Chapter 12 Rhett #2
"Yeah." Jake leaned back. The line between his eyebrows smoothed slightly. Still testing, but the hostile edge had dulled. "Okay. You can stay for breakfast. But we've got an eye on you, Contractor. And if you hurt him, nice guy or not, we'll have a problem."
"Understood."
"Good." Jake flagged the server. "Now let's talk about something easier. You coach kids, right? Mika's group?"
"Yeah."
"Hog's been helping with that. Teaching the kids to knit between drills. Very wholesome. Very on-brand." Jake's tone made it clear he was heading somewhere. "How's that working out? Having Thunder Bay's enforcer teaching children domestic arts?"
The question had teeth underneath. This wasn't about knitting. This was about whether I saw Hog as one thing or another—whether I was comfortable with the contradiction or whether I'd try to smooth it out, make him simpler.
"It's good," I said carefully. "The kids love it."
"But?" Jake prompted.
"No but."
"There's always a but."
"Not this time." I met his eyes. "Hog teaching kids to knit while coaching hockey makes perfect sense. They're the same skill—patience, repetition, paying attention to what's in front of you. The kids get it even if the adults sometimes don't."
Jake nodded slightly, and some of the testing edge left his posture.
The food arrived—pancakes for me, an egg-white omelet for Evan despite Jake's dire warnings, waffles and bacon for everyone else.
Jake reached for the syrup, and his shoulder hitched. He switched hands without comment, but Evan was already sliding the bottle closer so Jake wouldn't have to stretch.
We ate, and the conversation moved on to safer territory: last night's game, upcoming schedule, and whether Pickle's true crime podcast obsession was getting out of hand.
I listened more than I talked, mapping the dynamics.
Jake was the chaos engine, but Evan kept him grounded.
Pickle was the kid brother everyone protected.
Coach was the anchor, saying little but holding space.
And Hog—Hog was the heart. He was the one who made sure everyone was okay, smoothed the rough edges, and loved loudly enough for all of them.
Under the table, Hog reached out for my hand, weaving our fingers together. His palm was warm, and when he squeezed once, I felt the slight tremor he was trying to hide.
I squeezed back, letting my thumb find the soft skin of his inner wrist. His pulse thumped under my touch.
The heat of his hand in mine, hidden under the table while Jake dissected last night's game and Evan made notes—it felt more intimate than anything we'd done last night.
"—and that's when Hog brought banana bread to the hospital," Jake said, gesturing with his fork. "We're visiting the guy he just fought, and Hog's handing out baked goods like we're at a church social."
"He had a concussion," Hog said. "Concussions require comfort carbs."
"You gave him your grandmother's recipe."
"It's a good recipe."
"You gave it to someone who tried to take Pickle's head off."
"He apologized," Hog said. "And nobody's head came off. Everyone's fine."
"Soft," Coach muttered.
Hog's face was earnest, slightly defensive, like he expected us to think it was ridiculous. I read the room, trying to figure out whether this was a moment where they were teasing him or criticizing, and I made my choice.
"Well," I said, aiming for light, "at least he didn't knit the guy a get-well scarf."
The words landed like a brick through a window.
No one spoke for a moment.
Jake's eyebrows rose. Pickle's mouth fell open slightly.
Pickle spoke up first. "Actually, Hog made me a scarf. It was in my first week on the team. It had little pickles on it." He looked at me. "I still have it."
Fuck.
My face flushed.
"That's—" I started, then stopped. Smoothing it over would make it worse. "I'm sorry. What I said came out wrong."
"How'd you mean it?" Jake asked. His voice was level, but his eyes were sharp.
I could've deflected. Could've made another joke and tried to laugh it off. Instead, I looked at Hog, who was staring back at me.
"I was trying to be funny," I said. "Trying to fit in with the chirping. But I made it sound like what he does is a joke. Like the knitting's not serious, and that's not what I think."
"What do you think?" Evan asked.
I looked at Hog again. He was waiting to hear what I'd say next.
"I think Hog fighting for Pickle and then making sure the other guy was okay is exactly who he is," I said.
"I think the banana bread and the fighting come from the same place—caring.
And I think the people who can't see that are the ones with the problem, not him.
" I paused. "I'm sorry I made it sound like I was one of those people. "
Jake leaned back. "Better," he said finally. "Way better than if you'd tried to joke your way out of it."
"I wasn't joking."
"I know. That's why it's better." Jake's grin came back, but it was different—less sharp and more genuine. "You're gonna fuck up again, Contractor. Probably soon. But if you can own it like that every time, we'll get along fine."
Pickle nodded enthusiastically. "The scarf's really nice. I can show you a picture if you want. It's got fringe and everything." Then, quieter but more serious: "Hog's the best. You seem like you get that."
