Page 86 of Puck Wild
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.
