Chapter 14 Rhett
Chapter fourteen
Rhett
Hog checked the GPS for the third time in ten minutes.
"Still an hour," I said.
"What if there's construction? What if we hit a moose? What if—"
"Then we improvise." I rested my hand on his thigh. The muscle jumped. "It's dinner with my sister, not a performance evaluation."
"Your sister who's gonna decide if I'm good enough for you."
"My sister who hasn't slept properly in three weeks and is running on spite and cold coffee." I traced the edge of the tape on his knuckles. Fresh blood seeping through. "You're still bleeding."
"Bouchard's fault. Crosschecked Pickle so hard I heard it from the bench." He flexed his fingers on the wheel. "Kid's got no instinct for self-preservation. Someone's gotta—"
"Take the hit instead. Yeah. I know." The job was eating his body one fight at a time. "You're thirty. How much longer are you planning to do math on how many hits you've got left?"
"Until the math stops working." He glanced at me. "You gonna lecture me about my career choices right before I meet your family?"
"Would it help?"
"Nope."
His phone buzzed. He checked it immediately, then again at the next red light.
"Jake?"
"Group chat. Pickle is asking about tape again." He scrolled through the messages, his thumb moving fast, looking for something specific or avoiding something specific.
The GPS chirped our exit.
Hog took it too carefully. "Okay. Ground rules. What do I not say?"
"Don't mention that you fight for a living."
"I'm an enforcer. They're gonna know."
"Don't offer to teach Liam how to punch people."
"Wasn't planning on it." His phone buzzed again. He grabbed it before the sound died.
"Hog."
"What? It could be important."
"It's Pickle asking about skate sharpening."
"You don't know that."
He pocketed the phone for now.
Sloane opened the door, looking like death. Marker stains on her cardigan, hair shoved back in a knot, and exhaustion carved into every line of her face.
"Traffic?" she asked flatly.
"Yeah."
"Liar. Get inside."
There was a thunder of feet. Mae skidded around the corner, saw Hog, and her eyes widened. She backed up so fast she nearly tripped.
Hog froze in the doorway, folding his shoulders in, trying to take up less space. "Hey. I'm Connor. You can call me Hog if you want. Most people do." He crouched down, knees popping loud enough to make me wince. "You're Mae, right? Your uncle says you're really good at math."
Mae hid herself partway behind Sloane's leg. "You're really tall."
"Yeah. Sorry about that. Can't fix it." He stayed low. "You can stay back there. I'm pretty big. I get it."
Liam appeared, with sharp elbows and a sharper attitude. "You play for the Storm."
"Right wing."
"Enforcer."
"Yeah."
"So you fight. Like actual fighting."
"Real fighting with real consequences." Hog held up his hands. Taped knuckles, blood seeping through. "See?"
"That's from Tuesday. You dropped Bouchard."
"Three inches on me, but I'm meaner." Hog's grin was sharp. "Want me to prove it?"
"Liam," Sloane said. "Kitchen. Now."
The house smelled like garlic bread and a young boy's permanent hockey funk. When Hog hung his jacket next to mine, they looked right together. Sloane saw me notice and raised an eyebrow.
Mae tugged my sleeve. "I got a ninety-two on my math test. Highest score."
"That's great, bug."
"Is he staying for dinner?"
"Yeah."
She chewed her lip. Studied Hog like he was a math problem she couldn't solve. "Okay."
At the dinner table, the chair groaned when Hog sat. He froze halfway down, waiting for structural failure. When it held, he settled carefully. His knees hit the table.
Mae had claimed the farthest seat. Still watching and still deciding.
Sloane brought plenty of food—penne, bread, salad with kale, and my casserole. "You made my favorite," she said.
Liam was relentless. "When you fight, are you actually trying to hurt them?"
"Yeah. Enough to stop them, but not enough to get a suspension." Hog loaded his plate. "It's math. Pain versus penalty minutes."
"That's complicated."
"Most things are."
Mae relaxed slightly as she asked a question. "What kind of scarves do you make?"
"All kinds. Just finished one with a Storm logo. Lightning bolt took three tries to get right."
"That's cool." Less wary now. Still cautious.
The conversation limped forward. Liam shared details about the volcano he made at school. Hog answered questions but kept glancing at his phone. When it buzzed, he flinched.
"You need to check that?" Sloane asked.
"It's only the team."
"Must be nice. Having a team."
She passed him the salad. He took a spoonful without complaint.
"This is really good," Hog said. "All of it."
Sloane gave him the counselor look despite the marker stains and the three-days-awake posture. "You're a terrible liar."
