Chapter 17 #2
"We built snowmen." Mae was already pulling off her boots. "Three of them. They're ugly."
"They're perfect," Liam corrected, mimicking my cadence so precisely that I had to hide a smile.
Rhett's mother dried her hands on a dishtowel, moved to the window, and looked out at the backyard. Three lopsided snowmen stood in a crooked line, armed with mismatched sticks and dressed in whatever we'd found.
"You're good with them."
"They're easy," I said.
"No." She shook her head. "They're not, but you make it look easy."
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I stood there, dripping melted snow onto her kitchen floor, while she returned to washing dishes that didn't need washing.
Mae tugged my sleeve again. "Can we have hot chocolate?"
"Ask your grandma."
"Grandma, can we—"
"Yes." Rhett's mother was already reaching for mugs. "Go get your brother dried off first."
They thundered upstairs. Rhett's mother set three mugs on the counter and measured hot chocolate mix. The kettle clicked on and soon steam began to rise.
Outside, the three snowmen stood guard, watching the house.
By late afternoon, most of the guests had trickled away. Someone had packed the leftovers into Tupperware towers in the fridge. Someone else had folded the tablecloths into neat squares.
I was stacking chairs in the garage when I heard Sloane's voice through the wall.
"Mom, you can't stay here alone. The house is too big, and with Dad's medical bills—"
I set the chair down carefully. Didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I didn't move.
"I'm not alone." Rhett's mother's voice was firm. "I have neighbors. I have my book club."
"You know what I mean."
I drifted back inside, lingering in the kitchen doorway where I could see into the living room.
Rhett sat on the couch, still in his funeral suit. Sloane perched on the armrest beside him. Their mother was back in the recliner—her spot.
"There's room in Nipigon," Sloane continued. "The kids would love having you closer. And the schools—"
"I'm not moving to Nipigon."
"Then what's the plan?" Sloane spoke in that careful counselor tone. "The house needs work. Dad was supposed to handle the roof and furnace."
"Rhett can handle it."
I watched Rhett's shoulders tense. His jaw clenched.
"Right, Rhett?" His mother looked at him. "You'll help. With the house. You know how."
He didn't answer immediately, and Sloane jumped in.
"Mom, Rhett's got his own business. His own life. You can't assume—"
"I'm not assuming. I'm asking."
Rhett's hands rested flat on his thighs.
"Of course," he said. "Yeah. I can help."
Sloane watched him. Her counselor radar pinged. "Rhett—"
"It's fine." He stood abruptly. "I should check on Mae and Liam. Make sure they're not hypothermic."
He walked past me without making eye contact. I heard his footsteps on the stairs, then the creak of floorboards overhead.
His mother and Sloane sat in the living room, the conversation suspended.
I cleared my throat.
Both women looked at me.
"Kids want to go back outside," I said. "Before it gets dark. I'll take them."
"Oh, you don't have to—" Sloane started.
"I want to." I grabbed my coat from where I'd left it draped over a chair. "Give them a reason to burn off some energy before the drive home."
I moved toward the stairs and called up. "Mae! Liam! Round two! Last chance for snowman construction before dinner!"
Thunder overhead. Excited voices. Rhett appeared at the top of the stairs with both kids tumbling past him, already arguing about who got to make the head this time.
Our eyes met for half a second.
He mouthed: Thank you.
I nodded and herded the kids toward the mudroom, leaving him alone with whatever conversation was happening in the living room.
Protection didn't always mean standing between someone and the hit.
Sometimes it meant stepping back, giving them room to face it on their own terms.
I shoved my feet into my boots and followed Mae and Liam into the backyard, where three lopsided snowmen stood waiting in the twilight.
When we came back inside, I found Rhett drying dishes in the kitchen. His mother had disappeared somewhere upstairs.
"Ready?" I asked quietly.
He set down the towel and nodded once.
We said our goodbyes—brief, awkward, the kind that happened when nobody knew what else to say. His mother hugged him at the door, holding on for a beat too long. Rhett promised to return soon. Sloane squeezed my shoulder as she passed.
Then we were outside in the cold, walking toward Rhett's truck.
The headlights carved tunnels through the dark. Snow fell. The heater blasted warm air that smelled faintly of antifreeze and the peppermint air freshener Rhett hung from the rearview mirror.
I drove Rhett's truck while he sat in the passenger seat, his head tipped back against the headrest, eyes half-closed.
