"A bad choice." It wasn't criticism. It was an analysis.
"A Hog choice," Jake corrected. "Which worked, because now we're not talking about how we lost, we're talking about how we won ugly."
Pickle leaned forward, trying to follow. "But if Desrosiers had just—"
"Kid," Coach said, "pass the syrup and let the adults argue."
They moved the salt and pepper around, Evan occasionally reaching over to correct positioning. Jake was more animated with each gesture. Hog caught my eye, smiled slightly, and winced as the movement pulled something in his ribs.
This was a family, not by blood, but by choice, repetition, and showing up.
"—so what do you think?" Jake looked at me expectantly.
I'd missed the question entirely. "Sorry, what?"
"See? He's not even listening." Jake turned toward Hog. "Your boyfriend's ignoring us. That's rude."
"He's not ignoring you. He's observing."
"Observing what?"
"How you all work together," I said. "Trying to figure out where I fit."
Jake's grin went sharp again. "And?"
"Still figuring it out."
"Huh." Jake leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Here's the thing, Contractor. You don't fit. Not yet. Maybe not ever. This isn't a team you join by showing up to breakfast and being polite. It's a team you earn by being there when it's three a.m. and someone's spiraling. When Pickle takes a hit that should've put him in the hospital, and we're all sitting in the waiting room. When Hog's body gives out—and it will—he needs someone who won't flinch."
Silence reigned.
"You seem like a nice guy," Jake continued. "Polite. Good with kids. Probably great at your job. But nice doesn't mean you can handle this. Handle him." He nodded at Hog. "When the season goes bad, and his ribs are broken instead of bruised. When he's fighting guys he shouldn't fight because that's who he is—you gonna stick around for that? Or you gonna decide it's too much work and find someone simpler?"
Hog turned his head to look at me, waiting for my response.
"I don't know," I said.
Jake's eyebrows went up. "What?"
"I don't know if I can handle all of that. I've never done this before—been part of something like this. I don't know if I'll be good enough at it. But I want to try."
Jake studied me for a long moment. Then he looked at Evan.
"Thoughts?" he asked.
Evan closed his notebook. "That's the first thing he's said that I actually believe."
"Yeah." Jake leaned back. The line between his eyebrows smoothed slightly. Still testing, but the hostile edge had dulled. "Okay. You can stay for breakfast. But we've got an eye on you, Contractor. And if you hurt him, nice guy or not, we'll have a problem."
"Understood."
"Good." Jake flagged the server. "Now let's talk about something easier. You coach kids, right? Mika's group?"
"Yeah."
"Hog's been helping with that. Teaching the kids to knit between drills. Very wholesome. Very on-brand." Jake's tone made it clear he was heading somewhere. "How's that working out? Having Thunder Bay's enforcer teaching children domestic arts?"
The question had teeth underneath. This wasn't about knitting. This was about whether I saw Hog as one thing or another—whether I was comfortable with the contradiction or whether I'd try to smooth it out, make him simpler.
