Chapter 12 Rhett
Chapter twelve
Rhett
The Drop smelled like bacon grease and maple syrup, the morning sun cutting through the windows in dusty shafts.
The jukebox sat silent for once, and in its place, I heard the scrape of forks on plates, the low rumble of conversation, and the hiss of the griddle from the kitchen.
It was the Storm's unofficial home away from home.
Part of the team had claimed the back corner booth. I heard them before I saw them—Jake's voice carrying over everything, Pickle's rapid-fire commentary, and the deeper bass of Coach Rusk's interjections.
The rest of the roster was scattered at other tables—Desrosiers and MacLaren arguing about something near the bar.
Hog's hand tightened in mine.
Jake saw us first. His face lit up, mouth opening—then Evan elbowed him hard enough to make him grunt.
"Well, well," he said as we approached. "Look who finally decided to make an honest man of our Hog."
"Jake," Evan said, not looking up from his notebook.
"What? I'm being welcoming."
"You're being yourself. That's different."
We reached the table. Jake and Evan were on one side of the booth, Pickle fidgeting with his napkin across from them. Coach Rusk sat at the head in a chair he'd pulled up, ball cap backward, working through a plate of eggs with methodical focus.
I slid in next to Pickle. Hog followed, settling beside me.
His thigh pressed against mine, solid and warm through two layers of denim.
The booth forced us closer than we'd been in public before—his shoulder brushing mine, the smell of his shampoo—coconut, probably whatever was on sale at the grocery store—cutting through the bacon grease and coffee.
As he settled, he moved carefully, favoring his left side slightly. I'd noticed it when we walked in—how he held himself stiffer than usual.
"Ribs still?" I asked, soft enough that only he heard.
"Always."
I wanted to put my hand on his knee under the table. Wanted to lean in against him instead of sitting carefully upright. Wanted to do any of the things I'd done in private last night that I couldn't do with Jake's assessing gaze locked on my face.
Jake moved his shoulder in slow circles, testing the range of motion.
Evan had what looked like tape peeking out from under his collar—shoulder or collarbone, hard to tell.
This was what Sunday morning looked like after Saturday night hockey.
Everyone was functional and upright, but battling soreness in their bodies.
"Rhett." Jake's smile had edges. "Thanks for joining us. Wasn't sure you'd show."
The comment hung there, not quite hostile but not friendly either—a test disguised as small talk.
"Wouldn't miss it," I said.
"Hog talks about team breakfast like a religious experience," Jake continued. "Hope we live up to the hype."
"I'm sure you will."
"See, that's what worries me." Jake turned his head to look at me. "You seem like a guy who's good at saying the right thing. Real polite. Measured." His grin sharpened. "But this isn't a job site, Contractor. You can't just smile and get through it."
"Jake," Hog said, voice carrying a warning.
"What? I'm making conversation." Jake's eyes never left mine. "Want to make sure Rhett knows what he's signing up for. We're loud. We're a lot. And Hog's ours. You good with that?"
This was the real test. Not only can you talk hockey, but can you handle that we were here first, that we love him, and you don't get to change him or us?
"Yeah," I said. "I'm good with that."
"Just good?"
"Grateful for it," I corrected. "That he has you. That you've got his back."
Pickle launched himself back into motion.
"So are you Contractor Guy or Flannel Guy?
Do you like pancakes? Have you ever found treasure in a wall?
What about bones? Hog says you're good at building things, but can you break things too?
Sometimes you need to break things to build them better, right?
That's what my therapist says, except she's talking about emotional walls, but I think it applies to real walls too—"
"Kid," Coach said—just the one word.
Pickle's mouth clicked shut. Then, lower: "Sorry.
I do that. Talk too much when I'm nervous.
" He looked at me directly for the first time.
"I just—Hog doesn't bring people to breakfast. So you must be, like, important.
And I wanted to make a good impression, but I'm bad at that, so I just—" He gestured vaguely at his mouth.
"You're doing fine," I said.
"Really?" The hope in his voice was almost painful.
"Really."
Hog nodded. Pickle exhaled and then smiled, some of the manic energy coming back. "Okay. Okay, yeah. But seriously, have you ever found bones?"
"Let the man settle before you interrogate him." Coach turned his steady gaze on me. "You drink coffee?"
"Yeah."
"Good." He flagged down the server—an older woman with steel-gray hair—and ordered me coffee and a menu without asking what I wanted.
