Page 86 of Puck Daddies
We chill on the pit couch, beers in hand as the traditional move-in drink. The traditional pizza is on its way. “Can’t believe this is done.”
Rocco huffs. “I can’t believe we could go for the division.”
He’s right. Season-wise, we’ve steadied. We’ve won six of nine, mostly one-goal games that punish mistakes. Coach keeps our unit together for late shifts. Travis earns minutes the right way and nods at me on the bench like a kid looking for his proud dad in the stands. Which makes sense—his was never around, I’ve learned.
Thursdays I sit in group with a mechanic, a teacher, and a nurse. We trade stories and the four-count breath, and nobody laughs at anyone else. We’re honest. It’s ugly. We keep going.
But for today, we eat floor pizza. Oliver folds slices like a pro. Rocco uses a fork just to make Meg laugh. I talk about pouring a new batch. Meg says she wants thirty quiet minutes in the meditation room. Each of us is excited to make use of our hobby rooms.
Never thought I’d ever have anything like this. Not in my wildest dreams. It’s quiet and perfect with my weird family.
After lunch we split. I wipe the melters, test the hood, set six tins, and cut wicks. I pick a blend that smells like the last month—cedar from the stage, lemon from the scrub days, honey always. I print a label that reads HOME. I pour, center, tap, and leave them to set.
Through the wall, I hear Rocco’s scales like a hum. The panels hold most of it, but a few notes make the hall feel warmer. I wipe a drip and think about the fundraiser night and the way the city kept showing up for us.
We won’t let them down.
I decide on a drink, and find Meg’s door cracked. She’s on a cushion, knees up, back straight, hands on her thighs. The kettle clicks. There’s a pencil on a pad.
Oliver texts a photo to the group chat of the balcony from underneath it.
By late afternoon, the rooms feel broken in. Rocco’s asleep on the couch. The studio smells faintly sweet. I tape my hands and go a few rounds with the bag. Breathe in four, hold two, out six. Ten jabs, ten crosses, ten hooks each side. I stop when I want more. That’s the new rule.
We cook the first dinner. Oliver runs a sheet pan. Rocco builds a salad. I clear as we go. We eat at the table and then move to the pit couch. We watch a dumb show and stretch and answer three emails and ignore ten.
I want every night to end this way.
Some nights will look like this. Quiet. Tea. Journals. Labels. Stretching on the floor. Shoes in a straight line. Rocco reading coach notes while Meg writes five lines and stops. Oliver running his hand along the table edge like he’s grateful for a level. Me doing my log and not hating the man who has to write it.
Other nights, we’ll lock the hive room and leave the world outside. What happens there is ours. It’s hot because we want it hot, careful because we choose careful, and quiet again when we open the door.
Two weeks in we host Sunday dinner. Tom brings his boyfriend. Anthony brings a friend from the market. Bex brings cake and treats. Aqua brings a game and two bottles of sparkling cider.
We eat on the balcony, then pile inside when the air turns. The couch holds nine without anyone hanging off the edge. The hive room stays locked. That makes it simple.
Work keeps moving. I pour BRAVE and HOME on Tuesdays and label on Wednesdays. The collab still moves online, steady instead of frantic. I meet Travis at the far rink for starts and crossovers. He listens. He thanks me like a person, not a kid. I text him drills. He sends clips. I point out what he got right before I ask for a fix.
I make test candles for each of us. MEG is honey, mint, and clean cotton. ROC is woods and tea with a low resin. FITZ is air, chalk, and a river stone note. HUD is cedar, smoke, and a soft sweet I don’t name, because I’m still finding that part of myself.
Tonight we hang the last frame in the hall. We leave the light low and the door closed because tonight is a tea night. We make a pile on the couch and watch a movie with bad dialogue and goodfights. Rocco falls asleep first, like always. Meg tucks her feet under my thigh. Oliver clicks the lamp off at the credits.
I get up and check my studio. The tops are smooth. I trim wicks and box six to drop at the shop tomorrow. I write the batch number in the book and a note that says lemon could go down one gram and honey up one. I tidy the tools and wipe the table, and flip the hood switch off.
Before lights-out, we meet in the hall without planning it. We look like people who moved boxes all day, even though we didn’t today. Meg kisses each of us on the cheek. Oliver pats my shoulder. A half-asleep Rocco hums one note that means good night. We go to bed.
Some nights are quiet and boring on purpose. Others blaze behind a locked door. Both feel earned.
I think of my best friends. The woman we love. We built this right. Our strange family, based on friendship, trust, and passion. The apartment where we come together at the end of the day and can rest. A life together that I never saw coming.
EPILOGUE
MEG
The city wakes up buzzing. The Baltimore Black Devils won the division, and even saying the words feels weird in my mouth. The mayor called it a “small parade,” which is cute, because there is no such thing in this town. Streets are lined from the arena to our block. The route map ends at Bea’s, which means my shop is the finish line.
I get there at five. Tom brings in the pastry delivery and counts twice. Bex preps honey bars. Aqua—John for the early shift in jeans and a Bea’s tee—hangs a banner that shoutsBlack Devils Won!and tapes yellow streamers to the rope line. The rooftop apiary is quiet, and the morning air is cool.
By six, the first fans arrive. We run coffee through the grinder so fast that it heats up. Tom handles the door counter and keeps a rolling head count so we don’t blow capacity. Anthony stages the cold brew line and loads the ice machine. We pull the tables into a tighter grid to make standing room for parade watchers. People bring lawn chairs and settle near the curb.
