Chapter 4
Chapter four
Rhett
Ipicked the window table.
Twenty-seven minutes early, coffee already cooling in front of me, and I'd folded the same napkin under the wobbly table leg three times. My phone sat face-up next to the mug—his text still visible.
Hog: Yeah. Been thinking about it since midnight.
I'd read it at least a dozen times. Still didn't know what kind of thinking he meant.
The door opened. Two students stumbled in, looking like they'd been awake since the new year started. Not him.
I stared out the window. Thunder Bay in January—the kind of cold that made you wonder why anyone stayed. Thirty-two years and I still didn't have a good answer.
I'd been at the rink until noon with Mika's group, running them through crossover drills until their skates carved clean lines in the ice.
Half of them couldn't stay in their lane, kept drifting toward the center like they were magnetized.
Same problem Hog probably saw with his rookies—everyone wanted to chase the puck instead of trusting their position.
Trust your position. Stay in your lane until the play comes to you.
Good advice for ten-year-olds. Terrible advice for your personal life.
"Rhett Mason."
Margaret from Skeins & Stitches appeared at my elbow, knitting bag heavy on her shoulder. "Waiting for someone? Or just enjoying the scenery?"
"Coffee."
"Mmhmm." Her eyes flicked to the second empty mug and the refolded napkin. "Enjoy your coffee."
Her knitting circle claimed their usual table near the back—four women who could diagnose your entire life while discussing yarn weights. Margaret caught my eye once more—a slight nod. No judgment.
Small towns. You either made peace with it or you left.
My phone buzzed.
Sloane: Breathe
Sloane: You CHOSE this, remember?
Chose. Right. I'd walked across that bar two nights ago. I'd kissed him in front of half the town while confetti fell and his teammates lost their minds.
I could do this.
The door opened again—blue hair and combat boots—shit.
"Rhett Mason." Juno Park pulled out the chair across from me without asking. Her girlfriend grabbed another chair, both of them settling in like I invited them. "Big day."
"Just coffee."
"In the window." She tilted her head. "You're usually a back corner guy."
"Maybe I'm tired of corners."
"Good." Her smile was sharp. "Because Hog's not a corner guy. Dating him means everyone's watching. Everyone's got opinions."
"Photo's already in the Chronicle."
"So you might as well commit." She leaned forward. "I'm just saying—he's been through guys who wanted the highlight reel. The fights and the laughs, skip the complicated parts. You ready for complicated?"
I thought about his hands tangling in my shirt. How he'd gone still under my hands like he was afraid of taking up too much space.
"Yeah. I am."
She studied me for another beat. "Okay. Don't fuck it up." She stood, retreating with her girlfriend to a table near Margaret's circle.
Close enough to watch. Far enough to pretend indifference.
The door opened.
He filled the frame—literally, shoulders nearly brushing both sides. Dark blue henley clinging to his chest and arms, beard damp from a shower that hadn't quite erased the rink smell. Cold air and rubber and ice still clung to him underneath whatever soap he'd used.
His eyes found mine, and he smiled—barely.
He moved through the café carefully—the way big guys learn to move in small spaces, conscious of elbows and tables and the ceramic mugs on every surface. One hand came up automatically to check the clearance on a hanging plant, even though it was nowhere near his head.
I stood.
"Hey." His voice was rough when he reached the table.
"Hey. You're early."
"Yeah, I—walked fast. Or not fast enough. Time's been—" He yanked off his jacket, hung it on the chair. His hands immediately started drumming his thighs. "You're early too."
"Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty."
His hands stopped. The knuckles were red, one of them split along the first joint—probably from hockey practice. Enforcers' hands never quite healed between games. "You were nervous?"
"Terrified."
"You—really?"
"Still am." I sat. He followed, and the chair groaned under his weight—probably at least two-twenty, most of it muscle. He winced, shifting his weight like he was trying to distribute it better.
"Sorry—"
"Don't." I watched him try to make himself smaller, shoulders curving in. "You're allowed to take up space."
His hands went back to drumming—restless energy. Across the café, Margaret's needles clicked. Juno didn't pretend she wasn't watching.
"Juno got to you?" His voice was careful.
"Gave me the speech."
"Let me guess. Don't fuck this up, he's been hurt before?"
"Close enough." I paused. "Was she right?"