I kept my eyes on the road. Red River Road was empty this time of night—only us and the occasional snowplow, yellow lights flashing as it pushed snow into neat banks along the shoulder.
Rhett's hand moved on the console between us, reaching for my thigh. His palm was warm. He squeezed once. That was the entire conversation.
When I pulled into my building's parking lot, Rhett's breathing had slowed. Not quite asleep, but close.
"We're here," I said quietly.
He nodded but didn't move, sitting with his head against the headrest, staring at nothing.
"You good to walk?"
"Yeah." He fumbled with the door handle, missing it the first time. "Yeah, I'm good."
Rhett walked into my apartment and stopped in my living room like he'd forgotten what came next.
"Sit," I said.
He sat. Collapsed, really—onto the couch. I grabbed a blanket—the one with the Storm logo that Pickle had given me last Christmas—and draped it over him. He pulled it up to his chin without opening his eyes.
While Rhett slowly drifted off to sleep, I grabbed my project bag from a chair in the corner. Settled onto the floor with my back against the couch, needles and yarn already in my hands.
The project was a scarf for one of Rhett's youth hockey kids—simple garter stitch in Storm colors. Something I could do without looking. It let my hands move while my brain shut down.
The needles clicked. Soft, repetitive.
Above me, Rhett's breathing deepened.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.
I pulled it out one-handed, still knitting.
The Storm group chat was exploding.
Jake: Emergency meeting tomorrow 9 AM. Mandatory. No excuses
Pickle: IS THIS ABOUT THE SALE
Pickle: GUYS IS THIS ABOUT THE SALE
Desrosiers: Obviously, it's about the sale.
Jake: Could be about Pickle's horrifying taste in music.
Pickle: MY MUSIC IS FINE
Evan: 9 AM. Fort William. Everyone show up sober and on time.
Jake: Wow, Spreadsheet, way to suck the fun out of impending doom
Tomorrow, we'd find out if Thunder Bay was keeping us or scattering us across the continent. I'd have to decide whether Margaret's offer was a backup plan or a future.
It was impossible to think about when today had been long enough for three days.
I tilted my head back. "Rhett."
He woke. "Mm?"
"Team meeting tomorrow. Nine AM. About the franchise."
He opened one eye. "Good news or bad news?"
"Don't know yet."
"Mm." The eye closed again. "Tell me if it's bad news. Too tired to worry. You worry. I'll... listen later."
I smiled despite everything. Set my phone aside and picked up my needles again.
Rhett's hand appeared over the edge of the couch, dangling. I reached up without thinking and laced my fingers through his.
His grip tightened. Held on.
We stayed like that while I executed one-handed knitting, one needle tucked under my arm, needles clicking a soft counterpoint to his breathing, the scarf growing inch by inch in my lap.
I thought about his mother's assumption—Rhett will handle it—and how his shoulders had become rigid. I also thought about Sloane's careful questions and the house full of casseroles and obligations wrapped in sympathy.
I thought about Crawford's folders and Jake's manic energy in the group chat, and it'll be nine AM tomorrow when we'd find out if everything we'd built in Thunder Bay had an expiration date.
Then there was Margaret's offer—teaching classes and co-ownership. It was a future that didn't depend on my body's ability to take hits.
The scarf was six inches long now. Storm blue and white, edges neat, tension even. Something small and functional that would keep a kid warm.
I set down the needles and shifted carefully so I didn't wake Rhett. His hand slipped from mine as I moved, fingers trailing across my palm before falling back onto the couch cushion.
I stood, stretched the kinks out of my back. Turned off the lights except for the small lamp by the window and grabbed a pillow from my bed and a second blanket.
When I returned, Rhett had curled onto his side, knees drawn up, still in his funeral suit. Still holding onto sleep like it was the only safe place left.
I tucked the second blanket around him. Put the pillow within reach if he woke up and wanted it.
Then I settled back onto the floor with my knitting, my phone silent beside me, and the knowledge that tomorrow would bring what it brought.
Tonight, this was perfect.
***
The arena smelled like it always did—stale coffee, rubber, and industrial cleaner with a hint of ammonia. At eight forty-five, I pushed through the door, running on three hours of sleep and the dregs of optimism I'd scraped together during the drive over.
The locker room was already chaos.
