Chapter 5 Hog
Chapter five
Hog
Kellner caught him with a blindside hit—cheap, late, and aimed at Pickle's knees—no call from the ref. Of course.
I was three strides away when I saw it happen. Pickle went down hard, stick flying, and the sound his helmet made against the boards punched straight through the crowd noise. For half a second, the rink went quiet—that awful silence that meant someone might not get up.
Then Pickle rolled onto his back, dazed but moving, and something in my chest unlocked long enough for the rage to flood in.
I didn't think. Thinking was for guys like Evan, who calculated angles and read plays three passes ahead. I just moved.
Kellner was already skating away, gloves still on, like what he'd done was clean. Like Pickle was another rookie who didn't matter.
"Hey!" My voice pitched between a roar and a snarl. "KELLNER!"
He turned. Saw me coming. Had maybe two seconds to decide if he wanted the fight or not.
He dropped his gloves.
Good.
We crashed together at center ice—no preamble, no trash talk, only fists and momentum. His first punch glanced off my helmet. Mine caught him square in the jaw, and the impact sang up through my knuckles to my elbow.
The refs shouted. The crowd rose to their feet. Someone—Jake, probably—yelled encouragement from the bench.
I got Kellner's jersey bunched in my left hand and used it to pull him close, landing two more punches before his teammates started circling. The linesmen skated in fast, but I had time for one more—
His fist caught me in the ribs, right where Desrosiers had nailed me in practice. The pain was white-hot and immediate, stealing my breath.
Worth it.
The linesmen grabbed us both, pulling us apart. Kellner's lip was bleeding. His eye was already starting to swell. He spat blood onto the ice and grinned at me like he'd won something.
"Five minutes for fighting!" the ref shouted, pointing at the box. "Both of you!"
I skated toward the penalty box, but not before glancing at the bench. Pickle was sitting up, surrounded by trainers. He caught my eye and gave me a shaky thumbs-up.
The crowd roared. Someone had a sign: "HAWKINS brINGS THE PAIN." Another one: "DON'T TOUCH OUR PICKLE."
Jake was laughing when I skated past the bench. "That was art, you psycho!"
Coach Rusk shook his head, but his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. "Sit your ass down and don't do it again."
"If he touches Pickle again—"
"Then Desrosiers will handle it." Coach's voice was flat. "We need you on the ice, not sightseeing in the box. Use your head, Hawkins."
I bit back my response—I was using my head. That's why Kellner's bleeding—and dropped onto the penalty box bench.
My side throbbed. My knuckles were already starting to swell. The adrenaline faded, leaving behind the familiar ache that reminded me I'd been doing this for twelve years and my body was starting to keep score.
Across the ice, Kellner sat in his own penalty box, still grinning. Blood had dried at the corner of his mouth.
Five minutes felt like twenty.
When the buzzer finally sounded, I pushed out of the box and back onto the ice. Pickle was up, skating gingerly but moving. He caught my eye again, nodding once.
Worth it.
The locker room after a win always smelled the same: sweat, victory, and whatever industrial cleaner they used on the floors.
Someone's phone was blasting music—something with too much bass and not enough melody.
Pickle was holding court in the corner, reenacting his fall with increasingly dramatic gestures.
My ribs complained. I prodded the bruise carefully—tender, but nothing broken. One more reminder that thirty wasn't far off, and my body had opinions about how I spent my time.
"You good?" Evan stepped up beside me.
"Fine."
"Your ribs say otherwise."
"My ribs are drama queens."
"Your side is bruised." He handed me an ice pack without asking. "Twenty minutes. Don't argue."
I took the ice pack. Arguing with Evan about injuries was like arguing with a spreadsheet about math—technically possible, but pointless.
Coach emerged from his office. "Good game. Sloppy in the second period, but you held together. Hawkins—nice work protecting Piatkowski. But if you take another stupid penalty this week, you're benched."
"Yes, Coach."
"I mean it. You're not twenty-two anymore. Use your brain before your fists."
"Yes, Coach."
He grunted and disappeared back into his office. My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket. I fished it out, still holding the ice pack to my ribs.
Rhett: Good game. Nice right hook
Hog: You were watching?
Rhett: Had the game on at the rink during practice. Kids went nuts when you dropped gloves.
Rhett: Mika wants your autograph. Says you're braver than Batman.
I stared at the phone, grinning like an idiot. Then, suddenly, my smile faded.
He'd watched me fight. Watched me punch someone hard enough to draw blood. Watched the enforcer do what enforcers do—ugly, brutal, necessary. And his first text was about the kids watching too.