He scratched his beard. "People want one version. The enforcer or the—the other parts. When they figure out it's both, they get frustrated. Ask me to pick. Be simpler."
"I don't want simple."
He stared at me.
"I've built my whole life around simple," I continued. "Safe. Acceptable. It's boring as hell. I'd rather have complicated."
"And if complicated's too much?"
I reached across the table. Took his hand. His fingers were warm, rough with calluses—different from mine. Mine came from hammers and sanders, worn into the meat of my palms. His were from stick tape and friction burns along the fingers from blocking shots.
"Everyone's watching," he said quietly.
"Good. I picked the window table on purpose."
His thumb brushed against mine—careful, like he was testing the contact. "Why?"
"So there's no confusion." I met his eyes. "I want this. I want you. And I want Thunder Bay to know it."
His breath caught. "I'll probably fuck this up."
"Me too, but at least we'll be honest about it."
He laughed—smaller than his usual volume. Then winced slightly, hand going to his ribs. Saw me notice and dropped it. "Took a hit in practice. Desrosiers got under my guard."
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Just—" He shrugged. "Comes with the territory."
The barista appeared. I ordered fresh coffee without letting go of his hand. When they arrived, Hog wrapped both hands around his mug, and his shoulders finally relaxed.
"So," he said. "Questions."
"Yeah."
"What do you want to know?"
"The knitting. How'd that start?"
His whole face changed. "My grandma. I was eight.
Had too much energy—drove everyone crazy.
Teachers, parents, everyone wanted me to calm down, focus, stop disrupting.
" His thumbs traced the rim of his mug. "Grandma said I didn't need to be calmer.
Just needed something for my hands. Called it thinking too loud. "
"Thinking too loud?"
"When your brain goes faster than you can keep up. When sitting still feels impossible." He looked down. "Everyone wanted me quieter. She just wanted to give me tools."
I'd spent my childhood learning the opposite—how to be quieter, smaller, less trouble.
"She sounds like she got you."
"Yeah. She died when I was fifteen. Left me everything—needles, yarn, this old project bag that smelled like peppermint." He smiled. "Still use it. The smell's mostly gone, but sometimes if the fabric's warm..."
I squeezed his hand.
"People don't usually ask about the knitting." He gestured at himself with his free hand. "They see the enforcer. Then they see the needles and think it's a joke. Like I'm trying to seem softer."
"But it's not."
"It's—" He paused, choosing words. "I started bringing it to the rink in juniors.
Between periods, when everyone else was getting taped up or listening to music, I'd pull it out.
Coach thought I was chirping him at first. But my hands needed something to do or I'd be bouncing off the walls, picking fights in the locker room instead of on the ice. "
That made sense—the same restless energy that made him a good enforcer would eat him alive in the quiet moments.
"Does it help? Before games?"
"Before, during, after." He pulled something from his jacket. Small, green, perfectly stitched. "Made this New Year's Eve. Cab ride over. My hands wouldn't stop."
He set the tiny pig on the table between us.
"You were nervous."
"Kept thinking you wouldn't show up. Or you'd realize our earlier talk was a drunk mistake." He laughed. "Or you'd want the edited version."
"Can I tell you something?"
"Yeah."
"I've spent fourteen years being the edited version and staying when I wanted to leave. Accepted what was offered instead of asking for more. Built a life around being convenient." I picked up the pig and turned it over. The yarn was impossibly soft. "And I was miserable."
His eyes widened.
"Not all the time. I like my work. Like coaching kids, fixing things. But underneath—I kept wondering what I missed by being too afraid to choose."
"So what changed?"
"Watched you at The Drop three weeks ago. You were just—there. Present. Not trying to be anything except what you were." His thumb brushed mine again. "Made me realize I'd forgotten what wanting something actually felt like."
"And New Year's?"
"I sat at home thinking I could keep playing safe. Or I could go to The Drop, walk across that bar, and choose something real." I stared at him. "I chose you."
He bit his lip. His eyes went bright. "Fuck."
"Too much?"
"No. Just—no one's said that before. Not like they meant it."
"I mean it."
"I know. That's—" He shook his head, smiling. "That's what scares me."
Margaret's needles clicked. Juno grinned into her latte. Thunder Bay watched through fogged windows.
