Chapter 23 #2
"Local ownership confirmed funding for next year," Coach said. "Full roster. Same contracts. The Storm's not going anywhere. Neither am I. So you've got all summer to get your heads out of your asses and come back ready to win this thing."
Evan's pen started moving across his notebook. He was already planning.
Coach turned to leave, then stopped. "One more thing."
We all looked up.
"I'm proud of you too. Don't forget that."
Then he was gone, door swinging shut behind him.
For a moment, nobody moved. Pickle was the first to make a sound—half-laugh and half-sob.
"Did Coach just... say he was proud? Out loud? With words?"
"I think I'm having an out-of-body experience," Jake said.
The tension broke like ice cracking in spring. Someone laughed—Desrosiers, maybe.
"We all playing next year?" he asked.
"Damn right we are," I said.
Pickle straightened, wiping his face with his jersey. "And I'm scoring that sock trick. Five goals. Whatever it takes."
I stood and slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a headlock that was more hug than anything. "We all ugly cry in our first playoffs. It's tradition."
"I'm not crying."
"Your face is wet."
"That's—it's just—shut up, Hog." He grinned at me.
I was the last one out of the shower, shoulder still throbbing, when my phone buzzed in my jacket pocket.
Rhett: Proud of you. All of you. Meet you at The Drop?
Hog: Yeah. Twenty minutes
Rhett: Take your time. I'm not going anywhere.
Neither was I.
The Drop was already packed when I pushed through the door—teammates, locals, and kids in Storm jerseys who should've been in bed an hour ago.
The jukebox played something with too much bass, and someone had strung up a banner that said SECOND PLACE IS FIRST LOSER in what looked like marker drawn on a bedsheet.
There, at our usual booth, was Rhett.
He'd saved me a seat and had a beer waiting. When I dropped onto the bench beside him, he didn't ask if I was okay or offer condolences about the loss. He squeezed my knee once under the table and said, "You played smart."
"We lost."
"You played smart," he repeated. "I watched you choose not to fight. I watched you set picks, protect Pickle, and make the plays that mattered, even when nobody was looking. That matters more than a scoreboard."
Before I could figure out how to respond, Pickle commandeered the karaoke mic.
"THIS ONE'S FOR THE THUNDER BOYS!" he screamed, and the opening chords of "Total Eclipse of the Heart" started pumping through the speakers.
"Oh no," Evan said from across the booth.
"Oh yes," Jake corrected, already standing.
Pickle attacked the song. Arms spread wide, eyes closed, belting out every overwrought note like his life depended on it. He had the microphone in both hands, swaying, and when he hit the chorus—
"Turn around, bright eyes"—Jake and Evan joined him, arms slung around each other's shoulders, all three screaming the words.
Laughter filled the bar. Juno filmed it all, naturally. "This," she said into her phone, "is the sound of resilience. And chaos. Definitely chaos."
Rhett was laughing so hard he had to set down his beer. "Your team is unhinged."
"They're perfect."
"Same thing." He leaned into my side, warm and solid. "Look at them. Look at this."
I did. Pickle hit a note that didn't exist before he landed it. Jake forgot the words and shouted random vowel sounds.
"We lost," I said quietly, more to myself than Rhett.
"And look what you still have. This doesn't go away because you didn't win tonight. You built this. All of you."
The song ended with Pickle on his knees, mic held high, while the bar erupted in applause. He stood, took a dramatic bow, and nearly fell off the tiny stage.
"I LOVE YOU ALL!" he yelled.
A couple of hours later, The Drop emptied slowly, reluctantly, like nobody wanted the night to end.
Pickle was the first casualty—slumped against Jake's shoulder near the door, mumbling about destiny and sock tricks. Evan had already called an Uber, ever the responsible one, and was physically holding Pickle upright.
"Come on, kid." Jake hauled him toward the exit. "Let's get you home before you start singing again."
"But I have feelings—"
"We all have feelings. Yours are just louder."
Evan caught my eye as they maneuvered Pickle through the door. "Good game, Hog."
"You too, Spreadsheet."
