Chapter 22 #2
The wall was cold against my shoulders even through my shirt. Hog was warm everywhere else—his chest pressed against mine, with a thigh between my legs, and his hands sliding under my shirt to touch bare skin.
I gasped when his palm flattened over my ribs, fingers spreading wide.
"Cold hands," he said, not apologetic at all.
"I noticed."
He laughed against my throat, then bit down gently on the tendon there. When he dropped to his knees, I threaded my fingers through his hair and tried to remember how to breathe.
Time stopped meaning anything somewhere between Hog's mouth on me and the moment I pulled him back up, switching positions so he was the one against the wall. His laugh turned into a groan when I gripped the outline of his cock, stroking him through his athletic pants until he was shaking.
"Rhett—"
"I've got you," I said, echoing his words from the ice.
When he came, it was with his face buried in my neck, teeth scraping my shoulder, and my name half-swallowed against my skin.
We stood there after, breathing hard, holding each other up. Hog pulled back first, grinning a stupid grin.
"So," he said. "That happened."
"Very observant."
"I'm gifted." He kissed me—softer, almost lazy. "Also, I think we traumatized the team jerseys."
I glanced at the Storm jerseys hanging on their hooks, watching us with their empty sleeve arms. "They've seen worse."
"Fair point." He stepped back, already looking around for something to clean up with. He found a towel hanging near the showers and wiped himself off. "Can't believe I just—in the locker room. Coach would murder me."
"Coach would have to catch us first."
"He's got cameras."
I froze. "He what?"
"Kidding. Mostly. There's one in the corridor, but it's been broken since October."
"You're terrible."
"You love it."
I did. That was the problem—or maybe it was the solution. I'd spent so long trying to be the version of myself that didn't cause problems.
Hog was the opposite of practical. And somehow, that made me braver.
I pulled on my jacket, watching him hunt for his slides. He'd kicked them off somewhere during...
"Found them," he announced, holding up one slide triumphantly. "The other one's—where the hell is the other one?"
I spotted it under a bench three stalls down and retrieved it for him.
"My hero.
He sat on the bench to put his slides on properly, and I settled beside him. Decades of players sitting in that spot had worn the wood smooth—lacing skates, taping sticks, and having conversations that only happened in locker rooms.
The silence between us felt sacred. Not empty—full. Weighted with everything we didn't need to say out loud.
Hog finished with his slides and leaned back, elbows on his knees, studying me. "Tomorrow's the playoff opener."
"I know."
"And I'm gonna play my heart out for the team and for Thunder Bay." He reached for my hand, lacing our fingers together. "Not to prove anything to you. You already know who I am."
"I do."
"So don't expect me to—I don't know—score five goals or single-handedly win the game or whatever romantic hockey movie bullshit you've been imagining."
I laughed. "I haven't been imagining romantic hockey movie bullshit."
"Liar. You're a secret romantic. I've seen the way you organize your tools."
"That's not romantic. That's practical."
"Same thing for you." He squeezed my hand. "Point is—tomorrow, I'm just gonna play. No noise for you. It will be me, plain and simple."
I swallowed hard.
I leaned in and kissed his forehead—a gesture that felt more intimate than anything we'd done against that wall.
I followed him out of the locker room, through the corridor, and past the equipment room where we'd found the skates. When we pushed through the double doors into the parking lot, the bitter cold hit like a frozen force field.
Above us, barely visible through the cloud cover, the Northern Lights shimmered. Green and pale blue, dancing across the sky in ribbons like someone who'd never heard the word subtle painted them.
Hog stopped walking. "Holy shit," he breathed.
We stood there in the parking lot watching the sky put on a show. Neither of us spoke. We didn't need to.
"You ready for tomorrow?" I asked quietly.
"No." Then: "Yeah. Maybe. Ask me again in twelve hours."
I smiled. "Fair enough."
"You gonna be there? In the stands?"
"Front row. Jake has named me honorary bruiser."
We watched the lights for another minute before the cold became too much. Hog turned toward his Prius—still the most ridiculous vehicle for someone his size—and I headed for my truck.
Before I got there, he called my name.
"See you tomorrow, flannel guy."
"See you tomorrow, enforcer."
I watched him fold himself into his car, reverse lights flashing as he pulled out of the lot. His taillights disappeared around the corner, heading toward his apartment, Common Thread, or wherever his restless energy took him at nine PM the night before a playoff game.
I climbed into my truck and sat there momentarily, engine idling, heater struggling to catch up. The Northern Lights were already fading, clouds rolling back in to cover them, but I'd seen them, and we'd watched them together.
My phone buzzed at a red light.
Hog: Still thinking about you against that wall
Rhett: Drive safe. Don't crash because you're texting your boyfriend.
Hog: BOYFRIEND. You said it in writing. That's legally binding now.
Rhett: Go to sleep. Big day tomorrow
Hog: Yes, Dad. Love you
Rhett: Love you too
The light turned green.
I drove the rest of the way home with a stupid grin and the certainty that tomorrow—win or lose—we'd built something that would last.