Chapter 2
Chapter two
Rhett
Iwoke up with the memory of my own courage burning in my chest.
The pale winter light leaking through frost-edged windows was sharper, more alive than usual. I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, replaying the moment I'd walked across The Drop's crowded floor and asked Hog Hawkins to dance.
Dance? One word. Simple as breathing, terrifying as peering over a cliff edge.
I couldn't forget the fit of our hands, or his eyes opened wide, when I stepped up to his table. It left Thunder Bay's loudest export speechless.
Normally, I would've recoiled at the chaos—his teammates whooping, the countdown clock screaming toward midnight, and half the bar watching us stumble toward the dance floor. Instead, I realized it was the first time in years I'd reached out for what I wanted.
The kiss had lasted maybe thirty seconds. Long enough to realize that Hog—all six-foot-three of Thunder Bay's most notorious enforcer—had gone perfectly still under my hands.
When we kissed, I tasted beer and something sweeter underneath. My brain registered every detail: his fingers tangling in my flannel shirt and the quiet whimper he didn't bother to hide when I whispered "Happy New Year" against his mouth.
The contrast had made my head spin—all that size and strength going perfectly still around me. Men who looked like they could break things but chose not to were always attractive to me. With Hog, I wasn't sure which side I was getting.
I'd spent the last three weeks thinking about him. Ever since that night when I'd watched him hold court with his teammates, loud and magnetic and impossible to ignore. Most guys that size use their presence like a weapon, but Hog wielded his like a gift—drawing people in, making them feel seen.
When I'd bought him a drink, he'd gone quiet. Not uncomfortably so—almost thoughtful. He listened instead of merely waiting for his turn to talk.
Most people, when they looked at me, saw exactly what I'd trained them to see: steady, reliable, uncomplicated—the local contractor who showed up on time and fixed broken things without drama.
Hog had looked at me like he was trying to figure out a puzzle, and I wanted to be solved.
My phone sat on the nightstand. I should text him. The question wasn't whether I wanted to—the question was whether I had the same courage in daylight that I'd found in that crowded bar.
Last night had ended with me walking him to his Prius in the snow, both of us suddenly awkward when we didn't have an audience or a countdown clock forcing the moment. "This was..." he'd started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah," I'd agreed, because I didn't have words either.
Eight hours later, my thumb hovered over the phone. My heart pounded like I was sixteen instead of thirty-two. When had I become someone who needed to talk himself into wanting something?
The answer sat heavy in my chest. It had been since I'd learned that wanting things—college in Toronto, a life outside Thunder Bay, anything beyond the expected—only led to disappointment.
My parents had made sure of that, framing my dreams as selfish, impractical, and naive.
It was easier to accept what was offered than to risk reaching for more.
The radiator hissed in the corner. I scrolled through my contacts until I found it. I'd added him last night at the side of his car, fingers shaking from cold while he'd rattled off his number like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"In case you want to argue about wood stain colors again," he'd said, grinning that ridiculous grin that made his whole face light up.
Now, staring at his name on my screen, I typed out a message.
Rhett: Coffee?
One word. Simple. Safe.
I stared at it, thumb hovering over send, then deleted it.
The voices started up. Keep it simple. Don't make this bigger than it was. He was drunk, you were drunk, it was New Year's Eve. People do stupid things on New Year's Eve.
It only took a beat to realize the words were bullshit. Hog hadn't been drunk enough to miss the way I'd looked at him when I'd crossed that room. And I sure as hell hadn't been drunk enough to miss his acceptance when I asked him to dance.
Just forget it happened.
Forgetting was the biggest waste I could imagine.
I tried again.
Rhett: You're a good dancer for someone who probably learned from hockey drills.
Better. Had personality. Except it read like I was trying too hard to be charming.
Rhett: Coffee sometime?
Two words. A question mark that left room for him to say no if last night had been a mistake. It was also clear enough for him to know I wasn't running away.
My heart hammered against my ribs. You get to choose this time. You get to risk something. I hit send.
The message whooshed away, and immediately my stomach dropped to somewhere around my ankles. What if he didn't want coffee? What if last night had been charity—big, loud Hog taking pity on the quiet local who'd looked at him like he hung the moon? What if I'd read the entire thing wrong?
And if I had read it right—if he actually wanted this—what then? Everyone in Thunder Bay would know within a week. My parents would have opinions. My carefully constructed life would crack open, and I wasn't sure what would spill out.
The phone rang ten seconds later. My heart jumped—then I saw my sister Sloane's name on the screen. She was brilliant at inconvenient timing.
"Hey," I answered, trying to sound normal.
"Happy New Year, little brother." Her voice was warm and slightly hoarse.
She'd probably been up as late as I had, but it was probably at an elegant house party instead of hanging out with rowdy hockey players in a bar.
"How was your night? Please tell me you did something more exciting than reorganizing your tool shed. "
"I went out."
"Shocking. Let me guess—The Drop? Three beers, home by eleven-thirty?"
"I stayed until midnight."
"Look at you, living dangerously." I heard her smile through the phone. "Meet anyone new?"
She'd been asking variants of the same question for years, since my last relationship imploded spectacularly. She never pushed or made it weird, but the hope in her voice was always there.
"I kissed someone." The words tumbled out of my mouth.
Silence for a beat. Then: "You what?"
"I kissed someone. At midnight. In front of half the bar."
"Rhett Mason kissed someone in public?" Her voice pitched higher. "Who are you and what did you do with my hermit brother?"
"I'm not a hermit. I'm at the rink twice a week coaching kids."
"You once told me your ideal Friday night was refinishing furniture."
"Furniture doesn't talk back."
