Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Rhett
The cabinet hinge fought me for three minutes before I realized I'd been forcing it against the grain—amateur mistake. Dad would've caught it in five seconds and offered a lecture about patience.
I backed the screw out, adjusted the angle, and tried again. This time it sat clean.
The Underwood kitchen was finally coming together—new cabinets were installed, and the countertops were leveled. Mrs. Underwood had stopped by twice to ask if I was sure about the cabinet height, and both times I'd walked her through the measurements we'd agreed on three weeks ago.
Some clients needed to worry out loud until you finished the job. I got it. Your kitchen was where you lived—coffee at six AM, kids doing homework at the counter, and the quiet moments when you stood at the sink and watched snow fall outside the window.
I tightened the final screw and tested the door. Smooth swing. Perfect.
I packed my tools with more speed than care, tossing them into the bed of my truck. The heater blasted hot air that smelled faintly of antifreeze as I pulled onto the street. Through the windshield, the Fort William Gardens was visible in the distance.
As I drew closer, the rink lights cut through the lake haze, yellow-white against the gathering dark. Tomorrow was the playoff opener. Tonight was the last practice before everything would change.
I pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. Grabbing my coat, I headed inside.
The sound hit me when I entered: skates carving hard turns and pucks cracking against boards. Coach Rusk's voice cut through everything.
"Desrosiers! That's your weak side, cover it!"
The stands were mostly empty. A few parents sat in the upper rows, and someone's girlfriend texted near the concession stand. Margaret from the yarn shop sat in the front row, working with knitting needles.
She waved when she saw me. I waved back.
On the ice, the Storm moved through a power play setup. Jake took the point, Evan anchored the corner, and Hog planted himself in front of the net like a wall.
The puck moved fast—tape to tape, no hesitation. When it finally came to Hog, he didn't try anything fancy. He redirected it clean into the corner where Pickle was waiting.
"THAT'S IT!" Coach bellowed. "HAWKINS! THAT'S HOW YOU PLAY YOUR POSITION!"
Hog tapped his stick against the ice.
I found a seat three rows up and settled in to watch.
Jake's voice carried across the ice. "Storm support staff has arrived! Honorary bruiser!"
The team laughed. Hog glanced up at me, stick still resting on his knees, and his grin was visible even through the cage.
Evan skated past Jake and said something I couldn't hear, but Jake's response was loud: "I'm being WELCOMING, Spreadsheet! It's called team bonding!"
Coach blew the whistle. "Less talking, more skating! Breakout drill! Let's GO!"
I watched them rerun it. And again. Each time, the pattern tightened, passes sharper, and positions cleaner. The team that had started the season as a collection of spare parts and second chances had turned into something deserving of a playoff shot.
Practice ended with Coach's whistle and a final bark about showing up on time tomorrow. The team peeled off toward the locker room in a chaotic stream—helmets yanked off, gloves dangling from sticks, and the volume rising as they disappeared through the tunnel.
Hog lingered near the bench, unlacing his skates while Pickle talked with wild hand gestures.
I started to head down when I spotted Juno Park setting up in the upper stands.
Her blue hair caught the overhead lights, and she had that small recording rig she used for her podcast balanced on the seat beside her. She waved me over with two fingers.
I climbed up toward her row. "Rhett Mason, civilian boyfriend. Perfect timing."
"I'm not doing an interview."
"Wasn't asking you to." She nodded toward the ice where Hog had finally freed himself from Pickle and was skating slow laps, cooling down. "He is, though. Stick around. You might learn something."
"I know him pretty well already."
"Sure." Her grin was sharp. "But do you know what he says when he thinks you're not listening?"
She had a point.
I dropped into a seat two rows back, far enough to stay out of frame but close enough to hear.
Hog appeared a few minutes later, skates traded for slides. His face was flushed.
He sat across from Juno, all that size folding into a narrow seat. "This gonna take long? Rhett's here and I—"
"I know he's here." Juno hit record on her phone. "Five minutes, tops. Promise."
Hog nodded, drumming his fingers against his thigh.
"Connor," Juno started, voice shifting into her interview mode—warm but precise. "You've always been the loudest voice in the room. What's changed this season?"
He stopped drumming.
The silence stretched long enough that I thought he hadn't heard the question. Then, his shoulders dropped slightly.
"I learned you don't have to shout to matter."
