Chapter 5 Hog #2
Mika took a tentative step forward, then another. She crouched down and picked up the whale, turning it over in her small hands. "Can I name him Kevin?"
"Kevin the Whale." I considered it. "Perfect. Very dignified."
She grinned—gap-toothed and bright—and the fear was gone. She held Kevin up to show Rhett. "Look! I get to name him!"
"I see that." Rhett's voice was warm, but when I glanced up, he wasn't looking at Mika.
He was looking at me. And his expression—soft, almost proud—raised goosebumps on my arms.
He didn't look uncomfortable. He looked... hungry. Like he'd watched me shift from enforcer to yarn-guy and wanted both.
I stood up too fast, blood rushing in my ears. Rhett stood too, and we were suddenly close—close enough to smell cedar and see the place where he'd missed a spot shaving in the morning.
"You're good with kids," he said, quiet enough that only I could hear.
"Kids are easier than adults. They don't ask you to pick a lane."
He reached out for my hand, and I took it. "You okay?"
No. I wanted to pull him into the equipment room and kiss him until neither of us remembered there were children three feet away. I wanted to taste his mouth again and feel the scratch of his beard on my lips.
"Yeah," I lied. "I'm good."
His mouth curved like he knew exactly what I was thinking. Then Mika tugged on his jeans, breaking the moment.
***
Jake and Evan's place was a third-floor walkup. Evan had said, "The more the merrier," when I asked about the kids. By the time we got there with eight kids and half the Storm roster, the stairs creaked ominously under the weight.
"Is it always like this?" Rhett asked, one step behind me. He had Mika on his shoulders.
"This is calm," I said, trying not to watch the flex of his forearms as he steadied her. "Last time Pickle brought his entire true-crime podcast club."
"How many people?"
"Twelve. They spent four hours debating whether the Zodiac Killer could've been two different people. Evan threatened to murder all of them, which was ironic given the context."
Rhett laughed, and Mika bounced on his shoulders hard enough to make him grab the railing. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his back, and I forced myself to look away.
We reached the third floor, where Jake had propped the door open with a hockey stick. Music was already blasting from inside. Through the doorway, I saw Evan in the kitchen, surrounded by approximately fourteen grocery bags.
The apartment sported mismatched furniture, sports memorabilia covering every wall, and a kitchen table that seated four but currently had ten kids trying to claim spots. Rhett set Mika down, and she immediately joined the swarm. He stood in the doorway for a second, taking it in.
"Second thoughts?" I asked quietly.
"Nope." He pulled off his boots, lining them up neatly next to the mound of winter gear.
Pickle crashed through the door behind us with more grocery bags. Dinner was chaos.
Evan had made enough food to feed a small army—two casseroles, cookies, and what looked like an entire bakery's worth of garlic bread. The aroma of garlic, cheese, and tomato sauce filled the air. The kids descended on the food like locusts.
I ended up on the couch with a plate balanced on my knees, watching Rhett move around the apartment. He helped Mika cut her garlic bread, handed out paper towels when a kid spilled juice, and explained hockey strategy to Tyler using a napkin and a borrowed pen.
He was everywhere.
Jake dropped onto the couch beside me. "Your boy's fitting in pretty well."
"He's not my—" I stopped. "Okay. Maybe he is."
"Absolutely." Jake took a massive bite of casserole. "He's good. Handles the noise and handles the kids. That's rare."
"He fits," I said quietly.
"Yeah, he does." Jake bumped my shoulder. "Both sides. How's that feel?"
Both terrifying and hopeful. But also—wrong. Somehow wrong.
He fit too well. He handled the enforcer side and the gentle side without breaking a sweat, without asking me to explain or justify or choose. That meant when he figured out it was too much work, too complicated, and too exhausting to navigate, he'd leave.
Rhett's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, frowned slightly, then pocketed it without responding. My stomach dropped. Maybe he had somewhere better to be. Perhaps this was all just—
"Hog?" Jake's voice pulled me back. "You're doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you spiral." He stole garlic bread from my plate. "What's the story?"
"No story."
"Bullshit."
I looked at Rhett again. He was laughing at something Tyler said, completely relaxed.
"He's a contractor," I said finally. "Deals with difficult clients all the time. Knows how to smile and make it work. Doesn't mean he wants to keep doing it."
Jake stared at me. "Are you fucking serious right now?"
"What?"
"The guy brought eight kids to watch you bleed, then followed you here for dinner. Stop inventing problems."
"There's always—"
"There's not." Jake grabbed my chin and squeezed, forcing me to look at him. "Not this time. Stop waiting for the catch."
Across the room, Rhett glanced over. Caught me watching.
Within thirty seconds of Mika waving me over, I was surrounded by children demanding I teach them to knit. Rhett produced a bag of spare needles and cheap acrylic yarn from his truck—"for emergencies," he explained.
"Can you knit, Coach Rhett?" one of the kids asked.
"No," Rhett admitted.
"Then you should learn too!" Mika declared, already taking charge. She shoved needles and yarn at him. "Sit next to Coach Hog. He'll show you."
