"So," he said. "That happened."
"Very observant."
"I'm gifted." He kissed me—softer, almost lazy. "Also, I think we traumatized the team jerseys."
I glanced at the Storm jerseys hanging on their hooks, watching us with their empty sleeve arms. "They've seen worse."
"Fair point." He stepped back, already looking around for something to clean up with. He found a towel hanging near the showers and wiped himself off. "Can't believe I just—in the locker room. Coach would murder me."
"Coach would have to catch us first."
"He's got cameras."
I froze. "He what?"
"Kidding. Mostly. There's one in the corridor, but it's been broken since October."
"You're terrible."
"You love it."
I did. That was the problem—or maybe it was the solution. I'd spent so long trying to be the version of myself that didn't cause problems.
Hog was the opposite of practical. And somehow, that made me braver.
I pulled on my jacket, watching him hunt for his slides. He'd kicked them off somewhere during...
"Found them," he announced, holding up one slide triumphantly. "The other one's—where the hell is the other one?"
I spotted it under a bench three stalls down and retrieved it for him.
"My hero.
He sat on the bench to put his slides on properly, and I settled beside him. Decades of players sitting in that spot had worn the wood smooth—lacing skates, taping sticks, and having conversations that only happened in locker rooms.
The silence between us felt sacred. Not empty—full. Weighted with everything we didn't need to say out loud.
Hog finished with his slides and leaned back, elbows on his knees, studying me. "Tomorrow's the playoff opener."
"I know."
"And I'm gonna play my heart out for the team and for Thunder Bay." He reached for my hand, lacing our fingers together. "Not to prove anything to you. You already know who I am."
"I do."
"So don't expect me to—I don't know—score five goals or single-handedly win the game or whatever romantic hockey movie bullshit you've been imagining."
I laughed. "I haven't been imagining romantic hockey movie bullshit."
"Liar. You're a secret romantic. I've seen the way you organize your tools."
"That's not romantic. That's practical."
"Same thing for you." He squeezed my hand. "Point is—tomorrow, I'm just gonna play. No noise for you. It will be me, plain and simple."
I swallowed hard.
I leaned in and kissed his forehead—a gesture that felt more intimate than anything we'd done against that wall.
