"His name's Rhett," I said, grabbing my skates. I moved through the routine—unlace, check blades, retape the ankles where the leather had started to split. Familiar motions that didn't require thinking. "And I'm meeting him in—" I checked the clock on the wall. "—five hours."
The locker room went silent.
"FIVE HOURS?" Pickle's voice cracked. "Today? You're meeting him TODAY?"
"Why didn't you lead with that?" Jake grabbed my shoulders. "That's the headline, Hog! That's the story!"
Evan looked up from his notebook, one eyebrow raised. "Five hours means 2 PM. That's optimal for a first proper date—post-lunch, pre-dinner, natural exit point if things go poorly."
"Thank you for the analysis, Spreadsheet," I muttered.
Five hours. Three hundred minutes. I'd be sitting across from Rhett at Common Thread while half of Thunder Bay watched through the windows and tried to figure out what the contractor and the enforcer could have in common.
"What are you gonna wear?" Pickle had that forward-lean thing going, weight on his toes, like a sprinter waiting for the gun. "Do you have a plan? Did you practice what to talk about?"
"I'm wearing clothes. And no, I didn't practice—"
"You should practice! What if you get nervous and forget how to talk? What if—"
"Kid." I pointed at him. "Breathe."
Jake grinned like he'd won the lottery. "Okay, new plan. We get through practice fast, Hog showers—actually showers, not that thing you do where you rinse off for thirty seconds—and then we help him pick an outfit."
"I don't need help picking an outfit—"
"You wore a Storm hoodie to the grocery store yesterday," Evan observed. "You absolutely need help."
"It was laundry day!"
"It's always laundry day with you," Jake said. "That's not the point. The point is you've got five hours not to spiral, and we're going to make sure you don't."
Coach Rusk's voice cracked through the noise. "Gentlemen, are you planning to practice today, or should I forfeit the season now and save us all some time?"
Everyone scrambled. Jake grabbed his helmet. Pickle dropped his protein bar.
Coach caught my eye as I stood, and he jerked his chin toward the ice. "Hawkins. You're up first in corners. And if you play as sloppily as you did last week, we're having words."
NotWhen's the big date?NotTry not to embarrass yourself.Just hockey. It was a relief.
I followed the guys toward the tunnel, but Jake fell back to match my pace.
"You're overthinking," he said. The chirp had dropped from his voice. "I can see your brain melting through your skull."
"I've got five hours. Four. That's not enough time to—"
"To what? Reinvent yourself? You're not supposed to reinvent yourself. You're supposed to show up."
"But what if he only wants half? The parts that fit. The highlight reel."
Jake grabbed my arm, stopping me dead. "Listen to me. You're the guy who brings banana bread to team breakfast and breaks someone's face if they touch Pickle. You're both. You've alwaysbeen both. And anyone who asks you to pick doesn't deserve either version."
The words had the power of a check against the boards.
"But what if—"
"No." Jake shook his head. "If Rhett walked across that bar to kiss you in front of everyone, he wasn't confused about what he was getting. He knew. And if he didn't—" His grin came back, sharp and protective. "I'll write him a strongly worded sonnet, and then maybe set it on fire."
Coach's whistle shrieked from the ice. "Riley! Hawkins! Move it!"
