"And he's dating our Hog," Edith said, like she was narrating a nature documentary. "Look at his ears. Red as Christmas."
I touched my ear. It was hot. Dammit.
"We're—" I started, then stopped. What were we? Dating sounded too simple. Seeing each other sounded like we were pretending it was casual. "Yeah. We're together."
"Good." Margaret's needles clicked. "He deserves someone who appreciates him. You deserve someone who appreciates you. Efficient match."
She made it sound like a business transaction. Maybe it was. Except that business transactions didn't make my knees go weak.
I forced my attention back to my project—a hat for Jeremy, one of Rhett's youth hockey kids. Simple ribbing, nothing complicated. My hands knew the pattern without thinking—knit two, purl two.
It was the same pattern Gram had taught me when I was eight and too loud for everyone except her.
My phone buzzed again.
Rhett:You teaching tonight?
Hog:Yeah. Trying to. Apparently I'm distracted
Rhett:By what?
I stared at the screen. By you. By yesterday. By the fact that you looked at my terrible planing technique and called it natural instead of laughing.
Hog:Bossy women who won't let me check my phone.
Rhett:Sounds serious. Need a rescue?
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Yes. No. Maybe.
"Connor." Margaret's voice cut through the fog. "Put the phone away or take it outside. You're setting a bad example."
"Sorry." I shoved it back in my pocket and picked up my needles.
The circle settled into a comfortable rhythm—needles clicking, occasional murmured conversation, and the sound of wool sliding through fingers. It was the part I usually loved. Narrowing our focus to the work in our hands.
Now it felt like trying to meditate in a hockey rink during playoffs.
My ribs ached. They'd been aching for three days, since Desrosiers had caught me along the boards—clean hit, nothing dirty, but I'd gone into the glass wrong. The bruise was spectacular. Purple-black across my left side, tender enough that pulling my shirt on made me suck air through my teeth.
Thirty years old with a body that remembered every hit.
"You wincing, honey?" Linda watched me. "That hit from the other night?"
"What hit?"
"The one from practice. My grandson watches all the Storm games online. He said he saw a clip on Instagram, and it looked like one of your teammates posted it."
Damn Pickle.
"It's fine."
"You're holding your side."
I dropped my hand. Hadn't realized I was pressing against my ribs. "A little sore. Nothing new."
Edith raised an eyebrow. "You've been playing what, twelve years professionally?"
"Thirteen if you count juniors."
