Chapter 11 Hog
Chapter eleven
Hog
I'd stolen Rhett's shirt.
Not on purpose—well, not entirely on purpose. My clothes lay scattered around the bedroom with the sound of the shower in the distance.
I panicked. Couldn't walk around naked. Couldn't put on last night's sweaty practice gear. So I'd grabbed the soft gray henley draped over his chair.
It fit like skintight scuba gear—shoulders straining the seams, sleeves barely past my elbows. It smelled like him—cedar and sawdust.
I padded my way to the kitchen. It was smaller than mine but infinitely more organized. Mugs hung on hooks under the cabinet, each aligned like he'd measured the spacing.
Domesticity. That's what this was. Foreign but addictive. I wanted to mainline it directly into my veins.
I measured coffee grounds into a filter, my hands shaking slightly. Two scoops for me, three for both of us. Did he take it black? With cream? I had no idea. We'd had coffee together exactly once, and I'd been too busy spiraling to pay attention.
The snow outside his window drifted past in fat, lazy flakes. Thunder Bay winter—endless and brutal and somehow beautiful when you looked at it from somewhere warm.
The coffeemaker gurgled to life, filling the kitchen with that sharp, bitter smell that meant morning was happening whether I was ready or not. I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, trying to look casual. Like I belonged here.
My phone sat on the counter next to Rhett's keys—mine cracked across the screen, his pristine. Even our phones had personalities.
I considered checking it. Jake had probably texted a dozen times by now, guessing I was at Rhett's when I didn't answer. Coach might've called about practice. Pickle had probably sent me a true crime podcast recommendation at three in the morning.
I didn't check it.
The soft shuffle of bare feet on hardwood announced Rhett was on the way. He grunted softly when he stretched.
Suddenly, his arms wrapped around my waist from behind.
I froze. Stopped breathing for a half-second.
He pressed his face into the space between my shoulder blades. Was that an "Mmmm"?
"Morning," he mumbled, voice still rough with sleep.
I smelled the shower soap and shampoo on him. "Hey."
"That's my shirt."
"Yeah. Sorry. I couldn't find—"
"Looks better on you." His arms tightened slightly around my waist. "Way better."
"I'm probably stretching it beyond repair. I'll buy you a new one."
"Don't." Rhett pressed a kiss between my shoulder blades—casual, easy, like he'd done it a thousand times before. "Keep it."
My hands shook.
My body was perfect for checking guys into boards at thirty miles an hour. For dropping gloves and trading punches until someone's nose broke or the linesmen pulled us apart. For taking hits that would hospitalize normal people and skating it off like it was nothing.
I was not built for being spooned at a coffeemaker by a contractor who made every nerve ending in my body vibrate.
"You sleep okay?" I managed.
"Best sleep I've had in months." He shifted, chin resting on my shoulder as he stood on tiptoes to see my face in profile. "You?"
"Yeah. Good. Great. Your bed is—it's comfortable."
"That's a bit of a fib. You took up three-quarters of it and spent the whole night convinced you were crushing me."
My ears burned. "I did not—"
"Hog. I woke up at two AM with your elbow in my kidney and your leg pinning me to the mattress like you were checking me into the boards in your sleep."
"Shit. I'm sorry. I should've—"
"I'm not complaining." His lips brushed my jaw. "An observation—maybe we need a king."
We. The word hung there between us, bigger than bed sizes.
The coffee finished brewing with a final sputter. Steam rose from the pot. Silence stretched like the moment before a face-off when everyone's coiled tight and waiting for the puck to drop. I heard my pulse in my ears.
"I haven't been this nervous since my first junior league fight," I blurted out.
Rhett chuckled, warm breath against my neck. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. I was sixteen. Kid was six inches taller and had a reach like a fucking windmill. Spent the entire pre-game throwing up in the bathroom."
"What happened?"
"Broke his nose in the first period. Threw up again after."
"You're doing fine." Rhett's arms were still around me, steady and sure.
"I'm not, though." More words tumbled out before I could stop them. "I'm standing here in your kitchen wearing your shirt, making your coffee, and thinking about how I could fuck it up."
"Hog."
I turned around. Rhett had thrown on pajama pants—gray flannel with a small hole near the knee. His hair stuck up on one side. He hadn't used a comb after the towel.
He looked rumpled. Real.
My phone buzzed on the counter—angry, insistent, probably Jake wondering where the hell I was. Rhett glanced at it, then back at me.
