"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.
Chapter eighteen
Rhett
The invoice was dated three years ago. Dad's careful block letters spelled out a client's name above a price at least two hundred dollars too low.
I added it to the pile marked Keep. The Keep pile was three times the size of Toss.
Mom drifted through the kitchen for the fourth time in an hour, picking up the same dish towel. The house smelled like lemon cleaner layered over old coffee.
"He never threw anything away." She smoothed the towel against her cardigan. "Three boxes of screws in the garage. No labels. Mixed sizes."
"I'll sort them."
"You don't have to—"
"I know."
She disappeared into the hallway. I heard her opening and closing drawers—the same pattern all week. Open, pause, close. Like she was checking to make sure he was really gone.
Something slid out from between two invoices—a photo bent at one corner, with colors slightly faded. I was maybe eight. Gap-toothed, junior league jersey too big. Dad stood beside me in work jeans and flannel, one hand on my shoulder.
We looked like we belonged to each other.