"Exactly my point." She paused. "Okay, details. Who was this mystery person who managed to drag you out of your shell?"
I stared out my bedroom window at the snow-covered street. A plow had been through already, leaving neat ridges of white along the curbs. "Thunder Bay's top enforcer," I said finally.
Another pause. Longer this time. "You kissed a hockey player?"
"Yeah."
"A Storm player?"
"Yeah."
"Oh my god. You kissed Hog Hawkins."
"How do you—"
"Rhett, he's been in the Thunder Bay Chronicle three times this month. Once for a hat trick, once for a fight, and once for teaching kids to knit at the community center."
"His real name is Connor."
"I know what his real name is. Cripes, Rhett. When you finally do something, you never do it halfway, do you?" The question stung a bit.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing bad. It's just—you spend five years being the most careful person in Ontario, and when you finally make a move, you pick the guy who probably hasn't had a quiet moment in his entire life."
She wasn't wrong. Hog was the opposite of everything I'd built my life around. Loud where I was quiet, chaotic where I was calm, spontaneous where I was deliberate. "He's not what I expected," I said.
"Good different or scary different?"
"Both." Sloane was quiet for a moment. In the background, I heard a coffeemaker gurgling. "Did you have fun?" she asked finally.
The question was so simple that it caught me off guard. Not was it smart, or what are you thinking, or any of the other questions I'd been asking myself. Just: Did you have fun?
"Yeah, I did."
"Then don't overthink it. You've been the responsible one for so long, Rhett. You took over the business when Dad got sick, but that doesn't mean you can't want something for yourself, too."
"What if he doesn't want—"
"What if he does?" she interrupted. "What if it works out the way you want it to?"
I opened my mouth to argue and list all the reasons why it was complicated, and Hog probably wasn't looking for someone like me. The words died in my throat when I thought about the weight of his hand in mine.
"I texted him."
"Good. What did you say?"
"Asked if he wanted coffee."
"Perfect. Simple, low pressure, gives him an out if he's not interested." Sloane paused. "Has he responded?"
I checked. Still nothing. "Not yet."
"It's been what, two minutes? Give the man time to wake up and process. He probably needs coffee before he can form coherent thoughts."
"What if—"
"Rhett." Her voice was gentle but firm. "You chose this. Whatever happens, you chose it. That's worth something."
She was right. It was worth something. I'd reached for what I wanted. That had to count for something, even if Hog never texted back.
"Yeah," I said. "It is."
"Good. Now make yourself some actual breakfast instead of staring at your phone. And call me later—I want details about this knitting enforcer who managed to crack the Rhett Mason code."
The line went dead, leaving me alone with the sound of the radiator. I padded to the kitchen on bare feet, making coffee on autopilot, checking my phone between every step. Grounds, phone check. Water, phone check. The message showed as delivered, but that didn't mean he'd read it.
Maybe he was still asleep. It was barely nine on New Year's Day—reasonable people were probably still unconscious, recovering from whatever they'd done to celebrate the previous night. Sensible people weren't standing in their kitchens, obsessing over two-word text messages.
I pressed the plunger down on the French press, the grounds separating from the coffee with satisfying resistance.
Poured myself a mug—the blue ceramic one I'd made in a pottery class Sloane had dragged me to three years ago.
It was slightly lopsided, the handle too big for my hand, but I'd kept it because it reminded me that not everything had to be perfect to be useful.
I took my coffee to the window that overlooked Main Street.
A few early risers were already out—Mrs. Tremblay from the corner house was walking her ancient terrier past the old grain elevators, and the Virtanen kid was trudging toward his shift at the Petro-Can, probably cursing the lake-effect snow.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it was him.
Hog: Coffee sounds good. Tomorrow? Most places are closed today anyway.
I stared at the message, reading it three times before the words fully sank in—no hesitation or awkwardness about last night. Just Hog being Hog—practical, straightforward, maybe a little considerate about giving us both time to process whatever this was.
Rhett: Common Thread? 2?
I hit send. Two texts in one morning—practically a record for me. His response came back almost immediately:
Hog: Perfect. After morning skate. See you at 2.
Tomorrow at 2:00 PM. Enough time to get through his morning practice and for me to finish the cabinet project I'd been avoiding and review drills for Tuesday's practice with the ten-year-olds.
The ten-year-olds. Damn. Last week, little Mika Mackenzie had been bouncing on her skates, going on about the big hockey guy who taught her to knit a scarf for her grandma. I'd half-listened, focused on fixing her slap shot form.
I hadn't put it together until now. Hog wasn't only Thunder Bay's loudest export—he'd been quietly woven directly into my world for months, one kid's story at a time.
We'd sit across from each other in Common Thread and probably talk about everyday things—hockey, work, the weather. Underneath it would be the memory of choosing him, of walking across that room and asking for what I wanted.
I didn't know where it would lead. Didn't know if Hog wanted more than coffee. For once, I wasn't planning three moves ahead. Wasn't calculating the safest option or the most practical outcome.
I took another sip of coffee and watched the snow begin to fall again outside my window—fat, lazy flakes blowing in off Superior.
I pulled out my phone to check the weather forecast, thumb swiping to the local news app out of habit. The Thunder Bay Chronicle's homepage loaded, and I scrolled past the usual New Year's Day content—resolutions, year-end summaries, photos from around town celebrating—
I stopped scrolling.
There, in a slideshow titled "Thunder Bay Rings in 2025," was a photo of The Drop's dance floor at midnight. And right in the center, clear as day, was me with my hands on Hog's face, kissing him while confetti fell around us.
The caption read: "Local contractor Rhett Mason and Storm enforcer Connor 'Hog' Hawkins share a New Year's moment at The Drop."