"You okay?"
"Yeah. Just—" He shrugged. "Comes with the territory."
The barista appeared. I ordered fresh coffee without letting go of his hand. When they arrived, Hog wrapped both hands around his mug, and his shoulders finally relaxed.
"So," he said. "Questions."
"Yeah."
"What do you want to know?"
"The knitting. How'd that start?"
His whole face changed. "My grandma. I was eight. Had too much energy—drove everyone crazy. Teachers, parents, everyone wanted me to calm down, focus, stop disrupting." His thumbs traced the rim of his mug. "Grandma said I didn't needto be calmer. Just needed something for my hands. Called it thinking too loud."
"Thinking too loud?"
"When your brain goes faster than you can keep up. When sitting still feels impossible." He looked down. "Everyone wanted me quieter. She just wanted to give me tools."
I'd spent my childhood learning the opposite—how to be quieter, smaller, less trouble.
"She sounds like she got you."
"Yeah. She died when I was fifteen. Left me everything—needles, yarn, this old project bag that smelled like peppermint." He smiled. "Still use it. The smell's mostly gone, but sometimes if the fabric's warm..."
I squeezed his hand.
"People don't usually ask about the knitting." He gestured at himself with his free hand. "They see the enforcer. Then they see the needles and think it's a joke. Like I'm trying to seem softer."
"But it's not."
"It's—" He paused, choosing words. "I started bringing it to the rink in juniors. Between periods, when everyone else was getting taped up or listening to music, I'd pull it out. Coach thought I was chirping him at first. But my hands needed something to do or I'd be bouncing off the walls, picking fights in the locker room instead of on the ice."
That made sense—the same restless energy that made him a good enforcer would eat him alive in the quiet moments.
"Does it help? Before games?"
"Before, during, after." He pulled something from his jacket. Small, green, perfectly stitched. "Made this New Year's Eve. Cab ride over. My hands wouldn't stop."
He set the tiny pig on the table between us.
"You were nervous."
"Kept thinking you wouldn't show up. Or you'd realize our earlier talk was a drunk mistake." He laughed. "Or you'd want the edited version."
"Can I tell you something?"
"Yeah."
"I've spent fourteen years being the edited version and staying when I wanted to leave. Accepted what was offered instead of asking for more. Built a life around being convenient." I picked up the pig and turned it over. The yarn was impossibly soft. "And I was miserable."
His eyes widened.
"Not all the time. I like my work. Like coaching kids, fixing things. But underneath—I kept wondering what I missed by being too afraid to choose."
"So what changed?"
"Watched you at The Drop three weeks ago. You were just—there. Present. Not trying to be anything except what you were." His thumb brushed mine again. "Made me realize I'd forgotten what wanting something actually felt like."
