Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Hog
The ice didn't care about my shoulder or my future. It only asked whether I could still win the puck.
"Hawkins!" Coach's voice cracked across the rink. "You planning to skate today or admire the view?"
I pushed off, edges biting clean. The burn in my thighs was familiar, almost comforting—proof my body still remembered how to do this even when my brain was elsewhere.
We ran through breakout drills— Jake to Evan, back to center, wide to the wing. I slotted into position without thinking, muscle memory carrying me through the patterns we'd carved into this ice over hundreds of practices.
And then.
I pivoted to receive the pass, and my shoulder caught. Not bad, but it was enough to make me hesitate for half a second. The puck died on my tape instead of flowing through to the next man.
"Again!" Coach barked.
Evan glided past. "Switch sides next rep," he suggested, quiet enough that only I heard. "I'll take that angle."
Strategy. He'd seen the hitch and adjusted without making me ask.
We reset. This time, when the play came my way, Evan had already shifted the rotation, giving me the pass from my good side. The puck left flat and clean.
Around me, the team moved together like well-drilled machinery. Desrosiers didn't overcomplicate his passes. MacLaren held his position instead of chasing.
We looked like a team that might steal a round in the playoffs.
The whistle blew. "Water break. Three minutes."
I coasted to the bench and yanked off my helmet. Jake appeared with a water bottle.
"Did you see that sauce from Evan? Thing of beauty. Filthy good. I'm getting emotional thinking about it."
"You're always emotional," Evan said, skating up behind him.
"I'm passionate. There's a difference."
Pickle crashed into the boards beside us, breathing hard. "That was good, right? We looked good? Tell me we looked good."
"Kid," I said, "you looked like you remembered which direction we're supposed to skate. That's a win."
"Hawkins!" Coach called from center ice. "You good for contact drills or you need to sit?"
"I'm good, Coach."
I took my position across from Desrosiers. He was bigger than me by twenty pounds and had knees that didn't sound like a drawer full of silverware when he bent them.
Coach dropped the puck.
We crashed together—shoulder to chest, sticks battling for position. The impact sang through my bad shoulder, but I drove through it anyway, using my hip to pin Desrosiers against the boards while I swept the puck free.
"Better!" Coach called. "Again!"
We ran it five more times. By the end, my lungs burned, my shoulder screamed, and I was grinning like an idiot.
I stayed on the ice longer than necessary when practice ended, carving lazy eights while the Zamboni idled. Thirty years old. Maybe a season left, maybe two if my body cooperated. Then what?
The Zamboni driver revved the engine, not subtly.
"Alright, alright," I called. "I'm gone."
I took one more lap, savoring the scratch of steel on ice and the cold air in my lungs.
The locker room smelled like it always did after a hard practice—sweat, rubber, and the particular funk that lived in hockey gear no amount of Febreze could kill. I'd barely gotten my skates off when Pickle exploded through the door like someone launched him from a cannon.
"Has anyone seen my tape?" He was suddenly elbow-deep in his bag, tossing equipment onto the bench. "I had a full roll this morning and now it's gone. Vanished. Into the void."
Evan looked up from his phone momentarily. "Check your other bag".
"I only have one bag."
Jake called from across the room. "You have three bags. We've counted."
Pickle straightened, indignant. "One's for my skates. One's for—"
"Three bags," Desrosiers confirmed. "It's excessive."
Pickle abandoned his search and dropped onto the bench beside me. "You're all ganging up on me." His hair stuck up in seventeen directions. "Hog, you'll have my back, right?"
"About what?"
"Playoffs." His voice cracked slightly. "First playoff shift. Like, actual playoff hockey where it matters and people are watching and—" He swallowed. "You'll be out there with me, right?"
I looked at him—twenty-one years old, scared shitless, and trying to hide it behind the manic energy he brought to everything. He'd shown up to training camp with a Ziploc of homemade pickles and somehow made the roster anyway.
I grabbed the roll of tape from where it had fallen behind his bag and tossed it to him. "I've been covering rookies since before you could grow that sad excuse for facial hair. You're safe."
His face lit up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Someone takes a run at you, I'll introduce them to the boards. That's the deal. Protection's not just fists; it's making sure you aren't alone out there."
"What if you're not on the ice?"
"Then Desrosiers will handle it. Or Jake. Or literally anyone else on this team because that's what we do." I leaned back against my stall. "You're a storm cloud, Pickle. That means you've got a whole team of guys who'll blast through a wall for you."