Rhett looked at me, eyebrows raised. I shrugged. "You heard the boss."
He settled next to me—close enough that our knees touched—and I walked him through the basic cast-on. His hands, so steady with a hammer or measuring tape, fumbled with the yarn. The needles crossed wrong. The tension was either too tight or too loose.
After five minutes, he held up what he'd made: a lumpy, twisted thing that barely resembled a row of stitches.
"Well," he said, examining it with the same critical eye he'd probably give a warped board. "This is terrible."
Tyler leaned over to look. "It really is."
"Absolutely awful," Rhett agreed cheerfully, and started picking it apart to try again.
No embarrassment. No self-deprecation disguised as humor. Just honest assessment and willingness to fail in front of eight kids and me.
I'd watched guys get defensive over smaller things—missing a pass, botching a drill, or burning toast. Rhett held up his garbage knitting like it was a progress report and moved on.
Tyler managed a chain of wobbly stitches.
One kid accidentally knitted her needles together.
Mika helped another kid fix a dropped stitch with the authority of someone who'd been knitting for exactly three months.
And Rhett kept trying, producing increasingly terrible results, occasionally asking me quiet questions about tension and hand position.
When he reached over to help Tyler with his needles, his shoulder pressed against mine. I wanted to lean into it. Wanted to turn my head and close the distance between us, audience be damned. Instead, I forced myself to stay still and focus on the tangle of yarn in front of me.
"You're really good at this," Rhett said quietly.
"Knitting?"
"Teaching. Being patient. Making kids feel safe." His knee pressed more firmly against mine. Deliberate. "All of it."
The kids started crashing around eight-thirty. We worked together, gathering coats and half-finished projects. Evan shoved leftovers at Rhett.
"Then Hog and I will help eat it," Rhett said, and warmth spread through me as I thought Hog and I.
We got everyone bundled back to their rides, including four in Rhett's truck. He paused at the driver's door, and his breath fogged in the cold air.
"Thanks for tonight," he said.
"You didn't have to come."
"I wanted to. You've got a good family here."
"They're something."
"They're yours." He gazed into my eyes. "And they love you. Both sides of you. You know that, right?"
I did. Somewhere beyond the self-doubt, I knew it.
"Yeah, I know."
"Good." Rhett took a step closer. "Can I ask you something?"
"Yeah."
"In the locker room when Mika hid behind me, you looked terrified."
"She was scared of me."
"For thirty seconds. Then you showed her you're both things at once." His hand came up, thumb brushing my cheekbone where the bruise was. "I know you're still scared I'm going to ask you to pick."
I hadn't seen that coming.
"I—"
"I'm not." His thumb brushed the bruise again. "I watched you drop gloves for Pickle. Watched you crouch down with a whale named Kevin and watched you teach eight kids to knit while your ribs were probably screaming. And I want all of it, Hog. The whole complicated mess."
"What if it's too much?"
"Then I'll tell you, but I won't. Because it's not."
"Rhett—"
"I want to kiss you," he said, voice dropping lower. "But there are eight kids in my truck, and your teammates are watching from the window. So I'm going to go home and text you something inappropriate instead. And you'll quit thinking I'm going to bail. Deal?"
My pulse pounded in my ears. "Deal."
"Good." He squeezed my arm once—hand lingering just long enough to make his point—then climbed into the truck.
I watched him drive away, taillights disappearing down the street.
Jake appeared at my elbow. "So."
"So."
"You gonna let yourself have this?"
It was a heavy question. The honest answer was I didn't know. The hopeful answer was maybe.
"Working on it," I said.
"Good." Jake slung an arm around my shoulders. "Now come help Evan with the dishes."
We headed back upstairs. My phone buzzed.
Rhett: All kids delivered. Mika's still asleep.
Rhett: Thanks for tonight. Meant it.
I stared at the screen, then typed:
Hog: Thanks for showing up. Both times.
Rhett: That's what I do.
The following message came through before I could type a response.
Rhett: I meant what I said in the parking lot. About wanting to kiss you.
I swallowed hard.
Rhett: Coffee this week. Just us. No kids, no team. And maybe I'll get the chance.
Hog: Yeah. I'd like that.
Rhett: Good. Because I can't stop thinking about you. The whole package. Just so we're clear.
I read the message three times. Then I reread it.
Jake appeared in the doorway. "You okay?"
"He said—" I held up the phone. "He said he can't stop thinking about me."
Jake read over my shoulder, then grinned. "Well, shit. Flannel guy's got it bad."
"What do I say?"
"The truth, you idiot."
I looked at the phone again. Outside, Thunder Bay was cold and dark and brutal. Inside, my family was loud and messy and perfect.
And somewhere between the locker room and the kids' table, between the enforcer and the knitter, Rhett had looked at all of me and decided he wanted more.
I typed:
Hog: Can't stop thinking about you either. I want this.
Rhett: Good.
I pocketed my phone and grabbed a dish towel.
This time, the fear in my chest was different. It wasn't the fear of being too much or not enough. It was the fear of getting what I wanted.
Maybe that was a fear worth facing.