Chapter 13 Hog
Chapter thirteen
Hog
Idropped a stitch.
Again.
Edith Murillo caught it before I did—her needles pausing mid-row, eyes sharp behind reading glasses. "Connor, that's the third time tonight. What's got you so distracted you're knitting like a beginner?"
"Nothing." I grabbed my crochet hook and started fishing for the dropped stitch.
"Nothing," Edith repeated, flat as the gray sky outside Margaret's shop windows. "Your grandmother would've had words about lying to your elders."
Gram would've had words about a lot of things. Like how I'd spent the last two hours teaching a decrease stitch I could do in my sleep while Margaret's offer looped through my head on repeat.
Teaching classes. Co-ownership. A future that wouldn't end when my body gives out.
The radiator hissed in the corner, filling the shop with the smell of hot metal and wool. Outside, snow pressed against the windows—fat flakes that caught the streetlights.
Linda Simmons packed up her project bag across the circle. "Leave the boy alone, Edith. He's allowed to be distracted. Probably thinking about his new boyfriend."
"Rhett Mason," Margaret said from her chair by the register. "He's great at fixing things."
"And our Hog's been spending a lot of time getting things... fixed," Linda said, waggling her eyebrows.
My ears burned. "Can we not—"
"We absolutely can," Edith said. She set down her needles and looked at me directly. "But that's not what's got you dropping stitches. You've been distracted all night, and not in the good way."
Everyone was listening now—pretending not to, but listening.
"Margaret offered me teaching gigs. Regular classes. Maybe taking over the shop someday."
Silence.
Then Edith smiled—slow and satisfied like she'd been waiting for this. "About damn time."
"You knew?"
"Honey, we all knew." Linda stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Margaret's been planning this for months. This was your grandmother's wish."
My throat tightened. I was twenty-two again, sitting in a hospital room while Gram's hands shook too much to hold the needles anymore.
Promise me you won't give this up, Connor. Promise me you'll keep making things.
I'd promised.
"Don't look so scared," Margaret said, glancing up from her shawl. "I'm not retiring tomorrow. Three to five years, remember? Plenty of time to figure it out."
"Now." Edith grabbed her coat. "Don't you break those hands before Saturday's game. I've got half a shawl depending on them."
I laughed—couldn't help it. "Yes, ma'am."
The circle dispersed. Margaret locked the register and started tidying the back room.
Rhett: Outside whenever you're ready. No rush
I grabbed my coat and Gram's old project bag. Rhett's truck idled at the curb, headlights cutting through the snow, exhaust fogging white in the frozen air. When I pulled it open, the door groaned—cold metal, ice in the hinges.
"Hey." Rhett's voice was warm, easy. He held out a to-go cup. "Hot chocolate. Extra marshmallows."
I took the cup, wrapping both hands around it, feeling the heat seep through the cardboard. "Thanks."
"Good night?" he asked.
I climbed in, pulling the door shut. The cab was warm, smelling like sawdust and the peppermint air freshener hanging from his rearview mirror. "Yeah. Good. Weird. I don't know."
"That's specific."
I took a sip of the hot chocolate. Too hot. It burned my tongue, but the sweetness helped. Rhett put the truck in gear, and we pulled away from the curb, tires crunching over packed snow.
"Margaret brought up taking over the shop someday again."
"What'd you say?"
"Nothing. I just—" I ran my hand through my hair, feeling the dampness from melted snow. "I didn't know what to say."
"Are you going to do it?"
The question was simple. Direct. Very Rhett.
"I don't know. It feels too small after hockey. Like—" I gestured with the cup, sloshing hot chocolate dangerously close to the rim. "Like I'd be giving up. Settling for something smaller because my body can't handle the real thing anymore."
Rhett turned onto Main Street, wipers clearing snow in rhythmic sweeps. The truck's heater blasted warm air that smelled faintly of antifreeze.
"Or," he said carefully, "it feels real, and that's scary."
I looked at him. Passing streetlights lit up his profile—strong jaw, the slight hook in his nose, and his hands steady on the wheel.
"You always have something ready to say?" I asked.
He grinned. "Only when I'm right."
"Confident."
"Accurate." He glanced at me. "You think your grandmother was settling when she ran that shop?"
"No, but—"
"And Margaret? She's been doing it for twenty-six years. She settling?"
"That's different."
"Why?"
Because they weren't enforcers. Because they didn't know what it felt like to drop gloves at center ice while twelve thousand people screamed. Because they'd never had their entire identity wrapped up in being the guy who protected everyone else, and now I was supposed to what—teach people to purl?