The Uber pulled up—a battered Honda with a driver who'd probably seen worse than three hockey players on a Tuesday night. Jake folded Pickle into the backseat while Evan climbed in the other side.
"SEE YOU TOMORROW!" Pickle's voice carried through the open window as they pulled away.
The taillights disappeared around the corner. The street went quiet except for the hum of The Drop's neon sign and the distant scrape of the snowplow working its way down Red River Road.
Rhett waited by the door, coat collar turned up against the cold. Snow had started falling again—big flakes that sparkled in the streetlights.
"You ready?" he asked.
I nodded, suddenly exhausted. He held the door while I shouldered through into the cold. My breath fogged white in front of me.
The Drop's neon cast pink and blue light across the fresh snow. Behind us, I heard the bartender locking up, keys jangling, and then the click of the deadbolt sliding home.
I turned to Rhett. "Storm season never ends, does it?"
He stepped closer. "Not when you find your home in it."
He kissed me.
Soft at first. I answered by pulling him closer, one hand gripping his coat, the other wrapping around the back of his neck.
When we broke apart, neither of us moved. "Come home with me," he said quietly.
"Your place or mine?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yours," I said. "Your coffee's better."
"My coffee's terrible."
"Yeah, but you make it anyway."
The drive back to his place took ten minutes. The truck's heater finally kicked in around the third stoplight. Rhett kept his hand on my thigh the whole way, only letting go when he needed to shift gears.
Rhett's apartment was warm when we stepped inside. I kicked off my boots, hung my jacket next to his, and stood in his living room like I'd done at least a dozen times before. It felt different—more permanent.
I looked around his apartment. The quilt his grandmother had made was draped across the couch.
The photos on his dresser were visible through the bedroom doorway—him and Sloane as kids, with his dad before the dementia.
A knitted turtle I'd left last week sat next to his carpentry magazines on the bookshelf.
"I've spent so many years being the Storm's noise," I said slowly, working through the thought as I spoke. "The guy who made sure everyone knew we existed. Who fought, chirped, and baked banana bread so nobody could ignore us." I looked at Rhett. "But that's not what I am anymore."
"No?" He said nothing else, giving me room to figure it out.
"No. I'm part of the team's heart now. Not the whole thing—just part of it. Like Evan's the brain, Jake's the chaos, and Pickle's the hope that won't quit." I reached out to squeeze his hand. "And you're—"
"I'm your home," he finished softly.
"Yeah," I said. "You are."
He pulled me in, arms wrapping around me, and I buried my face in his neck. Breathed in sawdust and coffee.
"Tomorrow," I said, "the ice melts a little. Training starts in four months. Margaret wants me to teach Tuesday classes." I traced the line of his jaw with my thumb. "But tonight—"
"Tonight is ours," he finished.
"Yeah."
From somewhere down the street, I heard laughter—probably the last stragglers from The Drop, making their way home. A car horn honked twice, friendly. The plow rumbled past on the main road, scraping away the day's accumulation to make room for tomorrow's.
"Come on," Rhett said, tugging me toward the bedroom. "You're exhausted, your shoulder's killing you, and if I know Coach, he's calling practice for ten AM just to be sadistic."
"Eleven," I corrected. "He's cruel but not inhumane."
I followed him, shedding my hoodie and jeans, too tired to care about being graceful. He'd already seen me at my worst—crying on his couch and spiraling after bad practices, convinced I wasn't enough.
He'd stayed anyway.
We climbed into bed together, his body warm against mine, and I thought about all the times I'd been alone in my apartment after a loss. I'd knit until my hands ached.
Tonight, Rhett spooned, pressing his back against me. His breathing evened out first—he always fell asleep faster—and I lay there listening to the sound of it, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against my arms.
I finally understood what Rhett had been trying to tell me all along.
Home wasn't the noise, performance, or how I made people feel. It wasn't even the Storm, though they were part of it.
Home was the quiet moments after the game ended. It was choosing to stay even when leaving would be easier.
Home was Thunder Bay—rough, cold, stubborn, and ours.