Behind us, a couple at the next table were arguing quietly about the Storm's playoff chances. "—Hawkins took three penalties last game, can't keep doing that—"
"Yeah, but he kept Pickle from getting his head taken off—"
Hog's jaw tightened. I squeezed his hand.
"Want to take a walk?" I asked.
"In the cold? Where everyone can see?"
"That's the idea."
He grinned. "Yeah. Let's go."
We stood. Hog pulled on his jacket—careful again not to knock over the chair or bump the table. I left money for the coffee and a generous tip, while pocketing my phone. The cold hit us the second we stepped outside—that sharp lake wind that cut through everything.
"Damn," Hog muttered, hunching his shoulders. "Forgot how cold it was."
"Sweated through practice?"
"Yeah. My gear's probably frozen solid by now." He held out his hand. I took it.
We walked past the grain elevators and the shuttered tourist shops. A Storm pennant hung in the window of the corner store—faded but still visible. Hog noticed it and smiled slightly.
He spoke after a block of comfortable silence. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah."
"Why stay? You could've left after your dad got sick. Sold the business. Done the Toronto thing."
It was a tricky question. "At first, I didn't have a choice. My parents made sure of that. Then, after—I told myself I was staying by choice. That I loved it here, that leaving would mean abandoning people."
"But?"
"But I was mostly scared. Easier to accept staying than risk failing at something I actually wanted."
His hand tightened around mine. "That doesn't sound like the guy from New Year's."
"That guy's new. Still figuring him out."
"I like him so far."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Hog pulled me to a stop at the harbor overlook—the spot tourists photographed in summer and locals avoided in winter because the wind was so vicious. "Can I kiss you?"
My heart skipped. "You're asking permission?"
"Seemed polite."
I pulled him closer by our joined hands. "Yeah. You can."
He leaned down and kissed me. Slow, deliberate, testing. His free hand came up to cup my jaw, and he was shaking.
I fisted his jacket, pulled him closer, and kissed him harder. He tasted like coffee, mint, and winter air. Hog made a sound—half-gasp and half-groan—when I bit his bottom lip.
When we broke apart, both breathing hard, I kept my grip on his jacket. Could feel the solid warmth of him even through the layers.
"Was that okay?" His voice was raspy.
"Twice as good as that." I kissed him again, briefer. "But we're definitely being watched."
He glanced around. Curtain twitching across the street. A car slowing down to a crawl on the street. "Good," he said, and kissed me again.
We stood there freezing our asses off, kissing like we'd just figured out how. When we finally pulled apart for real, my face was raw from the cold, and his scratchy beard made my lips swell.
"I should get back," he said reluctantly. "Team meeting this evening. Coach'll murder me if I'm late. Probably make me run suicides until I puke."
"Youth practice at seven."
"Mika's group?"
"You know Mika?"
"She talks about you constantly." He did a perfect impression of a ten-year-old girl—high voice, earnest enthusiasm. "'Coach Rhett says my crossovers are getting better.' The kid's got a huge crush on you."
"She's ten."
"And she's got taste." He paused. "Can I see you again? Soon?"
"Yes—you'll call?"
"Of course."
"And take Herbert with you."
"Herbert?"
Hog pulled the green pig from his pocket. "That's his name. Margaret got me hooked on period dramas. There's a whole family. Herbert, Reginald, Percival—"
I laughed—couldn't help it. Thunder Bay's enforcer naming tiny knitted pigs after Downton Abbey characters was so perfectly him.
"Don't laugh. It's a serious naming system."
"I'm sure it is." I tucked Herbert into my pocket. "Thank you. For showing me this."
"A three-inch pig?"
"The part most people don't see."
We walked back more slowly, neither of us in a hurry. At my truck, Hog hesitated.
"Thanks. For the window table. For—everything."
"Thank you for showing up." I squeezed his hand one last time. "See you soon."
He walked toward the Fort William Barn—shoulders loose now, hands in his pockets. He looked back once, caught me watching. Grinned.
I climbed in. Sat there with the engine running, heat blasting. Herbert sat on the passenger seat—forest green yarn, black button eyes, perfect stitches.
Proof I'd chosen complicated over safe. Real over edited. Noise over quiet.
I put the truck in gear and drove home, a three-inch pig named Herbert riding shotgun.