"Excuse me?"
"The kale. You hate it."
"I didn't—"
"You hold your breath when you take a bite," she said, a tired half-smile flickering. "Rhett warned me you'd be too polite to complain."
"I'm trying to make a good impression."
"Why?" She exhaled, rubbing her temple. "I'm exhausted and blunt, but I'll ask anyway—you've known my brother how long? You really think choking down kale proves I can trust you with his life?"
The table was silent.
Hog set down his fork and met her gaze. "No, but showing up does. Being honest about being scared does. Not bailing when it gets hard does." He paused. "Your brother matters. So I'm here. Eating kale that fought back. Letting your kids test me. Whatever it takes."
Sloane nodded once. "Okay."
"Can we be excused?" Liam asked.
"Dishes first."
They cleared the table. Mae stayed close to me, but when Hog caught the glass she nearly knocked over—one-handed, didn't even look—she briefly smiled.
In the kitchen, Sloane's voice dropped. "Mae's terrified."
"I know."
"Her dad hasn't called in three weeks. She's testing everyone to see who leaves."
Sloane's jaw tightened. "So if this isn't serious—if you're just figuring things out—tell me now."
"It's serious."
"You sure? Because I don't have the capacity to explain another disappearance to a seven-year-old."
"I'm sure."
She searched my face, then nodded. "Okay." She rinsed a plate, then glanced toward the living room where Hog's laugh rolled in too loud, and Mae didn't flinch. "Also, you light up talking about those kids. Ever think about coaching full-time?"
"I've got the business."
"That's logistics," she said. "Doesn't mean you don't have a calling."
In the living room, Liam pulled out his stick. Hog examined the tape job, with the phone balanced on his knee.
"Your uncle got it close. But see here? Too loose." He rewrapped the tape fast despite split knuckles. "There. Try that."
Liam tested the grip. "Oh damn. Way better."
"Language," I said.
"But it is, though."
Mae inched closer. Not much, but enough.
Hog's phone buzzed.
"I have math homework."
"Okay." Hog didn't push.
"Unless—" Mae looked at Sloane. "Unless you want to help?"
"If your mom says okay."
Sloane waved her off.
Mae dragged her backpack over. Worked through a problem. Got it right. Scooted fractionally closer. When she solved another, Hog's laugh was loud again, and Mae smiled. She threw her arms around his neck—quick, fierce—and darted back.
"Can you come to my game Saturday?" Liam asked.
"I've got practice, but I'll try."
Sloane excused herself and the kids. It was bath time. In minutes, the water was running.
Hog came back to the couch and sat beside me. "How'd I do?"
"Good."
"Your sister's still deciding."
"Her ex hasn't called the kids in three weeks."
"Shit." He gripped my thigh. "That's why she wonders whether this is real?"
"Yeah."
"Is it?" His voice was softer. "Real, I mean. Because I keep waiting for—" His phone buzzed. He looked at it immediately.
"Hog."
"Sorry. It's just—" He set it down. Screen up. "Where you realize this isn't what you signed up for."
Before I could answer, Mae's voice sounded from the hallway. "Uncle Rhett? Can you help me with my hair?"
We pulled apart. Hog's hand fell away.
Mae stood in the hallway in pajamas, hairbrush in hand, hair wet and tangled. "Mom's helping Liam, and I can't—" She stopped when she saw us on the couch close together. "Sorry."
"It's okay." I stood. "Come here."
She came over but kept looking at Hog. "Do you know how to braid?"
"Uh—" Hog looked at me. "I can knit, but braiding's different."
"Can you try?"
"Mae, you don't have to—" I started.
"I want him to try." She handed Hog the brush.
Hog took it like it might explode. Set his phone aside. "Okay. But if I mess this up—"
"You won't." Mae climbed onto the couch beside him, turned her back, and waited.
He started brushing. Gentle. Patient. Mae watched me in the reflection of the dark window.
"Are you gonna marry Uncle Rhett?"
Hog's hands stopped.
"That's—yeah," he said, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. "Yeah, I am."
"The braid," Mae prompted.
"Right." His voice was tight. "Show me."
When he finished, it was lopsided but functional. Mae hugged him—longer this time—then ran off toward her room.
Sloane appeared in the doorway. "She asked about marriage, didn't she?"
"Yeah."
"She asked me first. What'd you say?"
Hog was still staring after Mae. "That I—" He stopped. "I said yes."
Sloane studied him. Something in his face made her pause. "Okay."
