Chapter 3 #2
When Coach finally blew the final whistle, I collapsed at center ice, flat on my back, staring up at the flickering lights.
Jake dropped down beside me, breathing hard. "You trying to kill yourself before the date?"
"Conditioning."
"That was homicidal conditioning." He turned his head to look at me. "You gonna survive the next hour?"
"No."
"Good. Honesty. I like it." He sat up, offering me a hand. "Come on. Shower time. And then we're picking your outfit whether you like it or not."
The locker room was chaos as usual—guys peeling off gear, arguing about whose turn it was to buy lunch, Pickle attempted to convince someone to watch a true crime documentary marathon at his place.
I sat at my stall, the seconds ticking away.
12:41. One hour and nineteen minutes.
My phone sat in my jacket pocket. I watched the fabric shifting slightly, like it was breathing. Waiting.
From his office doorway, Coach watched me stare at my jacket. He didn't say anything. Just looked, then went back inside.
"Just check it," Evan said, appearing beside me half-dressed. "You're going to anyway."
"What if he canceled?"
"Then you'll know. Not knowing is worse."
He was right. I pulled out my phone, bracing for disappointment.
One new message.
Rhett: Still good for 2?
I exhaled. He hadn't canceled. He was asking if I was still good, like maybe he was nervous too.
My thumbs moved before my brain could interfere.
Hog: Yeah. Still good.
I stared at what I'd written. Safe. Neutral. Gave nothing away.
Jake leaned over my shoulder. "That's it? That's your response?"
"What else am I supposed to say?"
"I don't know—literally anything with emotional content. Can't wait. Been thinking about you, too. A single emoji."
"I don't do emojis."
"You don't do vulnerability, you mean."
I looked at the message again. Before I could talk myself out of it, I deleted what I'd written and typed something else.
Hog: Yeah. Been thinking about it since midnight.
Truth. Simple and terrifying. I hit send.
The response came so fast my phone buzzed while I was still staring at it.
Rhett: Good. Me too.
And then, before I could spiral about what that meant:
Rhett: See you in an hour.
"He said an hour," I told Jake, my voice coming out strangled.
"I can count." Jake grabbed my shoulders. "Okay. New plan. You shower. Actual shower. With soap. Then we pick clothes that don't scream 'I own nothing but hockey gear.' Then you go to Common Thread and talk to the guy like a human being instead of a panic attack with legs."
"That's your pep talk?"
"I'm not good at pep talks. I'm good at logistics." He shoved me toward the showers. "Move. You smell like a locker room."
The shower was too hot and too short. I scrubbed off the practice sweat but couldn't scrub off the anxiety residing deep in my chest.
I wrapped a towel around my waist and headed back to my stall, where Jake and Evan were staging an intervention. My gear bag was open, clothes spread across the bench.
"What is this?"
"This," Jake said, holding up my Storm hoodie, "is what you're not wearing. This—" He pulled out a dark blue henley I'd forgotten I owned. "—is better."
Evan held up a pair of dark jeans that weren't ripped or stained with gear oil. "These are clean. I checked."
"When did you check my jeans?"
"While you were showering. Someone had to make sure you weren't planning to wear sweatpants."
I grabbed the clothes, too anxious to argue, and pulled them on. The shirt fit better than I remembered—not too tight, but enough that I looked like I had a shape.
"Better," Jake declared. "Now do something with your hair."
I dragged a hand through it, which only made it worse. Evan appeared with a comb, and I let him fix whatever disaster was happening on my head.
"Okay." Jake stepped back, studying me like a project. "You look human. Maybe even attractive. Thoughts, Spreadsheet?"
Evan tilted his head. "He'll do."
"High praise," I muttered.
Jake softened his voice. "You're gonna be fine. Show up as yourself, the full disaster."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"I know." Jake gripped my chin. "But if he can't handle all of you, then he's not worth the carefully edited version either. You get that, right?"
I did, but I wasn't sure I believed it yet.
1:14. Forty-six minutes.
"I should go," I said, grabbing my jacket. My regular one, not the Storm-branded parka Jake had immediately vetoed. "Traffic might be—"
"It's Thunder Bay," Evan interrupted. "There is no traffic. You're going early because you'd rather pace outside Common Thread than sit here spiraling."
He wasn't wrong.
Pickle appeared, eyes wide and hopeful. "Good luck, Hog! Tell Rhett we said hi! Or don't tell him that if it's weird! I don't know what's normal!"
He hesitated, then added quietly, "If you can do the brave thing, maybe I can too."
"You will, kid," I said, and meant it.
Coach emerged from his office, took one look at me, and grunted. "You clean up okay, Hawkins."
"Thanks, Coach."
"Guy's got taste."
The words hit so unexpectedly that I almost missed a step.
"Thanks," I said again. My vocabulary had suddenly shrunk to one word.
Common Thread was a ten-minute walk. Fifteen if I went slow. I was early. Way too early. Desperately, obviously early.
I walked anyway.
The Sleeping Giant was visible across the bay, dark against gray sky and ice. My breath fogged in the air, and somewhere across the street a snow blower roared to life.
Thunder Bay in January—beautiful and brutal in equal measure.
My phone buzzed.
Jake: You're not allowed to leave town.
Jake: Also you got this
Jake: Also if he's mean I'll fight him
I smiled and shoved my phone back in my pocket.
The Common Thread's windows glowed warm against the gray afternoon, and I saw people inside—students with laptops, a couple sharing a sandwich, and Margaret from the yarn store holding court near the back with Edith and the rest of her knitting circle.
At a table by the window, with broad shoulders in a dark jacket, was Rhett. He was turning his coffee cup in slow circles, watching the door. Not his phone. Not the street. The door.
He was early too.
He looked up as I approached and smiled. Not the polite kind. Something warmer. Real.
My heart began to race.
I could turn around and text him that something came up. It would save us both from what was about to unfold.
Or I could walk through that door and find out if he was brave enough to want all of me.
And if I were brave enough to let him try.
I pulled open the door. The bell chimed. Warm air hit my face along with the smell of coffee and cinnamon rolls.
Rhett stood as I walked toward him, and his smile filled his entire face. "Hey."
"Hey," I somehow made it to the table without falling.
This was happening. Right now.
I pulled out the chair and sat.