"He smelled like… normal people," I lied.
Truth was, cedar and cold air had clung to him, while I smelled like bar grease and Molson. I'd been close enough for him to touch my wrist, close enough that I'd forgotten how to form complete sentences for about thirty seconds.
"Aha!" Jake pointed his beer bottle at me like a weapon. "You do know what he smells like. Which means you were close enough to find out."
"He bought me a drink, and we talked about wood stain colors. We talked. End of story."
"You're quieter than usual when he comes up," Evan observed. "For someone who's never met anyone he couldn't out-talk, you get pretty selective with words around this topic."
Damn Evan and his spreadsheet brain.
"Maybe I just don't have anything interesting to say about some random guy I met once."
"Random guys don't usually make you forget how to speak," Jake said. "I saw you, Hog. You looked like someone pulled the plug on your brain."
Jake wasn't entirely wrong. I'd been hanging out when this guy had walked up to the bar. Tall, steady, wearing a flannel shirt.He had weathered hands and an easy smile, the kind of guy who belonged in Thunder Bay.
Most people, when they wanted to talk to the big, scary hockey player, either wanted autographs or started fights. But this guy—Rhett, I'd learned later—had just ordered a beer and made some casual comment about the game.
Then he'd stuck around, asking real questions about hockey—strategy, teamwork—the kind that made me lean in, drumming my fingers against the bottle like I couldn't stop.
When he'd leaned close enough that our shoulders touched, I froze. Then, I nodded like an idiot, probably smiling a weird, nervous smile that wasn't my usual grin.
I'd been replaying that moment—the shoulder touch and how he'd looked at me when I'd actually shut up long enough to listen—for three weeks straight.
"Earth to Hog," Jake said, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "You're doing that thing where you disappear inside your head."
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're blushing," Pickle announced helpfully.
"I don't blush."
"Your ears are red."
"That's the beer."
"You've had half a bottle."
Coach Rusk snorted from his corner stool. "Big guy's got it bad for someone. Look at him squirm."
"I'm not squirming!"
I was. They all knew it.
The bartender derailed our conversation, handing out plastic champagne flutes like you bought at the dollar store. The countdown clock on the ancient TV behind the bar showed fifteen minutes to midnight.
I threw myself into full entertainer mode. I made jokes about Pickle's song choice, started an arm-wrestling tournament with some construction workers at the next table, and told increasingly ridiculous stories about my grandmother's knitting circle until Jake was crying with laughter.
Loud was easy. Loud meant nobody noticed when I was too much—or not enough.
"And then," I gestured wildly with my beer, "Edith Murillo looks me dead in the eye and says, 'Connor, that stitch is looser than my late husband's morals.'"
"Your grandmother's friends are terrifying," Evan observed.
"Were her friends. She's gone, but Mrs. Murillo is still around. She once made me a sweater with 'PUCK OFF' across the chest because she said regular swear words were beneath her."
"Do you still have it?" Pickle asked.
