"Thank you for showing up." I squeezed his hand one last time. "See you soon."
He walked toward the Fort William Barn—shoulders loose now, hands in his pockets. He looked back once, caught me watching. Grinned.
I climbed in. Sat there with the engine running, heat blasting. Herbert sat on the passenger seat—forest green yarn, black button eyes, perfect stitches.
Proof I'd chosen complicated over safe. Real over edited. Noise over quiet.
I put the truck in gear and drove home, a three-inch pig named Herbert riding shotgun.
Chapter five
Hog
Kellner caught him with a blindside hit—cheap, late, and aimed at Pickle's knees—no call from the ref. Of course.
I was three strides away when I saw it happen. Pickle went down hard, stick flying, and the sound his helmet made against the boards punched straight through the crowd noise. For half a second, the rink went quiet—that awful silence that meant someone might not get up.
Then Pickle rolled onto his back, dazed but moving, and something in my chest unlocked long enough for the rage to flood in.
I didn't think. Thinking was for guys like Evan, who calculated angles and read plays three passes ahead. I just moved.
Kellner was already skating away, gloves still on, like what he'd done was clean. Like Pickle was another rookie who didn't matter.
"Hey!" My voice pitched between a roar and a snarl. "KELLNER!"
He turned. Saw me coming. Had maybe two seconds to decide if he wanted the fight or not.
He dropped his gloves.
Good.
We crashed together at center ice—no preamble, no trash talk, only fists and momentum. His first punch glanced off my helmet. Mine caught him square in the jaw, and the impact sang up through my knuckles to my elbow.
The refs shouted. The crowd rose to their feet. Someone—Jake, probably—yelled encouragement from the bench.
I got Kellner's jersey bunched in my left hand and used it to pull him close, landing two more punches before his teammates started circling. The linesmen skated in fast, but I had time for one more—
His fist caught me in the ribs, right where Desrosiers had nailed me in practice. The pain was white-hot and immediate, stealing my breath.
Worth it.
The linesmen grabbed us both, pulling us apart. Kellner's lip was bleeding. His eye was already starting to swell. He spat blood onto the ice and grinned at me like he'd won something.
"Five minutes for fighting!" the ref shouted, pointing at the box. "Both of you!"
I skated toward the penalty box, but not before glancing at the bench. Pickle was sitting up, surrounded by trainers. He caught my eye and gave me a shaky thumbs-up.
The crowd roared. Someone had a sign: "HAWKINS BRINGS THE PAIN." Another one: "DON'T TOUCH OUR PICKLE."
Jake was laughing when I skated past the bench. "That was art, you psycho!"
Coach Rusk shook his head, but his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. "Sit your ass down and don't do it again."
"If he touches Pickle again—"
"Then Desrosiers will handle it." Coach's voice was flat. "We need youon the ice, not sightseeing in the box. Use your head, Hawkins."
I bit back my response—I was using my head. That's why Kellner's bleeding—and dropped onto the penalty box bench.
