The words came out strangled. My lungs had forgotten how to work right.
I was eight years old again, sitting at Gram's kitchen table while she showed me how to hold the needles.Not too tight,Connor. You'll strangle the yarn. Gentle. Like you're holding something precious.
The summer light shone through her kitchen window, dust motes floating, and her hands—already showing the first tremors of age—steady and sure as they guided mine.This is your gift,she'd said, voice soft but certain.Nobody can take it from you. It's yours to keep.
"Connor?"
I blinked. The shop returned to focus—the shelves of yarn and Margaret watching me with patient concern.
"I'm here," I managed. "I'm listening."
The car outside finally started. The engine coughed, caught, and roared to life.
Margaret waited another beat, giving me time. "She was worried. Said you were already pulling away, making yourself smaller for hockey. Keeping the knitting separate, like it was a secret instead of a gift." She paused. "She made me promise that when you were ready, I'd offer you something real."
The weight of Gram's concern settled over me. Fifteen years ago, when I was fifteen and convinced hockey was everything, she'd seen what I couldn't see. Saw that I'd need this place. Need the anchor.
"Margaret—"
"I'm thinking about retiring, Connor. Three to five years from now." She gestured at the shop around us—the shelves of yarn and project samples hanging on the walls. "I've been running this place for twenty-six years. I'm seventy-three. At some point, I'd like to spend my winters somewhere that doesn't require an ice scraper."
I tensed. "You can't retire. This place is—you're—"
"I'm tired, honey." Her voice was gentle. "And I'd like to leave while I still love it, not wait until I resent every minute."
"So what happens? You close the shop?"
"I'd rather not. Your grandmother wouldn't want that. This place mattered to her." She paused. "I'm hoping it matters to you, too."
I stared at her.
"I'm offering you teaching classes. Regular schedule, paid position. Profit-sharing after the first year. And eventually—when I'm ready—selling the business to someone who'd keep it going." She picked up her shawl and worked a few stitches. "Someone your grandmother trusted with her gift."
My brain stalled out. "You want me to—"
"Teach. Eventually manage. Maybe own, if you're interested." Her needles clicked. "You're good at this, Connor. Not only the knitting. You're a great teacher. You make people feel like they can learn hard things. That's rare. Your grandmother saw it in you when you were only eight."
"I'm just a guy who—"
"You're not just anything." Her needles stopped. She looked at me directly. "I made your grandmother a promise. I'm keeping that promise."
The words sat heavy in my lap, solid as Gram's old project bag.
Post-hockey income. A future after the Storm. A path that didn't end with my body giving out, leaving nothing but scars and memories.
What Gram had built, offered back to me with both hands.
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything tonight. Think about it." She stood, gathering her things. "But Connor? Your grandmother didn't give you knitting instead of hockey. She gave it to you alongside hockey because she knew you'd always need both. She never asked you to choose—and I'm not either."
She paused at the door to the back room, one hand on the frame. "She just wanted to ensure that when your body finally told you it was done taking hits, you'd have something left thatwas yours. Something you built with your hands." She nodded at my split knuckles.
She left me sitting in her back room, surrounded by yarn and Gram's empty chair by the window.
My phone felt like lead in my pocket. Rhett's text still waited for a response.
Rhett:Need a rescue?
