Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Rhett
Iwoke up under a boulder that breathed and snored.
Hog's forearm was slung across my ribs, heavy enough to keep me pinned, his face mashed against my shoulder. His breath came in soft huffs that warmed the spot below my collarbone.
We'd each had beers the night before, and the smell lingered. Light leaked around the edges of the blinds in my apartment. It was a winter morning that made the lake and sky blur into one sheet of cold.
I lay there, listening to Hog sleep.
Memories of the night before returned. The Drop had been packed and loud. Hog was everywhere at once, booming laugh, hand steady at the small of my back whenever someone grabbed me to talk. He'd leaned in close at one point, like he was sharing a secret, and said, "I'm not going anywhere."
It wasn't a promise shouted across a room. It was the simple recitation of a fact.
In the present, Hog shifted and groaned. "Rhett," he mumbled into my shoulder, voice gravelly with sleep, "You're poking me with one of your bones."
"My bones are internal," I said. "That's the whole point of bones."
He opened one eye and tightened the arm lying across my body. "How's the human weighted blanket experience?"
"I like being able to breathe, but maybe that's a niche preference."
He grinned and buried his nose in my neck. We stayed like that until his alarm barked a harsh ringtone that reminded me of Coach Rusk.
"Time to weep," he said, rolling away with a dramatic sigh that tugged the sheet half off me. "Sunrise torture."
"You're the one who keeps giving him reasons to invent new drills."
He swung his legs to the floor and sat there for a second, elbows on knees, head hanging. Then he raked his thick fingers through his hair and searched for his socks.
"I'll make coffee," I said.
"I love you."
He said it like always—a simple reflex woven into good mornings and grocery lists. I nodded and pushed up. "One human-strength coffee coming up. Not whatever you made last week that threatened to strip the skin off my tongue."
"That was a bold roast." He finally located his socks, tugged them on, and then muttered something about tape and practice and "Pickle's tendency to pickles," which I didn't ask him to explain.
While the coffee gurgled, he pushed his arms into his coat at the door. I handed him a travel mug, and he took it with a grunt, then stepped up close to me and kissed my cheek.
"Don't let the lake carry you away," he said. "It's extra dramatic today."
"Go survive your sadistic sunrise drills."
He waved the mug in thanks and clomped down the stairs. I watched from the window as he headed out into the thin winter light, big as a yeti in his coat, breath creating clouds before him.
***
By the time I got to the kids' rink for nine AM practice, voices were bouncing off the rafters. I set cones on the blue line while my group fidgeted in a ragged line, trying to balance on skates and talk at the same time.
"Okay, warm-up laps, then stickhandling figure eights around the cones."
"Coach, did you see the last game?" Tyler shouted over everyone. "Hog crushed that guy into the boards and then didn't fight him, but he still looked scary."
I lined up the final cone. "That's strategy. You don't have to take a swing to be effective."
"Mom says he's huge," Nora added.
"He is," I agreed. I didn't add that he looked even bigger taking up three-quarters of a bed.
We ran drills, and then I let them scrimmage because it was one of those days when joy mattered more than precision.
I skated backward at the center and let them come at me in a cluster, whacking at the puck like a flock of sparrows descending on a single french fry.
There were more collisions than passes. Laughter rose, sharp and high.
Between whistles, the gossip kept coming.
Auggie piped up. "My aunt saw Hog at Safeway, and he said hi to her."
"He was on the jumbotron," added Mika. "He waved. It was funny."
"He waved because he saw my sign," Tyler insisted. The others booed.
We reset the scrimmage. When they finally ran out of steam, I whistled them in. Helmets bumped my elbows as they clustered around, cheeks pink, and sweaty hair sticking to their foreheads.
"Good work. Remember what we said about looking before you pass?"
Nora echoed me. "Don't look at the person. Look at the space."
"And trust your teammate will be in it. Okay, water."
They scattered. Tyler skated up to me. "Coach, will your boyfriend come watch again?"
Helmets cocked around the rink like sunflowers turning toward the sunlight, accompanied by giggles.
"If he can skate, he'll be here."
After practice, a parent thanked me at the door, hands tucked into her jeans pockets. "They're excited about hockey again," she said. "It's nice to see."
"The Storm can take most of the credit," I said. "But thanks."
The cold bit my face when I stepped outside. I got into my truck, and when my phone buzzed against my thigh, I didn't know how the call would tilt my gut until I saw the name.
