He snorted, then winced when that moved his shoulder. I shifted a little higher, tucking myself tighter against him.
"Tyler asked if my boyfriend was going to come watch again."
"Tyler," he repeated, like it was a code word. "Is he the little guy with the giant opinions?"
"That's all of them," I said. "He's the small one with the loudest giant opinions."
"Then yes. If I can skate, I'll be there."
We drifted toward sleep with the TV humming something forgettable. I must have dozed, because when I spoke again, my voice came out thick and raspy.
"Feels like home."
Hog's hand tightened where it rested against my forearm. He didn't make a joke. He didn't perform. He only answered, "Guess I'm staying, then."
We laughed simultaneously, the sound quiet and easy, our fingers still threaded together. Outside the window, snow started up again, feathering the glass. It was the nearly silent storm that you didn't notice until you looked out and realized the world had changed while you weren't paying attention.
Chapter twenty-one
Hog
The ice didn't care about my shoulder or my future. It only asked whether I could still win the puck.
"Hawkins!" Coach's voice cracked across the rink. "You planning to skate today or admire the view?"
I pushed off, edges biting clean. The burn in my thighs was familiar, almost comforting—proof my body still remembered how to do this even when my brain was elsewhere.
We ran through breakout drills— Jake to Evan, back to center, wide to the wing. I slotted into position without thinking, muscle memory carrying me through the patterns we'd carved into this ice over hundreds of practices.
And then.
I pivoted to receive the pass, and my shoulder caught. Not bad, but it was enough to make me hesitate for half a second. The puck died on my tape instead of flowing through to the next man.
"Again!" Coach barked.
Evan glided past. "Switch sides next rep," he suggested, quiet enough that only I heard. "I'll take that angle."
Strategy. He'd seen the hitch and adjusted without making me ask.
We reset. This time, when the play came my way, Evan had already shifted the rotation, giving me the pass from my good side. The puck left flat and clean.
Around me, the team moved together like well-drilled machinery. Desrosiers didn't overcomplicate his passes. MacLaren held his position instead of chasing.
We looked like a team that might steal a round in the playoffs.
The whistle blew. "Water break. Three minutes."
I coasted to the bench and yanked off my helmet. Jake appeared with a water bottle.
"Did you see that sauce from Evan? Thing of beauty. Filthy good. I'm getting emotional thinking about it."
"You're always emotional," Evan said, skating up behind him.
"I'm passionate. There's a difference."
Pickle crashed into the boards beside us, breathing hard. "That was good, right? We looked good? Tell me we looked good."
"Kid," I said, "you looked like you remembered which direction we're supposed to skate. That's a win."
