Page 29 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter twenty

Evan

T wenty-three times.

I'd checked my phone twenty-three times since practice ended, and the only new notifications were a spam call about my car's extended warranty and a reminder that my library books were due Thursday—nothing from Jake.

My Earl Grey had gone cold on the counter, forgotten between obsessive phone checks and aggressive cabinet reorganizing. I'd already alphabetized the spice rack twice—once because it needed doing, and once because my hands needed something to do that wasn't hitting redial.

Jake had promised to explain "tomorrow," and tomorrow was today. Practice in Rockford would've wrapped up an hour ago. Long enough for a shower, a team meeting, maybe even a post-practice interview if he'd played well.

Long enough to send a fucking text.

The phone rang, cutting through my internal spiral. I grabbed it so fast I nearly fumbled it into the sink.

"About time—"

"It's Juno."

I froze. "Oh. Hi."

"Evan, listen. There was a fight yesterday. In Rockford. Jake threw punches in the locker room."

I gripped the phone tighter. "What?"

"Some asshole on his team was running his mouth about you. Making jokes. Jake snapped." Her voice was matter-of-fact, but I heard concern underneath. "He's benched for the rest of his stint. Flying back tomorrow."

That explained Jake's warning about social media. My vision narrowed to a single point of focus—the yellow Post-it note on the fridge that still read Don't forget who you are in my neat handwriting.

"Is he hurt?"

"Black eye. Split knuckles. I think his pride was damaged the worst."

"And you know this how?"

"X. Team chat. The usual minor league gossip mill." Juno paused. "You didn't know?"

"No." I didn't want to admit I was in the dark, but there was no creative workaround. I'd trusted Jake and avoided the online circus until I could talk to him.

Juno continued. "He will. He's probably trying to figure out how to explain that he threw away his shot at the AHL for the sake of your honor."

I bit my lip. "He did what?"

"Chose you over hockey, Evan. You should know."

The line went dead.

I held onto the phone, trying to process what I'd heard. Jake got into a fight, about me. He threw away his opportunity in Rockford because someone said something about his neurotic roommate.

My phone buzzed with a text.

Jake: Leaving Rockford. Flight to Thunder Bay in the morning. Back by noon.

I stared at the message. Three different response options formed and dissolved in my head. Finally, I typed:

Evan: I know there was a fight. Juno called me.

The reply came fast.

Jake: Yeah. I'll explain when I get back.

My skin prickled. It wasn't anger, exactly, but my world was suddenly off-kilter.

Evan: You promised "tomorrow." This is tomorrow.

Jake: And you'll get the full story in person.

I wanted to call him. I wanted to demand answers and know precisely what someone said and why he'd thought violence was an appropriate response. I wanted to hear his voice and hear for myself that he was okay.

Unfortunately, I didn't trust myself not to snap. Or worse, to sound like I'd been on pins and needles all day waiting to hear from him.

Evan: Fine. But I'm meeting you at the airport.

Jake: Was gonna grab a ride.

Evan: Not a request.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally:

Jake: See you at noon.

I set the phone down and stared at my cold tea. Jake had chosen me over hockey.

I didn't know what to do with that information, so I did what I always did when the world tilted sideways.

I started baking.

***

Thunder Bay's airport was about as impressive as a gas station for planes. Still, I'd never been so grateful for its fluorescent-lit mediocrity as I stood in the arrivals area, watching the trickle of passengers emerge from the single gate.

I saw a businessman with a rolling suitcase. Next was an older woman clutching a Tim Hortons cup.

Then, Jake.

I spotted him weaving through the crowd—wearing a gray hoodie pulled up, dark sunglasses in late October, and a baseball cap tugged low. He worked so hard at anonymity that he stood out like a sore thumb.

He looked up, scanning for me, and then took the glasses off to see better.

The black eye was spectacular. Not the neat, contained bruise you saw in movies, but an ugly, swollen mess that bloomed purple and yellow across the left side of his face. His cheekbone had disappeared under the swelling, and the cut on his knuckles was visible from twenty feet away.

