"Are you kidding? I wear it to practice sometimes. Coach loves it."
"I hate it," Coach Rusk corrected. "Makes you look like a walking billboard for bad decisions."
"So, like I always look?"
"Pretty much."
The noise grew louder around us—laughter and shouting and drunken sing-alongs. "Ten minutes!" someone shouted, and the energy in the room ratcheted up another notch. My hand kept drifting to the pocket with the knitted pig, like I needed proof of the quieter version of me nobody here really saw.
"Hog!" A familiar voice cut through the noise, and I turned to see Juno Park, local hockey podcaster, weaving through the crowd with her girlfriend in tow. Her blue hair was extra vibrant under the Christmas lights, and she wore a sharp smile.
"Juno! Come to document our descent into chaos?"
"Obviously." She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of our table. "But I'm more interested in the big story. Wordon the street is Thunder Bay's loudest export has been making conversation with a grown-up."
"I talk to grown-ups all the time."
"I mean grown-ups who aren't your teammates, Edith's knitting circle, or the woman who sells you yarn."
Jake perked up like a hunting dog who'd caught a scent. "She knows about the flannel guy, too?"
"Margaret talks," Juno said with a shrug. "Apparently, our boy here was completely flustered but in a sweet way when a certain contractor came looking for sewing advice."
"Margaret needs to mind her own business," I muttered.
"Margaret thinks you need to get laid," Juno shot back. "What's louder, the Storm on ice or Hog trying not to blush about flannel guy?"
"I'm not blushing!"
"Your ears are red," her girlfriend observed.
"Why does everyone keep staring at my ears?"
"Because they're like a mood ring," Pickle said. "Red means embarrassed, pink means angry, normal means—"
"Normal means I'm about to start a fight with someone half my size," I warned.
Jake struck a pose. "Ladies, please. Save some attention for the real star of this team."
"Hollywood," Coach Rusk muttered under his breath.
"Did you just call me Hollywood?"
"If the overpriced bleach job fits."
I laughed again, but underneath it, something buzzed in my chest like a trapped wasp. Five minutes to midnight. Five minutes to one more year of me: too loud, too big, and too much for most people, but somehow still not enough for the ones who mattered.
The countdown clock ticked over to four minutes, and I realized I was scanning the room again, looking for a face that wasn't there. I didn't want to be alone when the clock hit zero.
The thought hit me so hard I almost choked on my beer.
"Thirty seconds!" someone screamed, and the whole bar started counting down in a drunken chorus.
I was about to make some joke about how this was the longest minute in recorded history when the door opened and every coherent thought in my head… disappeared.
Rhett.
He stood in the doorway, scanning the room like he was looking for someone specific. Tall and steady in dark jeans and that same kind of flannel shirt that had made me forget how to use my mouth the first time I'd seen him. The wind had tousled his hair, and snowflakes were melting on his shoulders.