He sat for a moment, tape forgotten in his hands, looking like he might cry, hug me, or possibly both.
"Thanks, Hog," he said quietly.
"Don't get weird about it."
"Too late. Already weird." He grinned and returned to his tape, wrapping his stick with the focused intensity of someone who needed his hands busy. "You know what? I'm gonna score in the playoffs. Hat trick, maybe. No—five goals. A sock trick."
"That's not a thing," Evan said.
"It is now. I just invented it."
Jake threw a towel at him. "Focus on staying upright first. Work your way up to sock tricks."
Pickle looked up from his tape job. "Hog, you okay? You've got that face."
"What face?"
Jake translated for Pickle. "The one where you're thinking too hard about feelings. It's very unsettling and makes the rest of us nervous."
"I'm fine." I stood and grabbed my towel. "Thinking about how I'm gonna have to save Pickle's ass when he tries for that sock trick."
"Have a little faith!"
"I've seen you skate, kid. Faith has limits."
***
After practice, I headed for Margaret's shop. I'd made a decision. The bell above the door announced me with a cheerful jingle.
She looked up from winding a skein of yarn into a neat ball. "You again," she said, smiling. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten where I keep the good yarn."
I held out the coffee I'd grabbed from Tim Hortons on the way over—double-double, as she liked. "Bribery. I need that merino blend you're hiding in the back."
"I'm not hiding it. I'm saving it for someone who will appreciate it properly." She set down her project and accepted the coffee, eyes sharp. "I think there's more to this visit than the yarn."
Damn. She'd always been able to read me better than I could read myself.
I pulled up the stool near the register, the one I'd sat on during my first knitting class when Gram dragged me here and insisted I needed something for my hands besides hockey tape and violence.
"You said something a while back," I started, then stopped. Cleared my throat. "About the shop when you retire."
Margaret stopped winding. "I did."
"You said I'd be good at running it." The words were rough and uncertain. "That it was Gram's dream."
"I did say that." She took a careful sip of her coffee. "You avoided answering."
"Yeah, well." I traced the worn edge of the counter with my thumb. "Turns out I was avoiding a lot of things then." I looked up at her. "I want to talk about it for real this time. When you're ready—I want to be part of what comes next."
"You mean it? I'm old, Connor. I don't have the energy to waste on maybes."
"I mean it." My voice was steady. "I've been waiting for someone to tell me what comes next. What I should do when hockey's done. I know now that nobody's gonna tell me—I have to choose it myself."
"And you're choosing this."
"Yeah, I am." The words were solid in my mouth. "I'm choosing the shop and the classes. Teaching people how to make things that last."
The sharp edges in Margaret's expression softened. "Your grandmother knew. She knew you'd get here eventually. We all just had to wait for you to see it yourself."
I lowered my head. "She always was smarter than me."
"Than most of us." Margaret reached across the counter and patted my hand once, firm and final. "We'll start slow. You'll teach the Tuesday evening class—beginners, nothing complicated. See how you like being responsible for other people's stitches."
"I already teach classes."
"You guest lecture when the mood strikes you. That's different from showing up every week, whether you feel like it or not." She smiled. "Welcome to retail, Connor. It's mostly showing up. And Tuesdays have been thin—three students last month. You still game?"
"I'll fill the seats or teach whoever shows."
She released my hand and returned to her yarn, fingers moving with practiced ease. "We'll talk details later. Contract things, percentages, timelines. But Connor?" She looked up. "I'm glad it's you. She would be too."
When I finally stood to leave, Margaret called after me. "Don't forget your merino. Bottom shelf, left side, behind the sock yarn."
"You were hiding it."
"I was saving it." Her eyes crinkled. "Now get out of here. I've got inventory to pretend to do while I drink this excellent coffee you brought me."
Outside, my phone buzzed before I'd made it three steps.
Rhett: How'd it go?
He knew I'd been planning to talk to Margaret.
Hog: Good. Really good. At the workshop?
Rhett: Where else would I be? Door's open.
When I arrived, the workshop lights spilled a warm glow across the snow-covered gravel. Through the window, I saw Rhett bent over something on the central workbench.
I shouldered through the door, bringing cold air and snowflakes with me.
He glanced up.
"Told Margaret I'm serious about the store," I said, setting the yarn on a clear counter section.
"It fits you. You make things that last."