Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Hog
The team was still in celebration mode over not moving, and I'd woken on the floor of Rhett's workshop with aches everywhere. Coach was ready to push us hard with the prospect of a playoff appearance on the horizon.
The music blasting in the locker room was too loud. Coach had the speakers cranked to something with too much bass. It made my skull ache.
I laced up my skates—left, right, pull tight, double knot. Jake appeared at my stall, already in full gear. "You look like shit."
"Thanks, Mom."
"When's the last time you slept?"
"Recently enough." I stood and tested my edges. The left skate was wrong. "I'm fine."
He didn't believe me, but he also didn't push.
After I corrected my skate, we hit the ice for warm-ups. Push, glide, push, glide. My breathing was off. Too quick and shallow.
Every time I blinked, I heard Rhett's voice. I'm staying here.
But for how long?
"Corners drill!" Coach's voice cut through the noise. "Hawkins, Pickle—you're up!"
We lined up across from each other. Coach dropped the puck.
We crashed together, and my timing was off. I went in too high and caught Pickle's shoulder instead of his chest. We both stumbled.
"Again!" Coach demanded.
We reset. This time, I overcompensated and went in too low. Pickle's elbow caught me in the jaw—accidental—but enough to make stars bloom behind my eyes.
"Fuck," I muttered.
"You good?" Pickle's eyes were wide behind his cage.
"Yeah."
In the next drill, Desrosiers lined me up along the boards.
It was a clean hit—textbook positioning, but I hadn't seen it coming. When his shoulder connected with mine, the world tilted sideways.
I went down hard. Shoulder, hip, and helmet cracking against the ice.
The impact knocked the air out of my lungs. I lay there staring up at the rafters—ancient beams, water-stained ceiling tiles, and the scoreboard hanging crooked.
Rhett's voice, clear as if he were standing over me: I'm staying here. He meant it, but staying required showing up every day and choosing it over and over. And what happened when the choosing got hard?
"Hog!" Desrosiers' face appeared above me. "You alive?"
"Yeah." My voice came out rough. "Yeah, I'm good."
Coach's whistle shrieked. "Hawkins! Bench! Now!"
I skated over, edges wobbling.
Coach was already there, arms crossed, jaw working his gum. "Where's your head?"
I opened my mouth and shook my head once. No sound came out.
"That's what I thought." He pointed at the bench. "Sit. Get your head straight before you take someone else out."
The rest of practice unfurled before me like I was watching a movie. Jake took my spot. Pickle got extra reps. Evan glanced over at me three times.
Coach blew the final whistle. "Hit the showers!"
I dropped onto my stall and started pulling at my shoulder pads. My hands shook slightly. Jake appeared with a towel and tossed it at my head. I caught it one-handed.
"That was ugly," he said.
I forced a grin. "Guess I'm due for a bad day."
"Bad day." Jake sat down hard. "That wasn't a bad day. That was you trying to get yourself killed."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
Pain flared white-hot in my shoulder when I finally yanked the pads free. I sucked air through my teeth.
"Let me see," Jake said.
"It's fine."
"Like hell it is."
I pulled my jersey up. The bruise was already spectacular—purple-black spreading from collarbone to bicep.
Jake whistled low. "Damn."
He disappeared and returned with an ice pack wrapped in a thin towel. He pressed it against my shoulder, and I hissed.
"Hold that," he ordered, then sat back down. "Okay. Explain."
I pressed the ice pack to my shoulder, the cold biting through the towel. "Rhett says he's staying. In Thunder Bay. Not moving to Nipigon." My voice came out flat. "He chose this. Chose—me, I guess."
Evan stepped up to us. "That's good news."
"Yeah."
"So why do you look like someone died?"
I knew every word I said was stupid, but I let them tumble out anyway. "Because nobody ever actually stays."
Silence.
Then Jake: "Bullshit."
I looked up. "What?"
"I said bullshit." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "The team's staying. Coach is staying. Margaret literally offered you a piece of her shop. You've got more roots in this town than half the people born here."
"That's not—"
"Not the same? Yeah, I know." His voice turned sharp. "Listen to you. You're acting like if Rhett leaves, everything disappears. Like you're only worth something if he wants you."
"I didn't say that."
Evan took over. "You didn't have to. Your head is rattled because you don't know how to trust good things when they happen."
The ice pack was going numb against my shoulder. "You don't get it."
"Then explain it," Jake insisted.
I started to untape my shin guards with my free hand. The tape came off in long strips, adhesive catching on my fingers.
