"There's always—"
"There's not." Jake grabbed my chin and squeezed, forcing me to look at him. "Not this time. Stop waiting for the catch."
Across the room, Rhett glanced over. Caught me watching.
Within thirty seconds of Mika waving me over, I was surrounded by children demanding I teach them to knit. Rhett produced a bag of spare needles and cheap acrylic yarn from his truck—"for emergencies," he explained.
"Can you knit, Coach Rhett?" one of the kids asked.
"No," Rhett admitted.
"Then you should learn too!" Mika declared, already taking charge. She shoved needles and yarn at him. "Sit next to Coach Hog. He'll show you."
Rhett looked at me, eyebrows raised. I shrugged. "You heard the boss."
He settled next to me—close enough that our knees touched—and I walked him through the basic cast-on. His hands, so steady with a hammer or measuring tape, fumbled with the yarn. The needles crossed wrong. The tension was either too tight or too loose.
After five minutes, he held up what he'd made: a lumpy, twisted thing that barely resembled a row of stitches.
"Well," he said, examining it with the same critical eye he'd probably give a warped board. "This is terrible."
Tyler leaned over to look. "It really is."
"Absolutely awful," Rhett agreed cheerfully, and started picking it apart to try again.
No embarrassment. No self-deprecation disguised as humor. Just honest assessment and willingness to fail in front of eight kids and me.
I'd watched guys get defensive over smaller things—missing a pass, botching a drill, or burning toast. Rhett held up his garbage knitting like it was a progress report and moved on.
Tyler managed a chain of wobbly stitches. One kid accidentally knitted her needles together. Mika helped another kid fix a dropped stitch with the authority of someone who'd been knitting for exactly three months. And Rhett kept trying, producing increasingly terrible results, occasionally asking me quiet questions about tension and hand position.
When he reached over to help Tyler with his needles, his shoulder pressed against mine. I wanted to lean into it. Wanted to turn my head and close the distance between us, audience be damned. Instead, I forced myself to stay still and focus on the tangle of yarn in front of me.
"You're really good at this," Rhett said quietly.
"Knitting?"
"Teaching. Being patient. Making kids feel safe." His knee pressed more firmly against mine. Deliberate. "All of it."
The kids started crashing around eight-thirty. We worked together, gathering coats and half-finished projects. Evan shoved leftovers at Rhett.
"Then Hog and I will help eat it," Rhett said, and warmth spread through me as I thoughtHog and I.
We got everyone bundled back to their rides, including four in Rhett's truck. He paused at the driver's door, and his breath fogged in the cold air.
"Thanks for tonight," he said.
"You didn't have to come."
"I wanted to. You've got a good family here."
"They're something."
"They're yours." He gazed into my eyes. "And they love you. Both sides of you. You know that, right?"
I did. Somewhere beyond the self-doubt, I knew it.
"Yeah, I know."