Juno leaned forward slightly. "Can you elaborate?"
"This team—" He gestured vaguely toward the locker room.
"They see me. All of it. The fights, the knitting, the banana bread, and the spirals when things get hard.
They don't ask me to pick which parts are real.
" He paused. "Turns out when you're with people who give a shit, you don't have to perform to prove you belong. "
Juno grinned. "That's the pull quote right there."
"Yeah?" A lopsided smile spread across Hog's face. "Margaret's gonna love that. She'll probably cross-stitch it on a pillow."
"She absolutely will." Juno clicked off the recorder. "Thanks, Hog. Go find your boyfriend. He's been staring at you like you hung the moon for the last three minutes."
Hog turned around and spotted me in the stands. I raised one hand in a small wave.
He climbed over two rows of setts to join me. "You heard that?"
"Most of it."
"And?"
I reached out for his hands. "I'm proud of you."
The tips of his ears turned red. "It's just an interview."
I touched his jaw. "It's more than that. It's you finally believing what everyone else already knows."
He caught my wrist, holding my hand against his face.
"Team's gone," he said quietly. "Locker room's empty."
"So?"
His grin turned wicked. "I've got an idea."
He pulled me through the corridor toward the equipment room, past the concession stand that smelled like old popcorn and the public bathrooms.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
The equipment room was dark except for the red glow of an exit sign. Hog flipped on a single overhead light, illuminating rows of skates hanging from hooks, sticks leaning in the corners, and spare gear piled on metal shelves.
He grabbed a pair of skates—old ones with dulled blades and cracked leather—and tossed them at me.
I caught them one-handed. "What am I supposed to do with these?"
"Skate." He was already pulling on his own, fingers working the laces with practiced speed. "With me. Just us."
"Hog, I don't think this is—"
"If anyone asks, we play dumb about the rules."
When we stepped back onto the ice, half of the overhead lights were off, leaving pools of shadow between the remaining spots of yellow-white. The Zamboni sat silent in its bay, and the scoreboards were dark.
It was like stepping into a cathedral after hours—sacred and slightly forbidden.
"Come on." Hog glided backward, arms spread wide. "Show me what you've got, flannel guy."
I pushed off and took the few strides toward him.
"Not bad," Hog called. "Little stiff in the knees, but we'll work on it."
"I'm thirty-two, not seventy."
"Could've fooled me with that posture." He circled me, skating backward. "Loosen up. You're not building a cabinet."
I pushed harder, gaining speed, and when I passed him, he laughed—a big, uninhibited sound that filled the empty rink.
We skated lazy circles around each other. Hog moved closer, gliding alongside me.
"Our first time skating, just the two of us, without kids or the Storm's peanut gallery."
I grinned and then thought about growing up on the ice. I'd quit hockey at seventeen when Dad said the family business needed me more than some junior league team did. I'd put away my skates and picked up a hammer, and I'd told myself it didn't matter because I was being adaptable.
Being what they needed instead of what I wanted.
Hog slowed and reached for my hand, fingers lacing through mine.
We skated like that—hand in hand, moving in slow synchronization across the empty ice. I don't know who stopped first.
One moment we were gliding, and the next we were standing at center ice, facing each other, breathing hard.
Hog reached out with his free hand to cup my face.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
He kissed me.
It was slow and unhurried, full of the taste of the Gatorade he'd drunk during practice. His beard scraped my jaw, and when he pulled back slightly, we were both grinning like idiots.
"This is a terrible idea," I said against his mouth.
"Probably."
"Anyone could walk in."
"They won't." He kissed me again, deeper this time. "Margaret left. Juno's gone. It's only us."
My skate slipped slightly on a rough patch of ice. Hog steadied me immediately, one hand on my waist, solid and sure.
"I've got you," he murmured.
We'd been building toward this moment since New Year's Eve. It was the faith that he'd be there when I lost my footing.
And he'd let me do the same for him.
"Locker room," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We stumbled off the ice together, unlacing skates with shaking fingers. The locker room was warm compared to the rink, with jerseys hanging from hooks like ghosts watching us.
Hog pushed me against the cinderblock wall between two stalls, mouth hot on my neck, hands working the zipper of my jacket.
"We're doing this here?" My voice was hoarse.
"Unless you have objections." He pulled back to look at me, eyes dark and serious despite the grin. "Do you?"
I yanked him back in for an answer.