Page 71 of Puck Wild
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 andreorganized 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 biggerthan 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.