Mom.
I let it ring twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, I answered.
"Hi."
"Hi, sweetheart." She sounded like she was speaking from the middle of a wool sweater, soft and a little muffled. "Do you have a minute?"
"Yeah," I said. I didn't pull out of the lot yet. Just sat there with the engine idling, phone on speaker on the passenger seat, watching my breath fog the windshield. "What's up?"
"I wanted to catch you before—well. I wasn't sure when you'd be free."
Before what? Before I got busy? Before she lost her nerve? Before the moment passed, and we went back to avoidance?
"I'm here now," I said.
"Good. That's—good."
We did the logistics dance first because we both knew how to do that. She had estate paperwork that still needed signatures. She asked about a saw she'd found in the garage that she thought might be valuable, and I knew it wasn't. I pulled onto the street as we continued to talk.
Then she laughed—a little too bright—and said, "I found a neighbor who shovels better than your father did."
"Mom—"
"Better," she said again, slower this time. "I said better like it's a competition he lost." A pause. "That's terrible, isn't it?"
"No, not if it's true."
"He'd be furious." Her voice cracked slightly. "Mr. Han showed up at six this morning with his snowblower, and I thought—your father would've stood at the window and critiqued his technique for an hour. Would've gone out there the next day to prove he could do it faster."
I pulled into a spot overlooking the lake and cut the engine. The water stretched out before me, dark and vast, ice creeping toward the center in thin white fingers.
"Yeah," I said. "He would've."
"And I'm relieved he's not here to do it." The words came out fast, like she'd been holding them behind her teeth. "Does that make me a horrible person?"
"No."
"I keep waiting to feel—I don't know. Destroyed. Everyone expects destruction." She was quiet for a moment. I heard the clink of a mug being set down. "But mostly I just feel... lighter. Like I've been holding my breath for thirty years and I finally let it out."
"That—"
"I know. I shouldn't say things like that."
"You can say whatever you need to say."
"Can I?" She laughed again, but this time it sounded more real.
"Because Sloane keeps telling me I should be processing, and the grief counselor gave me a workbook, and everyone at church keeps asking if I'm eating enough.
Nobody asks if I'm sleeping better. They don't ask if I'm relieved I can leave dishes in the sink overnight without someone commenting about it in the morning. "
I watched the lake. The wind pushed at the ice, widening the dark fissure of open water.
"How are you?" I asked. "Really."
She was quiet for long enough that I thought the line had dropped. Then: "I like it here. Nipigon's smaller. Sloane's too busy for my taste, but that's always been true. People wave when they see you. Mr. Han taught me how to play mah-jongg, and I'm terrible at it, but it gets me out of the house."
"That sounds good."
"It is good. That's the part that feels strange." Her voice softened. "I keep thinking I should be sadder, but I'm not. I'm just—here. Making tea. Learning mah-jongg. Watching the neighbor shovel better than your father ever did."
I smiled despite the ache in my chest. "I think that's allowed."
"Is it?"
"Yeah, Mom. It is."
We were quiet again, leaving space to breathe.
"I could come visit in two weeks," I said. "Saturday, maybe. If that works."
"I'd like that." Another pause, and this time I heard her take a breath like she was stepping off a ledge. "And bring Connor. I only got to speak with him briefly at the funeral, and I'd like to get to know him properly. Without all the..."
She didn't finish, but I knew what she meant. Without the grief. Without Dad's body two rooms over. Without the weight of everything pressing down on us.
"His name's Hog," I said. "Everyone calls him Hog."
"I remember. He brought banana bread." Her voice warmed. "Sloane's girls are still talking about it. And Mae said he showed her how to do a knitting stitch while we were—well. While things were difficult."
"He did."
"He was very kind. To all of us." She paused. "Your father would've hated him."
The words landed like a slap and a gift at the same time.
"Yeah," I said. "He would've."
"Good." She spoke with certainty. "I want to see you two together. Not in a funeral home with everyone walking on eggshells."
"Okay."
"You sound different when you talk about him. Happy, Rhett. You sound happy."
I took a long, deep breath.
"I am," I said finally. "Happy. It's—yeah."
"Don't fuss when you come," she said. "Just drive safe. And Rhett?"
"Yeah?"
"You sound good, honey. Steady."
"Thanks, Mom."
"I'll see you in two weeks. Both of you."