"I'm loud," I said finally. "I'm big. I fight, and I chirp, and I make people laugh because that's how I fit. When I'm not doing that—when I'm just sitting on a couch, trying to sleep, or standing in someone's kitchen making coffee—I don't know what I am."
Jake and Evan didn't say anything. They let my words settle.
"And Rhett—" I pulled another strip of tape free, wadded it into a ball. "He sees all of it. The loud parts and the quiet parts. And he says he's staying anyway, and I—" I threw the tape ball at the trash can. Missed. "I keep waiting for him to realize he shouldn't."
"Because you don't think you're enough," Evan said quietly.
"Because I know I'm not." The words were like razor blades, ready to slice my skin. "I'm thirty years old. My body's breaking down. I don't know what comes after hockey. And the only thing I've ever been good at besides fighting is making things with my hands that nobody takes seriously anyway."
"Margaret takes it seriously," Jake said.
"Margaret's—"
"Don't." I heard a growl under his voice. "Don't dismiss it. She offered you co-ownership. That's not pity. That's business."
"But what if that's not enough? What if Rhett figures out that the real me is just... quiet and scared and too fucked up to trust good things?"
"Like most of us," whispered Evan.
Jake added, "If he's like that, then he's an idiot, but he's not."
Evan rested a hand on my good shoulder. "He sees you, Hog. And he wants to stay anyway. So either you believe him, or you don't. Either way, you don't get to make that choice for him."
He gathered his things and headed for the showers, leaving Jake and me sitting in the steam.
Jake watched Evan go, whistled at a brief flash of his bare ass, and turned back to me. "You gonna talk to him?"
"Yeah." I pulled the last piece of tape free. "Yeah, I will."
"When?"
"I don't know yet."
"Tonight." It was an order. "Go tonight."
"I need to—"
"Stop," Jake interrupted. "Stop waiting for the perfect moment that you think you've got your shit together. Just go."
He stood, grabbed his towel, and followed Evan toward the showers.
As I dressed, my phone buzzed in my jacket pocket. I knew without looking that it was Rhett.
I made it to my car before I finally checked.
Rhett: Morning. Sleep okay?
Rhett: At the Underwood job if you want to stop by after practice
Rhett: Or we could grab lunch. Your call
I sat in my idling Prius, windshield fogging, with the ice pack taped to my shoulder through my hoodie.
My reflection stared back from the rearview mirror—dark circles under my eyes and jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
Outside, snow had started falling—wet, heavy flakes.
I sent back a message.
Hog: Practice was rough. Need some time to clear my head. Can I call you later?
Rhett: Of course. Take the time you need. I'm here when you're ready.
I read it three times.
I'm here when you're ready.
My phone rang. Rhett's name was on the screen.
I answered. "Hi."
"Hey." His voice was warm and steady. "You don't have to talk if you don't want to. Just wanted to hear your voice."
The corners of my eyes burned. "I had a shit practice."
"I figured."
"Got benched. Couldn't focus. Took a hit I should've seen coming."
"You okay?"
"Shoulder's gonna be spectacular tomorrow." I shifted the ice pack. "Not the point, though."
He didn't respond. I could hear myself breathe while he waited.
"I keep waiting for you to leave," I said finally. The words came out flat. "I know you said you're staying. I believe you meant it, but I also keep thinking—what if tomorrow you wake up and unchose it? What if your mom pushes harder? What if you realize I'm too much work?"
More silence.
His voice was still warm when he finally spoke. "Can I come over?"
"What?"
"To your place. Can I come over? This feels like the kind of conversation we should have in person."
My heart hammered. "You don't have to—"
"I know. I want to." A pause. "Unless you'd rather I didn't."
"Yeah," I said. "Okay. Yeah."
"Give me twenty minutes."
***
I had ten minutes left when I got home. My apartment needed cleaning. There was a yarn explosion on the couch, half-eaten banana bread on the counter, and three pairs of sweatpants draped over various furniture.
My hands shook as I tried to clear a sitting space on the couch.
I'd shoved most of the yarn into a basket and put the banana bread in the fridge by the time Rhett knocked.
When I opened the door, he stood there in his work jacket, snow melting in his hair, and he held two paper bags.
"Thai food," he said. "From that place you like on Red River. Figured you probably didn't eat."
He was right. I hadn't.
"Come in." I stepped back.
He came in, set the bags on my counter, and turned to look at me.
"Your shoulder?"
"It's fine."
"I know better."
I pulled my shirt to the side. The bruise had spread—purple-black with green edges.
Rhett winced. "Jesus."
"Yeah."
He moved closer, fingers hovering near the bruise without touching. "Did you ice it?"
"In the car."