Chapter 6 Rhett
Chapter six
Rhett
The Zamboni left the ice mirror-smooth. I set down the nineteenth cone and checked my watch. Five forty-seven.
Hog was supposed to show at five thirty.
I'd texted yesterday after work.
Rhett: Youth practice tomorrow if you want to come.
I'd originally included "no pressure," but then I deleted it because it sounded like pressure.
He'd responded with three exclamation points and a GIF of a bear on hockey skates.
My phone buzzed.
Sloane: Stop spiraling. I can feel it from here.
Rhett: I'm not spiraling.
Sloane: You're at the rink 30 minutes early rearranging cones. That's spiraling.
Rhett: How do you even know that?
Sloane: Because you're my little brother and you've been spiraling since you learned how to think. Let yourself have something nice for once.
I shoved the phone in my pocket and moved a cone three inches left.
The side door banged open at five forty-eight.
"Okay, I know I'm late—" Hog stumbled in with his gear bag and a cardboard tray. "But I stopped to get hot chocolate. For the kids. Is that allowed? I asked the chatbot what to bring to youth hockey practice, and it said a positive attitude. That was unhelpful."
He wore a Storm hoodie under his jacket, sweatpants tucked into unlaced skates. His beard had crumbs in it—toast, maybe.
"You're seventeen minutes early. Practice starts at six."
He blinked. "What?"
"I said I'd be here at five thirty, setting up before practice."
"Right. Cool. I'm gonna go sit in the parking lot and wait for my grand entrance."
"Or you could lace your skates and help me set up."
He stared. "You sure?"
"Yeah. Unless you'd rather sit in your Prius and sulk."
"It's fuel-efficient." He was already dropping his bag and crouching to tie his skates. His hands moved fast—the same hands that made tiny whales. "And for the record, I wouldn't be sulking. I'd be panicking. There's a difference."
I crouched beside him. "They're not gonna hate you."
"You don't know that."
"I know they already love you. Half of them have Storm posters in their rooms."
His eyes opened wide. "That's worse. What if I'm a disappointment?"
"Hog."
He stopped.
"You're gonna be fine."
He exhaled. "Okay."
I picked up his other skate. His ankle was thick, solid—years of stopping pucks with his body. I pulled the lace snug, knotted it twice, then offered him my hand.
He took it. I hauled him up, and we stood too close, his breath fogging between us.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet. You're running the shooting drill."
The color drained out of his face. "I'm what?"
The kids arrived at five fifty-five.
Maren Kowalski came first, dragging her gear bag like a sled. She took one look at Hog and her eyes nearly bugged out of her head.
"Is that Hog Hawkins?"
I didn't even have to look at Hog to know his ears were turning red under his toque.
"Absolutely," I said. "That's him."
"THE Hog Hawkins? From the Storm?"
"That's the one."
She skated up to him and stopped two feet away. "You fought Kellner last week. He had it coming."
"Uh. Thanks?"
"My dad says enforcers are a dying breed, but I think you're cool." She shrugged. "Can you teach me how to hit?"
"Maren," I called. "We're not teaching hitting."
"But—"
"Stick skills first."
She sighed like I'd ruined her life and skated off.
Hog looked at me. "That kid is scary."
"Wait till you meet Jeremy."
Ten minutes later, twelve kids circled the rink. Hog stood beside me, arms crossed.
"They're fast."
"Some of them."
"That kid—" He pointed at a small boy struggling to keep up. "He's working twice as hard as everyone else."
"That's Jeremy. Started late. Doesn't have the instincts yet, but he's got heart."
Hog nodded. "I like him."
I blew the whistle. The kids scrambled to a stop and gathered around us. Twelve pairs of eyes stared at Hog like he'd descended from Valhalla.
"This is Hog Hawkins. Some of you might know him from the Storm. He's helping today, so listen when he talks."
"Are you really an enforcer?" Brit shouted.
"Do you actually knit?" Maren asked.
Hog blushed. He glanced at me, a panicky expression on his face.
I nodded and raised an eyebrow.
He cleared his throat. "Uh. Yeah. I knit. I also fight people. Sometimes both in the same day, which sounds weirder out loud than it did in my head."
The kids laughed.
"I once knit a pig — full-sized, like an actual pig. His name was Dennis. Got auctioned off for two hundred bucks, which means I'm officially a professional pig-maker."
More laughter. Jeremy raised his hand.
"What do you need, bud?"
"Why do you fight people?"
All the kids were quiet, listening.
"Because sometimes my teammates need someone to stand up for them. And the best way to protect people is to make sure the other guys know there's consequences for being jerks." He shrugged. "But I only fight when I have to. The rest of the time, I just play hockey and make pigs."
