I touched his jaw. "It's more than that. It's you finally believing what everyone else already knows."
He caught my wrist, holding my hand against his face.
"Team's gone," he said quietly. "Locker room's empty."
"So?"
His grin turned wicked. "I've got an idea."
He pulled me through the corridor toward the equipment room, past the concession stand that smelled like old popcorn and the public bathrooms.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
The equipment room was dark except for the red glow of an exit sign. Hog flipped on a single overhead light, illuminating rows of skates hanging from hooks, sticks leaning in the corners, and spare gear piled on metal shelves.
He grabbed a pair of skates—old ones with dulled blades and cracked leather—and tossed them at me.
I caught them one-handed. "What am I supposed to do with these?"
"Skate." He was already pulling on his own, fingers working the laces with practiced speed. "With me. Just us."
"Hog, I don't think this is—"
"If anyone asks, we play dumb about the rules."
When we stepped back onto the ice, half of the overhead lights were off, leaving pools of shadow between the remaining spots of yellow-white. The Zamboni sat silent in its bay, and the scoreboards were dark.
It was like stepping into a cathedral after hours—sacred and slightly forbidden.
"Come on." Hog glided backward, arms spread wide. "Show me what you've got, flannel guy."
I pushed off and took the few strides toward him.
"Not bad," Hog called. "Little stiff in the knees, but we'll work on it."
"I'm thirty-two, not seventy."
"Could've fooled me with that posture." He circled me, skating backward. "Loosen up. You're not building a cabinet."
I pushed harder, gaining speed, and when I passed him, he laughed—a big, uninhibited sound that filled the empty rink.
We skated lazy circles around each other. Hog moved closer, gliding alongside me.
"Our first time skating, just the two of us, without kids or the Storm's peanut gallery."
I grinned and then thought about growing up on the ice. I'd quit hockey at seventeen when Dad said the family business needed me more than some junior league team did. I'd put away my skates and picked up a hammer, and I'd told myself it didn't matter because I was being adaptable.
Being what they needed instead of what I wanted.
Hog slowed and reached for my hand, fingers lacing through mine.
We skated like that—hand in hand, moving in slow synchronization across the empty ice. I don't know who stopped first.
One moment we were gliding, and the next we were standing at center ice, facing each other, breathing hard.
Hog reached out with his free hand to cup my face.
