"Too late. Already weird." He grinned and returned to his tape, wrapping his stick with the focused intensity of someone who needed his hands busy. "You know what? I'm gonna score in the playoffs. Hat trick, maybe. No—five goals. A sock trick."
"That's not a thing," Evan said.
"It is now. I just invented it."
Jake threw a towel at him. "Focus on staying upright first. Work your way up to sock tricks."
Pickle looked up from his tape job. "Hog, you okay? You've got that face."
"What face?"
Jake translated for Pickle. "The one where you're thinking too hard about feelings. It's very unsettling and makes the rest of us nervous."
"I'm fine." I stood and grabbed my towel. "Thinking about how I'm gonna have to save Pickle's ass when he tries for that sock trick."
"Have a little faith!"
"I've seen you skate, kid. Faith has limits."
***
After practice, I headed for Margaret's shop. I'd made a decision. The bell above the door announced me with a cheerful jingle.
She looked up from winding a skein of yarn into a neat ball. "You again," she said, smiling. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten where I keep the good yarn."
I held out the coffee I'd grabbed from Tim Hortons on the way over—double-double, as she liked. "Bribery. I need that merino blend you're hiding in the back."
"I'm not hiding it. I'm saving it for someone who will appreciate it properly." She set down her project and accepted the coffee, eyes sharp. "I think there's more to this visit than the yarn."
Damn. She'd always been able to read me better than I could read myself.
I pulled up the stool near the register, the one I'd sat on during my first knitting class when Gram dragged me here and insisted I needed something for my hands besides hockey tape and violence.
"You said something a while back," I started, then stopped. Cleared my throat. "About the shop when you retire."
Margaret stopped winding. "I did."
"You said I'd be good at running it." The words were rough and uncertain. "That it was Gram's dream."
"I did say that." She took a careful sip of her coffee. "You avoided answering."
"Yeah, well." I traced the worn edge of the counter with my thumb. "Turns out I was avoiding a lot of things then." I looked up at her. "I want to talk about it for real this time. When you're ready—I want to be part of what comes next."
"You mean it? I'm old, Connor. I don't have the energy to waste on maybes."
"I mean it." My voice was steady. "I've been waiting for someone to tell me what comes next. What I should do when hockey's done. I know now that nobody's gonna tell me—I have to choose it myself."
"And you're choosing this."
"Yeah, I am." The words were solid in my mouth. "I'm choosing the shop and the classes. Teaching people how to make things that last."
The sharp edges in Margaret's expression softened. "Your grandmother knew. She knew you'd get here eventually. We all just had to wait for you to see it yourself."
I lowered my head. "She always was smarter than me."
"Than most of us." Margaret reached across the counter and patted my hand once, firm and final. "We'll start slow. You'll teach the Tuesday evening class—beginners, nothing complicated. See how you like being responsible for other people's stitches."
"I already teach classes."