Juno had said black eye and split knuckles. She hadn't mentioned that Jake looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a freight train and lost.

Seeing it was worse than hearing about it. The bruise was like a physical manifestation of every unanswered question.

He saw me and attempted a grin.

"Nobody said it was this bad."

"Didn't want you to worry." His voice was slightly hoarse.

"Right. Because that works so well." I stepped closer, unable to stop myself from examining the damage. "Damn, Jake. What did you do?"

"Guy had it coming." He shifted his weight, and I thought the injury made him look younger than twenty-six. "And before you ask, yes, it was worth it."

It was still Jake, willing to turn everything into a joke. I already knew he was still mine, too, even if he'd nearly gotten himself killed proving it.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him, probably tighter than necessary. He tensed for half a second—surprise or pain, I couldn't tell—then melted into the embrace.

He smelled like jet fuel and stale air, with an undertone of something medicinal, probably ice packs and painkillers. His hoodie was soft against my cheek, and when I pressed closer, he exhaled like he'd been holding his breath since leaving Rockford.

I mumbled into his shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay."

"I'm glad you're here." His arms tightened around my waist. "Missed your face. Even when you glare at me. Mostly when you glare at me."

I pulled back enough to look at him again, taking in the full extent of the damage. "We're going to talk about this."

"I know."

"All of it."

"I know." His good eye was serious, no trace of his usual deflection. "Can we get out of here first? Airports make me feel like I'm about to get called to the principal's office."

I grabbed his duffel before he could protest, slinging it over my shoulder. "Come on. Let's go home."

The smile that spread across his bruised face was worth every sleepless minute I'd spent overnight waiting to see him.

"So," I said, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag as we walked toward the parking garage, "we could head to The Drop. Everyone will want to see you."

It was a no-brainer. Jake's return from his first call-up—even a disastrous one—was the kind of news that would have Pickle bouncing off the walls and Hog demanding a complete debrief.

The team would want details, war stories, and probably a dramatic reenactment of whatever fight had left Jake looking like someone fed him through a wood chipper.

He stopped walking.

I turned, expecting to see him grinning at the prospect of holding court at our usual table, regaling everyone with tales of AHL glory and minor league politics. Instead, he stared down at the concrete beneath us..

"Not tonight. I just want to go home."

I blinked. "Home?"

"Yeah. You know, that place with the alphabetized spice rack and the cookies that don't judge me for making terrible life choices."

The words were classic Jake—self-deprecating humor wrapped around something real—but his delivery was different. Softer. Quieter. He wasn't going for laughs.

"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Riley?" I asked. "The Jake I know would've been texting the entire team from the plane, planning some dramatic entrance complete with a curated soundtrack."

His laugh was rough around the edges. "Maybe that was my problem."

We started walking again, our footsteps echoing in the parking garage. A car alarm went off somewhere in the distance.

"Your problem?"

"Always performing. Always trying to make everything into a show. Guess it's time to try something different."

He was different. It wasn't the damage to his face. It was how he didn't fill every silent moment with noise.

He looked tired.

"Try something different in what way?" I asked.

"Different, like maybe I don't need to be the center of attention every second of every day." We reached my car, and Jake leaned against the passenger door while I fumbled with the keys. "Different, like maybe I'm tired of turning myself into a punchline."

"You've never been a punchline to me."

Jake's good eye opened wide.

"Evan—"

"Get in the car. We're going home."

The apartment smelled like vanilla and brown sugar—evidence of my stress-baking marathon. I stepped aside to let Jake enter first, watching his face as he looked around.

He headed directly to the counter. Twelve cookies sat on my favorite plate—the white ceramic one with the hairline crack I'd never gotten around to replacing.

I'd arranged them in a perfect grid: three rows of four, golden brown cookies with dark chocolate chips visible on the surface. A small paper tent card sat beside them, written in my neat block letters: Welcome Back (Don't Get Used to It).

