NOVA
Jake Morrison was waiting for me in the parking garage.
Not lurking. Jake didn’t lurk. He was leaning against the concrete pillar beside my car with a protein shake in one hand and the easy, unhurried posture of a man who had all the time in the world and wanted you to know it. He was freshly showered, his sandy hair still damp, wearing a team quarter-zip and joggers that probably cost more than my monthly car payment.
It was 6:15 PM. The garage was nearly empty. Practice had ended two hours ago. Most of the staff was gone. The overhead fluorescents cast everything in a flat, grey light that made the concrete walls look like the inside of a bunker.
I stopped ten feet from my car. “Jake.”
“Doc.” He smiled. The warm one. The one that made rookies feel like they’d been invited into