"I do," I said.
"Good." Pickle smiled. "Then you'll fit in fine."
The conversation moved on. Evan asked Coach about tomorrow's practice, and Jake stole bacon off Evan's plate. The atmosphere had changed. Not acceptance yet. But something closer to it. Like I'd proven I could handle being wrong and still show up honestly.
Under the table, Hog's hand stayed in mine. His grip was steadier. His thumb moved in slow circles against my palm, and I realized he was grounding me the way I'd tried to ground him earlier.
I wanted to pull him out of the booth and into my truck, kiss him until neither of us remembered why we'd been nervous, press him against cold metal, feel his solid weight, and taste the coffee and syrup on his mouth.
Then Evan said, "I like him," to Hog, like I wasn't sitting right there.
"Me too," Hog said, grinning.
"I'm reserving judgment," Jake announced. "But he's doing better than expected."
"What were you expecting?" I asked.
"Someone who'd try to make Hog pick a side. Or someone who'd pretend the sides didn't exist." Jake's grin had softened slightly. "You're doing neither. So far."
So far. The words hung there. I was still on probation.
The check came. Coach paid over everyone's protests, dropping cash on the table and telling us all to shut up. "My team," he said. "My breakfast."
We filed out into the cold. The parking lot was bright with winter sun, snow piled in dirty banks along the edges. Exhaust clouds hung in the still air as engines started.
Jake clapped Hog on the shoulder as he passed. "He'll do," he said, low enough that maybe I wasn't supposed to hear. "But we're paying attention."
Then he was gone, Evan beside him, Pickle strolling after them toward his ancient Civic.
Coach paused by my truck.
"You coach youth hockey," he said—a statement, not a question.
"Yeah."
"Mika's group."
"That's right."
He nodded once. "Good. Kids need that." He paused. "Hog talks about you. More than he probably realizes." His eyes met mine.
"The players need people who always show up, not just when it's easy. When it's hard too."
"I can do that," I said.
"Yeah." He said it like he'd decided something. "I think you can."
Then he was gone. Desrosiers and MacLaren headed to their cars behind him, MacLaren catching Hog's eye with a nod as they passed. The whole team had been listening. Everyone would have an opinion.
Finally, it was just Hog and me in the parking lot, breath fogging between us.
"So," Hog said. "That was—"
"A lot," I finished.
"Yeah." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Jake was—"
"Protective. As he should be."
"He'll warm up. Eventually. Probably. You did well, though. Really good."
"I'm not sure I passed."
"You didn't fail. That's better." He stepped closer. "Was it too much? We're a lot. I know we're a lot."
I thought about Jake's testing questions and Evan's sharp gaze.
"No," I said. "It was exactly what it should've been."
"Like what?"
"Honest." I touched his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "They love you. They're making sure I know what I'm getting into. That's not too much. That's family."
His breath caught. "And you still want—"
"Yeah," I said. "I still want this. Want you. Want to earn my way into this."
"Earn your way?"
"I'm not in yet, Hog. They're still considering me." I smiled slightly. "Jake made that clear. Coach too. And that's okay. I'd rather earn it than have it handed to me."
He stared at me for a long moment. Then he kissed me. I gripped his hips through his jacket, pulling him closer and feeling the solid weight of him against me—all that size and strength that could break things but chose to be gentle.
His beard scratched my jaw. His breath came fast against my mouth. The cold air bit at my face everywhere he wasn't touching, making his heat more intense.
"Definitely considering," I managed. "Pretty sure Jake's watching from the window."
Hog glanced back at The Drop, where sure enough, several faces were visible through the glass. He grinned. "Let them watch."
He pulled me back in for another kiss. When he pulled back, he was still smiling.
"I should go," he said. "Laundry. Existential crisis. The usual Sunday routine."
"Text me later?"
"Yeah." He kissed me once more—softer this time, sweeter. "Thanks. For showing up. For—all of it."
"Thanks for letting me."
My eyes followed him to his Prius and watched him fold himself into the driver's seat with that careful maneuvering that made the car look even more ridiculous. He waved once before pulling out, and I waved back.
I was alone in the parking lot, the cold seeping through my jacket, with the Sleeping Giant visible across the bay.
My phone buzzed.
Hog: Jake says you're not terrible. That's high praise btw.
Hog: Also Pickle wants your number. Something about dead raccoons?
I climbed into my truck and sat there with the engine running and the heater starting to push warm air through the vents.
Not terrible.
It wasn't acceptance—not even close. But it was a start. A crack in the door. Permission to keep showing up, keep trying, and keep earning my way in.
And next week, Hog would meet Sloane. My sister. She'd been asking about him since New Year's, and she'd want to know if I was serious, if this was real, and if I was finally letting myself want something that scared me.