Chapter 15 #3
I helped her turn off the lights and lock up. Outside, the snow was falling heavily, coating the sidewalks in a perfect white that would be gray slush by morning.
"Drive safe," Margaret said, climbing into her ancient Honda. "And Connor? That boy waiting for a future with you? Don't make him wait too long."
I watched her taillights disappear, and my phone buzzed.
Rhett: Workshop light's on. Take your time.
I smiled at the screen like an idiot and then headed for my car.
Rhett's workshop smelled like sawdust and motor oil, the overhead fluorescents buzzing against the darkness outside. He was bent over a workbench when I walked in, measuring something twice.
He looked up when the door closed. "Hey."
"Hey." I stayed near the door, suddenly unsure.
We'd been sharing drinks at The Drop, walking through town where everyone stared, and having one memorable afternoon in this workshop where he'd kissed me until I forgot my own name.
Still, we hadn't defined it and hadn't yet talked about what might happen if Crawford took everything away.
"How was class?" He set down his measuring tape, giving me his full attention.
"Good. Really good, actually." I moved closer, drawn by the steadiness of his presence. "Taught six people how not to hang themselves with yarn."
He chuckled softly. "High bar."
"I'm an excellent teacher."
"I know." He said it simply, like it was a fact. Like he'd always known.
I stopped a few feet away, close enough to see sawdust caught in his hair, far enough to run if the conversation went wrong. "Crawford says they might sell the franchise. Move the team."
Rhett paused, and his jaw tensed. "When?"
"Maybe spring. Maybe sooner. Nobody knows." I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Could end up anywhere. Whoever needs a warm body who can still throw punches."
"Or you could stay." His voice was even, but his knuckles had gone white where they gripped the edge of the workbench. "Take Margaret's offer. Build something here."
"We've been dating for less than a month."
"I know."
"Everyone in town watches us like we're their favorite reality show."
"I know that too."
"I don't know what this is yet." I sounded desperate. "Don't know if we're serious or just—"
Rhett crossed the workshop in three steps. He reached out for my hips and pulled—not gentle, not asking permission.
"I cleared a drawer for you," he said.
"What?"
"In my dresser. Last week." His grip tightened. "Didn't tell you because I didn't want you to feel pressured. But it's there. Your stuff. When you want it."
I stared into his eyes.
"I told Sloane about you before our second date," he continued.
"Put your number in my phone under your real name, not some bullshit code.
And I keep—" He stopped. "I keep planning things.
Months out. You meeting my dad before he forgets who I am.
Teaching kids together next fall. Stupid shit that doesn't make sense for casual. "
"Rhett—"
"I'm scared too," he said, and his voice finally cracked. "Of you leaving. Of building something and watching it walk away. But I'm doing it anyway."
He kissed me—hard, desperate, like he was trying to prove something neither of us had words for.
When we broke apart, I was shaking.
"Even if I'm not good enough at anything?" I managed. "You taught six people tonight."
"That's not—"
"That's everything." His hands stayed on my hips, anchoring. "Stop trying to be enough. You already are."
I bit my lip. "Even if it's smaller? Quieter?"
"Yes." He leaned forward. "I don't need loud. I need honest."
I kissed him because I didn't know what to say.
When we broke apart, he didn't let go.
"Stay tonight?" he asked.
"Yeah." I pulled back just enough to see his face. "But Rhett—if they move the team, if I have to go—"
"We'll figure it out." His voice was steady and grounded. "One choice at a time, but you've got options. That's new."
Options. The word sounded strange in my head. For twelve years, hockey had been the only choice that mattered. Everything else—where I lived, who I knew, and what I built—came second to the next contract, season, and fight.
Tonight, Margaret had offered me a future that didn't depend on my fists. Tonight, Rhett kissed me in his workshop and said he wanted the quiet version of me.
"Come on," Rhett said, taking my hand. "Let's get out of this cold."
He killed the lights one by one and locked the workshop door behind us. Fat flakes of snow caught in his hair and melted on my face. Our breath fogged in the air between us.
"Follow me?" he asked.
"Yeah."
The drive to his place took five minutes. I watched Rhett's taillights cut through the snow ahead of me. Red dots in white nothing. Steady. Certain.
I parked next to his truck at the house where he lived on the second floor, snow already piling up on our shoulders.
"Cold enough for you?" he asked, fumbling with his keys.
"Brutal."
"Welcome to Thunder Bay in late January." He got the door open and held it for me. "Come on up."
