Chapter 1 #2
"So, like I always look?"
"Pretty much."
The noise grew louder around us—laughter and shouting and drunken sing-alongs. "Ten minutes!" someone shouted, and the energy in the room ratcheted up another notch. My hand kept drifting to the pocket with the knitted pig, like I needed proof of the quieter version of me nobody here really saw.
"Hog!" A familiar voice cut through the noise, and I turned to see Juno Park, local hockey podcaster, weaving through the crowd with her girlfriend in tow. Her blue hair was extra vibrant under the Christmas lights, and she wore a sharp smile.
"Juno! Come to document our descent into chaos?"
"Obviously." She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of our table. "But I'm more interested in the big story. Word on the street is Thunder Bay's loudest export has been making conversation with a grown-up."
"I talk to grown-ups all the time."
"I mean grown-ups who aren't your teammates, Edith's knitting circle, or the woman who sells you yarn."
Jake perked up like a hunting dog who'd caught a scent. "She knows about the flannel guy, too?"
"Margaret talks," Juno said with a shrug. "Apparently, our boy here was completely flustered but in a sweet way when a certain contractor came looking for sewing advice."
"Margaret needs to mind her own business," I muttered.
"Margaret thinks you need to get laid," Juno shot back. "What's louder, the Storm on ice or Hog trying not to blush about flannel guy?"
"I'm not blushing!"
"Your ears are red," her girlfriend observed.
"Why does everyone keep staring at my ears?"
"Because they're like a mood ring," Pickle said. "Red means embarrassed, pink means angry, normal means—"
"Normal means I'm about to start a fight with someone half my size," I warned.
Jake struck a pose. "Ladies, please. Save some attention for the real star of this team."
"Hollywood," Coach Rusk muttered under his breath.
"Did you just call me Hollywood?"
"If the overpriced bleach job fits."
I laughed again, but underneath it, something buzzed in my chest like a trapped wasp. Five minutes to midnight. Five minutes to one more year of me: too loud, too big, and too much for most people, but somehow still not enough for the ones who mattered.
The countdown clock ticked over to four minutes, and I realized I was scanning the room again, looking for a face that wasn't there. I didn't want to be alone when the clock hit zero.
The thought hit me so hard I almost choked on my beer.
"Thirty seconds!" someone screamed, and the whole bar started counting down in a drunken chorus.
I was about to make some joke about how this was the longest minute in recorded history when the door opened and every coherent thought in my head… disappeared.
Rhett.
He stood in the doorway, scanning the room like he was looking for someone specific.
Tall and steady in dark jeans and that same kind of flannel shirt that had made me forget how to use my mouth the first time I'd seen him.
The wind had tousled his hair, and snowflakes were melting on his shoulders.
"Twenty-three! Twenty-two!"
"Holy shit," Jake breathed. "Is that—?"
"Flannel guy," I finished, my voice pitched high like I'd been breathing helium.
Rhett's eyes found mine across the room, and I swore I could still feel the ghost of his hand on my wrist. He smiled—not the polite kind, but something warmer, deliberate—and started walking toward our table.
The noise around us was building to a crescendo. Rhett moved through the crowd like it wasn't even there, focused and deliberate.
"Twelve! Eleven!"
He stopped right in front of our table, close enough to smell that cedar-and-soap scent again. Close enough to notice that he looked nervous.
Which made two of us.
"Dance?" he asked.
My heart nearly flatlined.
He didn't make a scene, didn't crack a joke. Just one word, and it showed more courage than all my noise.
"HOLY SHIT!" Jake shouted. "HE'S HERE! FLANNEL GUY IS HERE!"
"GET IT, HOG!" Pickle screeched.
"Eight! Seven!"
I looked at Rhett, who was still holding out his hand. Something in his expression—patient but hopeful—decided for me.
I took his hand.
The Storm table erupted. Jake whooped, Evan raised his beer in what might have been a toast. Even Coach Rusk looked amused, which probably meant the apocalypse was near.
"Four! Three!"
Rhett pulled me toward the small space near the jukebox that passed for a dance floor.
"Two! One!"
"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
The bar exploded in noise—cheers and whistles, but I barely heard any of it. Rhett was looking at me like I was the only person in the room, and then his hand was on my face, and then—
He kissed me.
Not the kind of kiss you gave someone at midnight because tradition demanded it. Not the type of kiss that was more about performance than feeling. It was deliberate, warm, gentle, and confident.
My hands, which were usually either fists or giving bone-crushing hugs, just... held on. One on his shoulder and one tangled in the soft material of his shirt, anchoring myself to something steady.
When we broke apart—and I couldn't tell you if it were after five seconds or five minutes—the first thing I noticed was that the bar noise had faded to a dull roar. The second thing I noticed was that Rhett was smiling, and it made my knees wobble.
"Holy shit," I whispered, and immediately wanted to kick myself for being as eloquent as a brick.
Rhett's smile was electric. "Happy New Year, Hog."
"THAT'S OUR BOY!" Jake shouted from the Storm table.
"Smooth, kid," Coach Rusk called out, which might have been the first compliment he'd ever given me in public.
I barely heard them. I was too busy staring at Rhett, holding my hand like he didn't want to let go.
I realized I'd never been kissed like that before. Like I was someone worth crossing a room for. And maybe, I was someone worth keeping.