A few minutes later, we shared our goodbyes. Mae hugged us both. Liam shook Hog's hand.
"You're still coming Saturday?"
"I'll try."
Outside, the snow was thick. Hog looked back at the house, then immediately pulled out his phone. He checked messages while walking to the truck.
"That was—"
"Yeah."
"The kale was still terrible." His laugh was off. Distracted.
I kissed him where anyone could see.
"Let's go home."
We pulled onto the highway, and twenty minutes of silence passed between us. Only the engine, wipers, and our breathing.
I rested my hand on his thigh. Higher than before.
Hog's breath caught. "Rhett."
"Yeah?"
"What're you doing?"
"Nothing." I traced circles with my thumb and felt his muscle tense under my palm.
"That's not nothing."
"You're right. It's not."
"We're on a highway."
"I noticed."
His hands tightened on the wheel. "You're—fuck. You're doing this on purpose."
"Maybe."
"We've got forty minutes. I can't—"
"You could pull over."
"Rhett, I can't focus when you—"
I moved my hand higher, lightly brushing his dick through his jeans.
"Fuck." He glanced at me with his pupils slightly dilated. "Okay. Okay, fine. There's a pull-off in two kilometers."
When he finally pulled off—gravel turnout, trees on all sides—he killed the engine and looked at me.
"You're an asshole."
"Yeah."
He pulled me across the console. Kissed me hard enough that my head hit the window. He gripped my jaw, angling me where he wanted. When I tried to slow it down, he bit my lower lip.
"Don't." His voice was rough. "Don't make this polite."
I didn't.
I reached for his chest, kneading the muscle beneath his tightly-stretched henley. His hands were in my hair and cupping the back of my neck. When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"This is—we're thirty. We're too old for this."
"Are we?" I asked
Hog kissed me again. Slower this time, but no less intense. His hand slid under my shirt, palm flat against my ribs.
When we finally broke apart, I had swollen lips, and his hair stood up in multiple directions.
"Okay," he said. "Now I can drive."
The rest of the drive was forty minutes of torture. My hand on his thigh, his breath hitching every time I moved.
When he finally pulled up outside my building, he looked at me. "You're evil."
"Come upstairs and complain about it."
We barely made it through the door.
Hog's hands were under my shirt before we crossed the threshold. When we stepped inside, he backed me against the wall, mouth on my neck. His project bag hit the floor. Keys scattered.
"Rhett—"
"Yeah."
"I said—" He kissed me again. "I said I'd marry you."
"I know."
"To a seven-year-old."
"I know."
"That's—" He pulled back. Eyes wild. "That's insane. I don't—we haven't—"
I kissed him before he could finish the thought. Tasted panic and desire in equal measure. "Stop thinking."
"I can't. I can't stop—"
I pulled him toward the bedroom. He followed but kept talking.
"I check my phone because I'm waiting for the text. The one that says it's over. That you figured it out, and the team's folding and my contract's done and—" He was moving around the room now, not sitting. "I deflect because if I make it funny, maybe it won't hurt as much when—"
"Hog."
"And now I've told your niece I'm gonna marry you and she's gonna ask about it next time and what if—"
"Stop."
He sat on the edge of the bed. Finally quiet. "What if I'm not enough? After hockey. When the noise stops."
I sat next to him. "I don't know," I said.
He looked at me.
"I don't know if you'll be enough. I don't know if I will either." The words felt sharp in my mouth. "I don't know what happens when the season ends, when your body gives out. When we have to figure out what we are without the game."
We sat there. Not touching. Both of us breathing too carefully.
"But I said yes too," I said finally. "To Mae. In my head. When you said it."
He reached for my hand. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We fell into bed with our clothes still on. No urgency, only presence. Hog's weight was solid next to me.
"Tomorrow's practice is gonna be hell," he said. "Coach is pissed about Tuesday."
"You can take it."
"Yeah, but I'm getting too old for this." He squeezed my fingers. "Starting to think maybe the after isn't as far away as I thought."
"Scared?"
"Terrified."
"Good. Me too."
Outside, Thunder Bay settled into the winter night. Snow kept falling. The Sleeping Giant kept watch.
And in my bed, with his stuff scattered through my apartment, Hog's breathing evened out first.
I lay awake a while longer. Thinking about family dinners, kids who asked about marriage, and sisters who tested everyone to see if they'd stay.
Thinking about the after.
Hog's weight pinned the blanket. His elbow dug into my ribs. His knee knocked against mine every time he shifted, and he took up too much space—every time.
Eventually, I slept too.
He was here.
And neither of us was leaving.