I couldn't say any of that, so I shrugged.
"Here's what I know about you," Rhett said finally. "You're scared of things that matter. Workshop visits, team breakfast, and bringing me to the knitting circle—you get nervous when something's real. When it counts."
"I'm not scared—"
"You dropped three stitches tonight. Edith told me when I texted to see if you were ready." He merged onto the street that led toward my apartment. "You only drop stitches when your brain won't shut up."
Damn him for being observant. Damn Edith for her texting habit.
"Margaret's offering you something that matters," Rhett continued. "Something your grandmother built and loved and wanted you to have. That's terrifying. Way scarier than taking a hit from some asshole who wants to rearrange your face."
The truck's wipers kept beating their rhythm. Outside, Thunder Bay scrolled past.
A car behind us honked. Rhett lifted a hand in apology and accelerated through the intersection.
I took another sip of hot chocolate to give myself something to do with my hands, but it had cooled enough that I could taste it now—real chocolate, not the powdered stuff, with a hint of vanilla.
"I think I'm going to tell her yes," I said.
"Good." Rhett's voice was steady and sure. "You should."
"Not right away. I need to—I need to think about it. Figure out how it would work with the season. With playoffs."
"Makes sense."
We turned onto my street. The old Victorian that housed my apartment was lit up—Mrs. Johnson, on the first floor, always kept her lights on late, saying it made the neighborhood safer. My windows on the second floor were dark.
Rhett parked and killed the engine. The sudden silence was loud—only our breathing and the tick of the cooling motor.
"You hungry?" he asked.
I looked at him. At the way his hand rested on the gearshift, close enough to touch. At how he'd driven across town to pick me up from the knitting circle without me even asking, just texted to say he'd be there.
"For food or for trouble?"
His grin was slow, deliberate. "Yes."
I laughed—real this time, not the nervous kind. "You're a bad influence."
"You love it."
I did. That was the terrifying part.
We got out of the truck and headed up the walk. Snow had drifted across the steps—nobody'd shoveled since the morning. Rhett grabbed my elbow when I slipped on a patch of ice, his grip steady and sure.
Inside, the building was warm, smelled like Mrs. Johnson's cooking—something warm and nostalgic that made my stomach growl. We climbed the stairs to the second floor, boots leaving wet prints on the worn carpet.
I unlocked my apartment and flicked on the lights.
"Welcome to the chaos," I said, kicking aside a yarn basket that had colonized the entryway.
Rhett stepped inside, snow melting off his jacket. He looked around—at the laundry chair piled high with clean clothes I hadn't folded, the half-finished projects draped over every surface, and my hockey gear drying by the radiator.
"It's you," he said. "I like it."
I exhaled.
He wasn't trying to fix anything or mentally cataloging what needed organization. He wasn't suggesting I invest in better storage solutions. He was accepting it and accepting me.
"You sure?" I asked. "Because a rogue skein of yarn under the couch might come to life in another week."
"Positive." He shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the hook by the door next to mine. The gesture was casual, automatic, like he'd done it a hundred times before instead of maybe twice.
I should've offered him food. If I were a good host, I would've asked if he wanted coffee or if he'd eaten dinner. Instead, I closed the distance between us and kissed him.
He tasted like hot chocolate and winter—sweet and sharp all at once. His hands found my hips through my jeans, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.
"Occupational hazard," I muttered against his mouth, gesturing vaguely at the yarn everywhere. "Mixing wool with athletes."
"Pretty sure noise complaints are the bigger threat." He kissed down my jaw and found that spot below my ear that made my knees wobble.
I laughed—couldn't help it. "You worried about my reputation?"
"I'm worried about mine." He grinned when he said it, hands already working on the buttons of my shirt.
We moved through my apartment in a stumbling dance—past the laundry chair, around the coffee table where three half-finished projects sat in various stages of completion, down the short hallway to my bedroom.
I kicked the door shut behind us. Rhett's hands were under my shirt, finding bare skin, and I forgot how to form complete sentences.
"Bed," I managed.
"Yeah."
We fell onto it together—less graceful than last time, and more urgent. My mattress groaned under our combined weight. Something clattered to the floor—probably the book I'd left on the nightstand, or maybe one of the dozen water glasses I kept forgetting to return to the kitchen.
"Your bedroom's a disaster," Rhett said, but he was already pulling my shirt over my head.