not to go to bed.

I checked my phone for the third time and reorganized my hair care accessories.

Counted the protein bars I'd packed in case I was heading into the wilderness instead of a mid-level hockey city with functioning grocery stores.

After our conversation, Evan disappeared into his room, leaving me alone with my gear and my rapidly spiraling thoughts. I was heading to the kitchen for a glass of water when I spotted something I hadn't seen yet.

A yellow Post-it note was stuck to the fridge door, positioned perfectly next to the handle. Evan's handwriting, neat and precise as always:

Don't forget who you are.

Five words. Simple. Direct.

I stood there, staring at the note, trying to figure out when Evan had snuck into the kitchen to leave it. Probably while I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth for the second time because nervous energy had to go somewhere.

I grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and found another Post-it in the stack Evan kept organized by color and size. My handwriting looked sloppy next to his, all uneven letters and hasty scrawl:

Puck Life Forever. But also... thanks.

I stuck it underneath his note, creating a small yellow monument to whatever we'd accidentally built in a cramped Thunder Bay apartment.

Back in my room, I found my gear bag exactly where I'd left it. A small addition sat on top. It was a tiny knitted pig, no bigger than my thumb, crafted from soft brown yarn with button eyes and a curly tail.

No note. No explanation. It was Hog's handiwork, probably stitched together during one of his late-night knitting sessions when he couldn't sleep and needed something to do with his massive hands.

I picked it up carefully, surprised by how solid it felt despite its size. The stitches were uneven in places, a little loose around the edges, but it was unmistakably made with care. Made with love.

I tucked it into the front pocket of my gear bag, where it would be safe but close enough to find if I needed a reminder that home was a place where someone knitted you emotional support animals at midnight.

An hour later, I was lying in bed with my headphones on, staring at the ceiling I'd memorized over the past several weeks. I'd queued my phone up to a playlist I'd made for road trips, but I hadn't pressed play.

Tomorrow I'd fly to Rockford and pretend I belonged in a locker room full of guys who'd never heard of Thunder Bay, let alone cared about its scrappy minor league team.

I'd tape my stick the same way I always did and try not to think about Hog's banana bread, Pickle's terrible jokes, or how Evan looked when he said I deserved this.

I'd dreamed of leaving a place like Thunder Bay my entire life. I'd head to bigger cities, better teams, more money, and more recognition—everything that was supposed to matter when you measured a hockey career.

But lying there in the dark, listening to the apartment breathe around me, all I could think about was the sound of Evan's voice when he'd said "You'll crush it" like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

I used to dream about leaving a place like this. Now, I wasn't sure I'd know how to come back.