I dropped onto the couch while he hung up his coat, suddenly aware of how tired I was. The day sat heavily on my shoulders—Crawford's watch, the team's fear, teaching six people to cast on, and the conversation in the workshop.
My phone buzzed. It was Jake sending a GIF of a cartoon character setting himself on fire with the caption, "This is fine."
I almost laughed. Almost. Tomorrow we'd find out how fucked we really were. Whether Crawford's preliminary discussions had turned into concrete plans, and whether contracts were getting shredded.
"You okay?" Rhett asked from the kitchen. I heard water running and the clinking of glasses.
"Yeah. Just Jake being Jake."
He returned with two glasses of water, handed me one, then sat close enough that our knees touched.
"You want to talk about tomorrow?" he asked.
"Not really." I took a drink. "I'd rather think about tonight."
"Tonight was good."
"Yeah." I set the glass on the coffee table—handmade, scarred with years of use.
I leaned into Rhett, let my head rest against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around me, hand settling warm against my ribs.
We sat there for a few minutes, his thumb tracing slow circles through my hoodie while somewhere above us a TV blared through the ceiling. The radiator hissed.
Rhett spoke. "Come to bed." It wasn't a demand. It was an invitation.
I followed him down the short hallway to his bedroom—neat in a way that reminded me of Evan, but warmer.
A quilt his grandmother had made draped across the bed.
He had hockey equipment tucked in the closet and skates hanging by their laces.
Photos on the dresser showed people who looked like family.
He pulled off his shirt and tossed it toward the hamper. I did the same, then stopped.
My ribs were a watercolor of purple and yellow, the bruise from MacLaren's elbow already blooming dark across my left side.
My knuckles were swollen, and the tape barely held the split one closed.
When I raised my arm to drop the shirt, my shoulder clicked loud enough that Rhett's eyes tracked the sound.
"Come here," he said quietly.
I crossed to the bed. He was already under the covers, holding them open.
I slid in next to him, and immediately, he touched the bruise on my ribs. "Does it hurt?"
"Yeah."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Six. Maybe seven when I breathe wrong."
His jaw tightened. "You should ice it."
"Probably."
Neither of us moved. He pulled me close until we were tangled together—his chest against my back, arm careful around my waist, avoiding the worst of the bruising. His breath was warm against my neck.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
"Yeah." I laced my fingers through his. "This is perfect."
We lay there in the dark.
"Rhett?"
"Mm?"
"I'm too tired to—" I stopped. "I just need this. Is that okay?"
"Yeah." His arm tightened slightly, pulling me closer. "I've got you."
"Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me for wanting you," he said, softer. "Even when all you can do is sleep."
I pulled his arm tighter around me and pressed back against his chest. Crawford could restructure all he wanted.
Could sell the franchise, move the team, and scatter us like spare parts.
What he couldn't relocate was this—the weight of Rhett's arm around my waist and how his breath caught when I shifted closer.
Margaret was right. It wasn't small. It was quiet.
Rhett's breathing deepened and evened out. Sleep pulled him under. I stayed awake a little longer, memorizing the sensations—being chosen and held.
My ribs ached—dull but persistent, as they always did. My knuckles throbbed where I'd caught MacLaren's elbow during practice. When I shifted my weight, my knee clicked loud enough that Rhett paused mid-breath.
"You okay?" he murmured.
"Yeah."
I wasn't. My body was a pile of damage I'd been ignoring—bruises layered on bruises, cartilage that ground bone-on-bone, hands that would never quite straighten. Tomorrow, Crawford might scatter us across the continent. Next week, my contract might be one of the blue folders on that table.
But tonight, Rhett's arm was solid around my waist. His breath was warm against my neck. And when I laced my fingers through his and held on, he didn't let go.
Maybe the world didn't have to end when the rink lights went out. Perhaps it only changed.
I closed my eyes. The pain was still there—in my ribs, my hands, the knee that would need surgery before I was thirty-five. But underneath it, something else. Not peace exactly. More like the moment before you drop your gloves and step forward anyway.
The choice to stay when leaving would be easier.
The choice to build something that couldn't be relocated, restructured, or sold to the highest bidder.
Rhett's breathing deepened. Sleep pulled him under. I stayed awake a little longer, holding onto the weight of his arm, the sound of his breath, and the information that he'd cleared a drawer for me without asking if I'd use it.
Somewhere between the fear and the hope, I felt something that was almost like peace.
Almost.
But maybe almost was enough to start with.