Jake had commandeered the whiteboard and drawn what appeared to be a map of Florida, complete with palm trees and a stick figure labeled "Pickle" crying into the ocean.
"And here," Jake said, pointing a finger at Miami, "is where they'll relocate us because clearly what the hockey world needs is more teams in places where ice only exists in drinks."
"That's not how geography works," Evan said from his stall. "Geography is a construct, Spreadsheet."
"No, it's literally a science."
"Science is also a construct."
Pickle sat on the bench between them, bouncing his leg so hard the entire row of lockers rattled. "What if they send us somewhere without good coffee? What if I have to live in, like, Moose Jaw? Do they even have Starbucks in Moose Jaw?"
"Kid," Desrosiers called from across the room, "Moose Jaw has hockey. That's all that matters."
"But does it have oat milk?"
"Fuck." Desrosiers shook his head.
I dropped my bag in my stall and started the familiar routine—unlace boots, hang jacket, check my phone even though I'd checked it seven times on the drive over.
Nothing from Rhett. He was probably still asleep on my couch, or maybe he'd woken up and gone home. I'd left him a note—Team meeting, back later—and a fresh mug of coffee on the counter. That felt insufficient, but I didn't know what else to offer.
"Hog!" Pickle spotted me and immediately launched himself across the room. "Did you hear anything? Do you know what's happening? Jake says we're going to Florida, but Evan says that's statistically impossible, and Desrosiers thinks it's Saskatoon, and I can't go to Saskatoon because—"
"Breathe," I said.
He sucked in air. "Breathing."
"Good. Now sit down before you pass out."
Jake appeared at my shoulder. "Look who finally decided to show up. I thought maybe you and the flannel stud were too busy doing essential carpentry to care about our impending doom."
"It's eight forty-six."
"You're usually here by eight-thirty. Slipping in your old age, Hawkins."
I shoved him. Not hard—just enough to make my point. He shoved back, laughing, and it was almost normal for a second.
Coach appeared in the doorway at eight fifty-five, ball cap backward, and a clipboard under his arm. Behind him were the suits.
The room went silent.
It was a different kind of quiet. Like a library… or a funeral. My stomach dropped.
Coach cleared his throat. "Morning, gentlemen. We're not big on speeches here, so I'll make this quick. As you know, the franchise has been exploring sale options. There's been interest from several parties—some local, some not."
Pickle made a strangled sound. Evan's hand shot out and gripped his shoulder.
The GM spoke. "Ownership has made a decision." Coach glanced at him. "Thunder Bay Storm has been sold to a local investment group. Team stays here. Everyone under contract stays under contract. We're not going anywhere."
The silence held for exactly two seconds.
Then the room exploded.
Helmets banged against lockers. Someone—MacLaren, maybe—started screaming incoherently. Pickle burst into tears, sobbing into his hands while Evan awkwardly patted his back.
Jake grabbed me in a headlock, yelling directly into my ear. "LOCAL HEROES, BABY! WE'RE LOCAL FUCKING HEROES!"
I shoved him off, laughing. The relief was so intense that it took over my body, like a Vise-Grip, and I shook from head to toe.
Desrosiers was hugging people. I'd seen him smile maybe twice in three years.
"WE'RE STAYING!" Pickle stopped crying and rose up and down on his toes. "We're staying, we're staying, we're staying—"
"Alright, alright." Coach raised his voice over the chaos. "Settle down before someone gets hurt. This doesn't change anything about playoffs." He fought back a grin. "We might not make it pretty, but we have a chance. Don't forget that."
"TO THUNDER BAY!" Jake yelled.
The room roared back: "TO THUNDER BAY!"
I pulled out my phone with shaking hands.
Hog: Team's staying. We're good.
The response came fast.
Rhett: Glad to hear it. One less storm to deal with.
I read it twice. Pictured him on my couch, reading the text.
One less storm.
Yeah.
Anarchy took over the locker room. Someone started a chant. Jake and Evan were arguing about what this meant for the playoff push.
Coach let it go on for another minute before he blew his whistle.
"Ice in twenty minutes," he said. "And if you skate like you did Tuesday, local ownership or not, I'm trading all of you to Moose Jaw myself."
The threat was empty and everyone knew it, but we grabbed our gear anyway.
I pulled on my practice jersey and felt its weight settle across my shoulders.
Thunder Bay Storm. Right wing. Enforcer.
Still here.