What had they seen? What had he seen?
"Is that flannel guy?" Jake leaned over, shamelessly reading over my shoulder. "IT IS. Look at your face. You're blushing."
"I'm not—"
Jake grabbed my phone before I could stop him. "Let me see what—oh my god, he called you brave. That's adorable. I'm going to vomit."
"Give me my phone!"
"In a second." Jake was typing something. "There. Sent."
"JAKE—"
He tossed the phone back. I looked at the screen, stomach dropping.
Hog: Come to dinner? Evan's making a casserole. Not sure if edible
"I'm going to kill you."
"Right after you hug me." Jake stretched. "And you were going to invite him anyway. I just saved you twenty minutes of agonizing."
My phone buzzed again.
Rhett: I'm bringing the kids by the Gardens. Post-game high-fives. We'll be there in 5.
Rhett: Then dinner sounds good.
"He's coming here," I said, voice coming out strangled. "With kids. In five minutes."
Evan looked up from his carefully organized gear bag. "Then you should probably shower."
I showered faster than I ever had in my life—barely long enough to rinse off the worst of the sweat and gear smell. When I emerged, still toweling my hair, half the team had already cleared out. Jake and Evan hung behind, along with Pickle.
The locker room door opened, and I heard them before I saw them—high-pitched voices echoing off the concrete and the shuffle of small feet in winter boots.
Rhett appeared first, holding the door. He was wearing his usual flannel—dark green this time, sleeves rolled up to show his forearms. The veins stood out, and I swallowed hard. He wore a Storm beanie I'd never seen before, and when he looked up and caught my eye, he smiled.
It wasn't his polite contractor smile. It was the real one. The one that made my pulse pound against my ribs harder than Kellner's punch had.
Behind him came a flood of kids, all wearing mismatched hockey gear and expressions of pure awe. There, in the middle of the chaos, was Mika Mackenzie—tiny, fierce, with a gap-toothed grin and a hockey stick almost as tall as she was.
She saw me and froze. Her eyes went wide. She took three steps backward.
Shit.
I'd seen that look before. It was the one where a kid realized that the guy who taught them to chain-stitch was the same guy who'd just punched someone hard enough to draw blood. He was a guy with split knuckles and a bruise blooming purple-black across his cheekbone.
Mika slipped partway behind Rhett like I was a bear that might charge if she made eye contact. The ice pack slipped from my side, hitting the floor with a wet smack.
"Hey, Mika," I said. My voice was too loud, and I tried again, softer. "Good to see you."
She didn't respond. She pressed closer to Rhett, making herself smaller.
I glanced at him. He watched me with a calm expression. One hand came down to rest on Mika's shoulder, steady and grounding. "She was so excited in the truck," he said quietly. "Talked the whole way about showing you the scarf she finished."
"I'd love to see it." I crouched down slowly. My ribs protested, but I ignored them. I was now closer to her height—still bigger, but less looming. "I bet you nailed that border pattern. The tricky one."
Mika didn't move.
My hands were shaking slightly, so I shoved them into my pockets. In the right one was a half-finished project I'd been working on between periods—a tiny blue whale. "I'm working on something too. Wanna see?"
Nothing.
Pickle appeared at my elbow, crouching beside me. "Is that a whale? That's so cool! I didn't know whales could be blue. Wait—are whales actually blue? Or is that just what we call them?"
"Some of them are," I said, not taking my eyes off Mika. "Blue whales. Biggest animal on the planet."
"Bigger than you?" Pickle asked, and I could've kissed him for the setup.
"Way bigger. I'm just a guy who plays hockey and makes tiny animals. Nothing scary about that."
Mika took one step out of Rhett's shadow.
"You know what's really scary?" I continued, pulling the whale out and holding it up. "Trying to get the tail fins symmetrical. See this one? Little wonky. I might have to start over."
"It's not wonky," Mika said. Her voice was so soft I nearly missed it.
"No?"
She shook her head, still not quite looking at me. "It's good."
"Thanks, Mika." I set the whale on the floor between us—neutral territory. "You can hold it if you want. But I gotta warn you—"
She finally looked up. "Warn me what?"
"If you hold it, you're legally required to name it. Those are the rules."
"What rules?"
"Whale rules. Very official." I nodded seriously. "Margaret told me. She's seventy-three, so she knows everything."
A smile tugged at the corner of Mika's mouth. "What if I name it something weird?"
"Weird is encouraged. I gave Rhett a pig named Herbert."
"Herbert?" She giggled. "That's an old-person name."
"He's a very distinguished pig."