Chapter 16 #3
I wanted Hog. I wanted to see him off the ice, out of the gear, back to being the guy who made tiny animals and worried about being too much. Wanted to touch him and be touched and remember that people existed outside the hospice room where they measured time in morphine drips.
My phone buzzed.
Hog: You at the game? Thought I felt you watching.
I stared at the message. He'd felt me watching. He'd somehow known I was there.
Rhett: Yeah. Upper level. You played well.
Hog: Meet me at the loading dock. Ten minutes
I thought about going home and letting him celebrate with the team. I didn't. Instead, I walked toward the loading dock.
It was around back, away from the main entrance, where families were still filtering out—service vehicles only—Zamboni access and equipment trucks.
Snow was falling under the floodlights, fluffy flakes that caught the yellow glow and turned the air thick with white. My boots crunched over packed ice as I rounded the corner.
Hog was already there.
Still in his gear—shoulder pads visible under his unzipped Storm jacket, skates traded for slides, and hair damp from the helmet. His knuckles were taped fresh, white gauze covering whatever damage he'd done to them during the fight.
"You came," he said.
"Needed to see you play." My voice was sandpapery and raw.
He crossed the distance between us in three strides, one hand coming up to cup the back of my neck. His palm was warm despite the cold, solid and grounding.
"Don't," I said quickly. "Don't ask me if I'm okay. Please don't make me explain. Just—"
"Okay."
We stood under the floodlights while snow fell and the sounds of the arena faded behind us.
"Your place or mine?" he asked quietly.
"Yours."
"Follow me?"
I nodded.
He squeezed my neck once more—gentle but firm, like he was trying to keep me anchored to the ground—then let go and headed for his Prius.
The drive took ten minutes. I kept his taillights in sight the whole way, red dots cutting through white snow, steady and sure.
His apartment building was plain—peeling paint and front steps slick with ice no one had salted. Hog pulled into his spot, and I parked next to him.
He was at the door ahead of me, yanking it open.
"Come on," he said. "It's freezing."
Hog's apartment was exactly as I'd left it two days ago—organized chaos, yarn everywhere, and hockey gear drying by the radiator. He kicked off his slides, and I pulled off my boots, lining them up next to his, even though his were three sizes bigger and made mine look like a child's.
"You want food?" he asked. "I've got—" He opened the fridge. "Leftover pasta. Some banana bread I made yesterday. Beer."
"No."
"Okay," he said. "What do you need?"
My hands were shaking again.
"Don't talk," I managed finally. "Just—don't make me talk. Let me stay."
"Yeah. I can do that."
He moved closer, cupping my jaw in a massive hand. He tilted my face up so I had to meet his eyes.
"You're shaking."
"I know."
"Come here."
He led me to the couch and pulled me down next to him. He wrapped both arms around me and pulled me against his chest, solid and warm. He smelled like the arena, sweat and ice.
I didn't cry. Couldn't. The grief sat heavily on me, and it wouldn't move. It only pressed down, making breathing hard.
Hog didn't ask me to explain. He didn't try to fix me with words. He held on, one hand steady against my back, the other raking through my hair in slow, careful strokes.
Gradually, the shaking stopped.
Hog's fingers moved through my hair, fingernails scratching lightly against my scalp.
"You don't have to stay up," I said against his chest.
"Not tired."
"I don't believe that. You played a full game."
"Then I'll sleep here." He tightened his grip slightly. "Not letting go unless you want me to."
I must've fallen asleep at some point because the apartment was darker when I opened my eyes.
Someone had turned off the overhead light, leaving only the small lamp by the window burning low.
I was stretched out on the couch, wrapped in blankets, with my head on a pillow that smelled like Hog's shampoo.
He wasn't next to me.
Panic flared until I spotted him.
He was on the floor beside the couch, wrapped in his own blanket, knitting needles lying on his chest, with his head on a cushion pulled off a chair. The project looked like it was trying to be a turtle. Or maybe a dinosaur. Something small with a shell.
"You're on the floor," I said, voice rough with sleep.
He opened his eyes. "Yeah."
"Why?"
"You needed the couch, and I wanted to stay close." He pushed the knitting project aside. "You were making noises. Bad dream noises. Figured you'd want to know I was here when you woke up."
I sat up slowly, blankets falling away. My phone was on the coffee table—I didn't remember putting it there. The screen showed two messages.
Sloane: He's still holding on. Breathing's gotten more labored but stable. Get some rest.
The second was from Katie Morrison, whose kid I coached. I realized I'd missed practice with the kids—the first time in three years.
KatieM: Heard about your dad. The team understands. Take all the time you need. We'll be here when you're ready.
A third message sat below it, sent twenty minutes ago:
Jake: Hog told us. You need anything, you text. We've got you. Also Evan says to tell you he's meal-prepping extra this week because apparently that's how he shows feelings.
I stared at both messages, trying to process how people knew and how words had spread that fast in a town this size. Then I remembered it was Thunder Bay. Everyone knew everything before you finished living it.
I typed back to Katie:
Rhett: Tell them I'll be back soon.
Then I answered Sloane:
Rhett: Thanks. I'm okay. Staying with Hog.
I set the phone down and looked at Hog, still sitting on the floor with his half-finished dinosaur-turtle, blanket, and a bucketful of patience.
"What time is it?" I asked.
"Little after three."
"You've been on the floor for—"
"Couple of hours." He shrugged. "Made progress on Jeremy's turtle before I fell asleep. Kid's gonna love it."
"Hog, I'm—"
"Don't." His voice was gentle but firm. "Don't apologize. Don't tell me I should've woken you up or gone to bed or any of that. You needed to sleep. I wanted to stay close. That's it."
"I'm not okay yet," I said quietly.
"I know."
He stood—joints popping, blanket falling away—and held out his hand. I took it and let him pull me up from the couch, blankets tangling around my legs.
"Bed," he said. "Real bed. I'll take the couch."
"Or—" I stopped. Started again. "Or you could come with me."
He looked at me in the dim lamplight, searching my face for something.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
We stumbled down the short hallway to his bedroom—still a disaster, clothes everywhere, raccoon back on the dresser watching us with its judgy beady eyes.
Hog pulled back the covers, and I climbed in, fully dressed except for my boots.
He followed, wrapping around me from behind like he had two nights ago, breath warm against my neck.
"Thank you," I said into the darkness.
"For what?"
"For not making me explain. For knowing what I needed even when I didn't."
His arm tightened. "That's what this is. You and me. We show up."
Outside, Thunder Bay slept under fresh snow. Inside my parents' house, my father was dying in increments, measured in breaths and morphine doses. In Hog's bed, a man who'd chosen to sleep on the floor held me to stay close.
I closed my eyes and let him comfort me.
Hog's breathing deepened, evened out. Sleep pulled him under.
I stayed awake a little longer, memorizing the weight of his arm, the sound of his breath, and the certainty that he'd still be here when I woke up.
Not because he had to be.
Because he wanted to be.
It was enough. It was everything.