Page 10 of ICED
“You okay?”
I nod. “Just tired.”
“Tired’s fair.”
He stacks the last of the bowls and turns to me, rubbing his hands on his apron. “I can head out if you need to close up. Or, if you want, I could come by early tomorrow and help get the dough started?”
I hesitate. Again.
But there’s something steady about him. Something that doesn’t pull or push. He’s just there. A warm presence. No expectations.
“Yeah,” I say. “That’d be good.”
He smiles. Not the big, public grin. Just a small one. Quiet. Private.
“Cool. See you tomorrow, Maya.”
And then he’s gone.
And I’m standing in a flour-dusted kitchen, wondering how a man with biceps like tree trunks and a sourdough starter named Dave managed to make my day feel less heavy.
And why I’m suddenly looking forward to tomorrow.
CHAPTER FIVE
JACKO
Training smells like liniment and sweat and the faint whiff of stale protein bars. Not exactlyBake Offtent vibes. But it’s home, in a grimy, gear-soaked, testosterone-fuelled sort of way.
I pull on my warm-up gear slowly, careful not to jar the shoulder Mia’s been rebuilding like it’s the Millennium Dome. Not that I’d say that out loud. She’d laugh, then probably make me do another three sets of isometric holds for insolence.
“You alright there, Grandpa?” Ollie calls across the changing room, already half-kitted and bouncing like he’s pre-gamed on Red Bull.
“Shut it, Ol. Some of us have a shoulder made of shredded newspaper.”
“Still looks better than Dylan’s fashion choices,” Murphy adds, flipping a puck between his fingers.
Dylan doesn’t even look up. “I’m ignoring you all until there’s caffeine or silence.”
Standard pre-training banter. It’s comforting, like background noise on a rainy day. I grin, shift my shoulder, and test the movement. Still sore. But less knife-in-the-joint, more dull-throb-with-a-side-of-annoyance. Progress.
Mia’s waiting by the physio bench, armsfolded, hair up in one of those no-nonsense buns that means business. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just points to the bench and gives me a look like I’ve walked mud into her clean kitchen.
“You’ve been baking again.”
I blink. “You can tell?”
“There’s flour in your beard, Jacko.”
I rub my face instinctively. “Dave was lively this morning.”
She sighs, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “Lie back. We’re testing external rotation today.”
I comply, wincing slightly as she starts manipulating the joint. It’s not awful, but it’s enough to remind me I’m not game-fit yet. Not by a long shot.
“Keep up with the rehab and you’ll be cleared for full contact soon,” she says. “But only if you stop pushing it. I know what ‘rest’ means to you, and it isn’t six dozen croissants at four in the morning.”
“They were for the bakery program,” I mutter.
