Part of the team had claimed the back corner booth. I heard them before I saw them—Jake's voice carrying over everything, Pickle's rapid-fire commentary, and the deeper bass of Coach Rusk's interjections.
The rest of the roster was scattered at other tables—Desrosiers and MacLaren arguing about something near the bar.
Hog's hand tightened in mine.
Jake saw us first. His face lit up, mouth opening—then Evan elbowed him hard enough to make him grunt.
"Well, well," he said as we approached. "Look who finally decided to make an honest man of our Hog."
"Jake," Evan said, not looking up from his notebook.
"What? I'm being welcoming."
"You're being yourself. That's different."
We reached the table. Jake and Evan were on one side of the booth, Pickle fidgeting with his napkin across from them. Coach Rusk sat at the head in a chair he'd pulled up, ball cap backward, working through a plate of eggs with methodical focus.
I slid in next to Pickle. Hog followed, settling beside me. His thigh pressed against mine, solid and warm through two layers of denim. The booth forced us closer than we'd been in public before—his shoulder brushing mine, the smell of his shampoo—coconut, probably whatever was on sale at the grocery store—cutting through the bacon grease and coffee.
As he settled, he moved carefully, favoring his left side slightly. I'd noticed it when we walked in—how he held himself stiffer than usual.
"Ribs still?" I asked, soft enough that only he heard.
"Always."
I wanted to put my hand on his knee under the table. Wanted to lean in against him instead of sitting carefully upright. Wanted to do any of the things I'd done in private last night that I couldn't do with Jake's assessing gaze locked on my face.
Jake moved his shoulder in slow circles, testing the range of motion. Evan had what looked like tape peeking out from under his collar—shoulder or collarbone, hard to tell. This was what Sunday morning looked like after Saturday night hockey. Everyone was functional and upright, but battling soreness in their bodies.
"Rhett." Jake's smile had edges. "Thanks for joining us. Wasn't sure you'd show."
The comment hung there, not quite hostile but not friendly either—a test disguised as small talk.
"Wouldn't miss it," I said.
"Hog talks about team breakfast like a religious experience," Jake continued. "Hope we live up to the hype."
"I'm sure you will."
"See, that's what worries me." Jake turned his head to look at me. "You seem like a guy who's good at saying the right thing. Real polite. Measured." His grin sharpened. "But this isn't a job site, Contractor. You can't just smile and get through it."
"Jake," Hog said, voice carrying a warning.
"What? I'm making conversation." Jake's eyes never left mine. "Want to make sure Rhett knows what he's signing up for. We're loud. We're a lot. And Hog's ours. You good with that?"
This was the real test. Not only can you talk hockey, but can you handle that we were here first, that we love him, and you don't get to change him or us?
"Yeah," I said. "I'm good with that."
"Just good?"
"Grateful for it," I corrected. "That he has you. That you've got his back."
Pickle launched himself back into motion. "So are you Contractor Guy or Flannel Guy? Do you like pancakes? Have you ever found treasure in a wall? What about bones? Hog says you're good at building things, but can you break things too? Sometimes you need to break things to build them better, right? That's what my therapist says, except she's talking about emotional walls, but I think it applies to real walls too—"
"Kid," Coach said—just the one word.
Pickle's mouth clicked shut. Then, lower: "Sorry. I do that. Talk too much when I'm nervous." He looked at me directly for the first time. "I just—Hog doesn't bring people to breakfast. So you must be, like, important. And I wanted to make a good impression, but I'm bad at that, so I just—" He gestured vaguely at his mouth.