Jeremy nodded, satisfied.
"Alright. Enough questions. Partner up."
They scattered. Hog stayed by the boards until I skated over and handed him a stick.
"Demo the drill. Show them how you do it."
He stared at the stick. "Rhett—"
"You'll be fine."
We skated to center ice, kids forming a circle. I snapped the puck to him. He caught it clean and sent it back. We fell into a rhythm—quick, efficient—and Hog muttered with each pass: "Stick down, eyes up, don't overthink it, Damn, why are children watching me—"
I sent the puck harder. He caught it and spun his stick. The kids cheered.
"Show-off," I muttered.
"You started it."
We ran it another minute before I sent the kids to practice.
The rest of our session went more smoothly than expected.
Hog circled the rink, adjusting grips and fixing stances, cracking jokes that made kids laugh and listen.
He showed Brit how to take harder shots without losing balance.
Skated backward with Jeremy, patiently coaching crossovers until the kid's face lit up.
When Maren asked again about hitting, Hog crouched down and looked her in the eye. "When you're ready, you'll do it right. That means protecting yourself first. No one's tough if they're hurt, understand?"
She nodded, serious.
"Good." He tapped her helmet. "Now go practice your wrist shot. I wanna see you bury one top shelf."
Practice ended at seven. Kids peeled off one by one, with their parents waiting in idling cars. Hog handed out hot chocolates. Maren hugged him. Brit told him he was "pretty cool for an old guy."
Jeremy lingered, clutching his hot chocolate with both hands. He looked up at Hog, then over at me standing by the boards, then back at Hog.
"Coach Hog?"
"Yeah, bud?"
"Are you gonna come back? Or is this like when my aunt visited and said she'd come to my games but then never did?"
The question landed in the quiet rink like a puck hitting glass. Hog's face ran through stages—surprise, then something softer, almost hurt.
"I—" He glanced at me, and I saw fear there.
He crouched down to Jeremy's level. "You want the truth?"
Jeremy nodded, serious.
"I don't know if Coach Rhett wants me back. But—" His voice got quieter. "I'd like to come back. If he'll have me."
Jeremy looked at me, expectant like I was supposed to solve this right now.
Every parent still lingering in the parking lot was probably watching through the glass. Maren had stopped halfway to the door. Brit was blatantly eavesdropping.
I skated over. Stood close enough that Hog had to look up at me.
"You're welcome back whenever you want," I said. Then, because Jeremy was still staring and Hog looked like he needed to hear it: "I want you back."
Hog blinked hard. "For real?"
"For real."
Jeremy smiled. "Cool. Can you teach me to knit next time?"
By seven-fifteen, we were alone.
The rink always felt bigger when it was quiet. We gathered equipment, skates scraping ice, and I was aware of every sound—Hog's breath, his jacket rustling, and the hum of the flickering lights.
He skated over to dump gathered pucks into the bin. "Did I pass?"
"Pass what?"
"The test. You invited me to your thing. I figured you were checking to see if I'd embarrass you."
"You think I'd do that?"
"I don't know. You wouldn't be the first."
I skated closer. "You didn't embarrass me."
He shoved his hands in his pockets. "They're good kids."
"They loved you."
"They loved the hot chocolate."
"Hog."
He finally looked at me. "I just didn't want to screw it up. This is your world, and I didn't want to be the guy who bulldozed in and made it weird."
"You didn't. You fit."
"Okay."
I stood close. "Do you want to see something?"
He blinked. "What?"
"There's a place. I want to show you."
His eyes searched mine. "A place?"
"Kind of special."
"Lead the way."
I'd parked my truck in the far corner of the lot—'96 Silverado with rust eating through the wheel wells and a tailgate that only opened if you kicked it first.
Hog stopped when he saw it. "Nice truck."
"Does the job."
"It's—" He circled it. "It's very you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Practical. Sturdy. Probably indestructible." He knocked on the hood. "Runs well?"
"Mostly, and the extended cab—good for hauling kids around."
"You gave me shit about my Prius."
I unlocked the door. "You coming or not?"
He climbed in. The seat groaned. He had to shove receipts and a tape measure aside to find the seatbelt. "Fuck. Do you ever clean this thing?"
"It's a work truck."
"It's a filing cabinet with an engine." He picked up a crumpled Tim Hortons bag. "This is from July."
"Put it down."
He tossed it in the back, grinning. "I'm just saying, if you're gonna judge my organizational system—"
"It runs."
"Fair."
I turned the key. The engine coughed and caught. As I pulled out of the lot, the heater groaned to life.
"So where are we going?" Hog fiddled with the radio dial. All he found was static and mournful country.
"You'll see."
"That's ominous."
"It's a surprise."