Jake paused.

"You made these for me?"

"Well, you coming back isn't an everyday thing."

He moved closer to the counter, studying the cookies.

"Chocolate chip. Not the fancy cornflake ones. These are..."

"Basic. Easy. Nothing special." I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious about the precision of their arrangement. "I had flour. I had time. It's not a declaration of undying devotion."

"Right." He stared directly at me. "Just happened to have twelve perfectly identical cookies sitting here when I got home."

"Thirteen, actually. I ate one for quality control."

That comment earned a laugh—hoarse and slightly painful-sounding, but genuine. He reached for one of the cookies, breaking off a piece and popping it into his mouth.

"Dangerous move, Carter. Now I'm tempted to mess up to get more."

"You mess up plenty without trying. These are for not getting yourself killed in Rockford. Don't expect them in the future."

"What if I promise to only get into fights about important things?"

"What if you promise not to get into fights at all?"

"That's less realistic." He finished the cookie and reached for another. "But I'll take it under advisement."

I watched him eat, noting how he favored his left side and how the simple act of chewing seemed to cause him discomfort. The anger I'd been carrying since Juno's call flickered back to life, and it had a clear focus. I was angry at whoever had put their hands on him.

"The guy who did this. What did he say about me?"

Jake shook his head. "Not important."

"I want to know."

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do." I moved closer. "I want to know what was worth throwing away your shot at the AHL."

For a moment, I thought he might tell me. His jaw worked like he was trying to find the right words, and his fingers tightened around the half-eaten cookie.

Then, he set it down and reached for me instead, pulling me into his arms.

"Later. Right now, I want to be happy to be home."

I let him hold me. Outside, Thunder Bay settled into its usual rhythms—car doors slamming, and the distant sound of a train horn.

We were home.

Everything else could wait.

I pulled back from the hug first.

"Something to drink?" I moved toward the refrigerator.

"Milk. Goes with the cookies."

Jake leaned against the counter and watched me pull down two glasses, fill them with milk, and arrange everything on a small tray like we were having a formal tea service instead of cookies and milk early in the afternoon on a weekday.

He followed me to the living room, where I set the tray on the coffee table. "You know, when Juno called and told me about the fight, my first thought wasn't concern for your safety or anger about you throwing away your opportunity."

Jake settled onto the couch beside me. "What was it?"

"Irritation that I had to hear it from someone else."

He winced. "Yeah. That's fair."

"I drove myself nuts wondering what the hell had happened, and what someone could have said that would make you lose your shit badly enough to get benched.

" I picked up a cookie, broke it in half, and ate one piece slowly.

"Then, I realized I was more upset about being left out than I was about the actual fight. "

"Evan—"

"I'm not finished. You're going to tell me everything. Every word said and every punch thrown. You're going to explain why you thought violence was the appropriate response to whatever happened in that locker room."

Jake nodded.

I exhaled. "Just not tonight."

"Not tonight," he agreed.

"Tonight you're going to eat my cookies and drink milk and tell me about the parts of Rockford that didn't involve bloodshed. And tomorrow, when you've slept in your own bed, and I've had time to process the fact that you're home, we will have the conversation that scares me right now."

Jake smiled the best he could around the injury. "That's very organized of you."

"I like having a plan."

"I know. It's one of my favorite things about you."

Jake finished his second cookie and leaned back against the couch cushions, some of the tension finally leaving his frame. The bruising made him appear fragile, but his presence was solid.

He spoke softly. "Thanks for not making me explain myself tonight. The cookies, too, and coming to get me at the airport. Mostly, for still being here when I got back."

I wanted to tell him that there was nowhere else I would have been, and he'd become essential to the rhythm of my life.

Instead, I reached for his hand—the uninjured one—and laced our fingers together.

"You're home."

"Yeah," he whispered, squeezing my hand. "I am."