"You should check that."
I didn't want to. Didn't want to let the outside world back in, but the phone kept buzzing.
I grabbed it off the counter, and the screen lit up with eight messages. All from Jake.
Jake: Morning sunshine. Mandatory team breakfast. Coach's orders
Jake: 45 minutes. Non-negotiable
Jake: Don't show up hungover or horny.
Jake: Actually scratch that, you're definitely gonna show up horny.
Jake: Just try to keep it PG-13 in front of Coach.
Jake: WHERE ARE YOU???
Jake: Did flannel guy murder you?
Jake: If you're dead, text me back so I know
I groaned. "Fuck."
Rhett peered over my shoulder, reading the messages. "Mandatory team breakfast sounds terrifying."
"It's chaos on toast." I scrolled through the rest—three messages from Pickle about a podcast, one from Evan that just said "You're late," and a missed call from Coach that I was absolutely not ready to deal with.
"Jake probably suggested to everyone where I spent the night.
He's got a big mouth and zero boundaries. "
"Is that a problem?"
Was it? The team knew about Rhett—hell, half of Thunder Bay knew after that Chronicle photo. This would be different, though. The married and dating guys often brought their significant others to team breakfasts.
Inviting Rhett would mean walking into the team breakfast with him beside me, making it real in front of the people who mattered most. Making it public in a way that wasn't a midnight kiss or a coffee date, but something more integrated. The possibility that it could be permanent.
He leaned against the counter, coffee mug cradled in both hands, steam rising between us. He looked unfairly calm. "Do you want me to come?"
The question was casual, matter-of-fact, like he was asking if I wanted cream in my coffee. Underneath it was something much bigger. It was an offer to take another step directly into my world—into something more official than the get-together at Jake and Evan's.
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
What if they didn't like him? What if he didn't like them?
"You're spiraling," Rhett observed.
"I'm thinking."
"That's the same thing with you." He set his mug down and moved closer, hands finding my hips. "What's going on in there?"
I stared at the hole in his pajama pants. "They're my family—the Storm. You saw some of them at Jake and Evan's. They do see me as one complicated person. They let me be loud, weird, and too much without asking me to tone it down, and then they smile at my knitted emotional support animals."
"Okay."
"And you're—" I gestured vaguely between us. "You're this. Which is also important. Really fucking important. And I don't know how to make those things fit together without one of them breaking."
"Why would either of them break?"
"What if the version of me that exists with them is too much for the version of me you like?"
Rhett was quiet for a moment. Outside, someone's snow blower started, the engine sputtering before catching.
"Here's what I think," he said finally. "I think you're scared that if I see all the pieces in the same room, I'll realize they don't fit together. That you're performing different versions instead of being one whole person."
My throat was tight. "Maybe."
"But I've already seen all of it. I watched you fight Kellner on TV, then make hot chocolate for eight kids. I saw you drop gloves in the locker room video Pickle posted, then crouch down with a tiny whale. You think team breakfast will show me something I haven't already figured out?"
"They're going to interrogate you," I warned. "Jake will make inappropriate jokes. Pickle will ask if you've ever committed a crime. Evan will probably pull out a literal spreadsheet ranking your compatibility with me. They were on good behavior when the kids were around."
"Sounds fun."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." Rhett's smile faded, replaced by something more intense. "Hog. I chose you at midnight in front of half of Thunder Bay. You think a diner full of hockey players scares me more than that did?"
The comments were like an uppercut, throwing me off balance.
"You sure? Once we do this, there's no going back. They'll adopt you immediately, and you'll never have a moment's peace again."
"Sounds like a nightmare." He kissed me, quick and firm. "When do we leave?"
I checked my phone. We were already about twenty minutes late, but I knew if I texted Jake, they would wait for us.
My actual clothes were in a pile by Rhett's bed. I was wearing his shirt and my boxer briefs. My hair looked like a family of birds had nested in it overnight.
"We should probably get dressed," I said.
"Probably."
Neither of us moved.
"Hog?"
"Yeah?"
"You're allowed to want both. The team and this. Me and them. You don't have to choose."
I kissed him again, deeper this time.
My phone buzzed again.
Jake: If you're not here in 30, I'm sending a search party
I showed Rhett the message. He laughed, heading toward his bedroom to get dressed. I heard drawers opening and the rustle of clothes.
I was bringing Rhett to the team breakfast and integrating him into the Storm family. Making it all real in a way that I couldn't take back.