The coffee arrived fast, bitter enough to strip paint. I took a sip while everyone stared to see if I'd flinch. I didn't and took another sip.
"So," Evan said, closing his notebook with a decisive snap. "Rhett Mason. Local contractor. Youth hockey coach. Dating our enforcer." He tilted his head slightly. "What else should we know?"
"Not much to tell."
"That's a deflection." Evan's gray eyes were sharp and analytical. "Try again."
"C'mon, guys," Hog said.
"I'm making conversation. Getting to know Rhett." Evan's gaze didn't waver from mine. "So. What else should we know?"
I thought about deflecting again, keeping it surface-level and safe. Then I thought about what Jake had said—you can't just smile and get through it.
"I'm thirty-two," I said. "I've lived in Thunder Bay my whole life.
Took over my dad's business when he got sick.
I coach kids because I didn't get to play past high school, and I wanted to give them what I didn't have.
" I paused. "And I'm here because Hog matters to me.
I want to know the people who matter to him. "
Jake said, "That's better. See? Wasn't so hard."
"It was a little hard," I admitted.
"Good. Should be." Jake flagged the server. "We're ready to order. Get Rhett the pancake special. He looks like he needs carbs."
"I can order for myself—"
"You absolutely can," Jake agreed. "But if you order the omelet, I'll judge you. This is a pancake establishment."
Beside me, Hog was trying not to smile.
After the server took our orders and left, Jake grabbed the salt and pepper shakers, setting them up on the table. "Okay, so third period, we're down by one, and Desrosiers makes that brain-dead pass—"
"It wasn't brain-dead," Evan said. "He was reading the weak-side rotation."
"He was reading his own ass. Look at this." Jake positioned the salt shaker—Desrosiers, apparently—and the pepper as the opponent. "He goes here, their winger collapses, and boom—" He swept his hand dramatically and knocked over Coach's coffee.
"Jesus Christ," Coach said, grabbing napkins.
"Sorry, Coach." Jake didn't sound sorry. "But you see what I mean? Hog had to bail him out—"
"Hog was out of position," Evan interrupted. "If he'd held the blue line like we talked about—"
"I held the blue line," Hog said. "Until I didn't."
"That's not holding the blue line. That's visiting the blue line and then leaving."
"Their center was going to split the defense. I made a choice."
"A bad choice." It wasn't criticism. It was an analysis.
"A Hog choice," Jake corrected. "Which worked, because now we're not talking about how we lost, we're talking about how we won ugly."
Pickle leaned forward, trying to follow. "But if Desrosiers had just—"
"Kid," Coach said, "pass the syrup and let the adults argue."
They moved the salt and pepper around, Evan occasionally reaching over to correct positioning. Jake was more animated with each gesture. Hog caught my eye, smiled slightly, and winced as the movement pulled something in his ribs.
This was a family, not by blood, but by choice, repetition, and showing up.
"—so what do you think?" Jake looked at me expectantly.
I'd missed the question entirely. "Sorry, what?"
"See? He's not even listening." Jake turned toward Hog. "Your boyfriend's ignoring us. That's rude."
"He's not ignoring you. He's observing."
"Observing what?"
"How you all work together," I said. "Trying to figure out where I fit."
Jake's grin went sharp again. "And?"
"Still figuring it out."
"Huh." Jake leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"Here's the thing, Contractor. You don't fit.
Not yet. Maybe not ever. This isn't a team you join by showing up to breakfast and being polite.
It's a team you earn by being there when it's three a.m. and someone's spiraling.
When Pickle takes a hit that should've put him in the hospital, and we're all sitting in the waiting room.
When Hog's body gives out—and it will—he needs someone who won't flinch. "
Silence reigned.
"You seem like a nice guy," Jake continued.
"Polite. Good with kids. Probably great at your job.
But nice doesn't mean you can handle this.
Handle him." He nodded at Hog. "When the season goes bad, and his ribs are broken instead of bruised.
When he's fighting guys he shouldn't fight because that's who he is—you gonna stick around for that?
Or you gonna decide it's too much work and find someone simpler? "
Hog turned his head to look at me, waiting for my response.
"I don't know," I said.
Jake's eyebrows went up. "What?"
"I don't know if I can handle all of that. I've never done this before—been part of something like this. I don't know if I'll be good enough at it. But I want to try."
Jake studied me for a long moment. Then he looked at Evan.
"Thoughts?" he asked.
Evan closed his notebook. "That's the first thing he's said that I actually believe."