Page 112 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
Luke’s smile fades, just a little. “That you showed up at his door past midnight and kissed him?”
I flinch. “Yeah. That.”
He leans on the counter, blue eyes taking me in with curiosity. “He didn’t tell me everything. He doesn’t owe me that. But I know he’s hurt, and I know he still cares. Which is worse, really.”
My throat’s dry. “I know I messed up.”
“No argument here.” Luke takes his drink from the barista, pops the lid, and blows across the top. “Look, I’m not the guy you need to convince. But if you’re gonna fight for him, do it right this time. No more disappearing acts. No half measures.”
I nod, because there’s nothing else to say.
Luke takes a slow sip of the drink he just said was for Eli—he was fucking with me obviously—then he lifts the cup slightly in my direction. “You’ve got good taste, Calder. Try not to ruin him again.”
And just like that, he’s gone—heading for the door, peppermint steam curling in his wake.
I stand there a long time after he leaves, the sound of the espresso machine hissing like static in my ears.
When the barista finally calls my order, I barely taste the coffee.
All I can think about is the way Luke saidFight for him.Because, maybe this time, I actually will.
FORTY-TWO
MAX
Luke’s wordswon’t leave me alone.Fight for him.
They echo through everything—through the locker room’s hum, through the sound of my boots on tile, through the scrape of the door as I let myself into the rink before sunrise.
Fighting doesn’t always mean charging in. Sometimes it means showing up, doing the work, even when no one’s watching.
So I’m here.
Clark, my assistant coach, is waiting by the bench, coffee steaming in his hand. He looks younger without the beard—eager, a little unsure. “Didn’t think you’d be here this early,” he says, flipping open his clipboard.
“Trying to make the handoff easy,” I answer.
He hesitates. “Can I ask something?”
“Shoot.”
“Why the switch, midseason? Guys’ll be surprised.”
I roll my shoulders. “Just time.” It’s the truth, even if it’s not all of it.
He nods, watching me run through the setup—tape, blades, towels, trainer’s notes. I talk him through what to check before practice, which skates need special attention, which playerscan’t function without their lucky sticks. I even joke about Eli’s peppermint tape—how he swears it makes his blocks better. My voice catches halfway through, but Clark doesn’t notice.
He’s still jotting notes when the locker room door opens.
Eli. Beanie pulled low, cheeks pink from the walk in. His usual latte’s missing, replaced with a Vitamin Water that he sets carefully on the bench before unzipping his bag. He looks fine. He looksokay.Although maybe a little tired, like he might not be sleeping well.
I keep my focus on the clipboard, but the air changes anyway. I don’t move closer, don’t say a word. I just make sure Clark’s between us, talking about blade angles while I quietly swap out the practice towels.
He doesn’t look at me, and I don’t expect him to. That’s not what this is.
When he steps into the weight room to stretch, I take my chance. I fish out a roll of the peppermint-striped tape he likes and set it on top of his gloves in his cubby. Then I nod for Clark to follow me into the small office we share, walking him through how to log medical updates and where we stand with the current injury list.
By the time we’re finished, the sounds of practice spills down the hall—pucks slapping against the boards, coaches shouting drills. We step out to the bench to observe, clipboards in hand.
