"It's good," I said carefully. "The kids love it."
"But?" Jake prompted.
"No but."
"There's always a but."
"Not this time." I met his eyes. "Hog teaching kids to knit while coaching hockey makes perfect sense. They're the same skill—patience, repetition, paying attention to what's in front of you. The kids get it even if the adults sometimes don't."
Jake nodded slightly, and some of the testing edge left his posture.
The food arrived—pancakes for me, an egg-white omelet for Evan despite Jake's dire warnings, waffles and bacon for everyone else.
Jake reached for the syrup, and his shoulder hitched. He switched hands without comment, but Evan was already sliding the bottle closer so Jake wouldn't have to stretch.
We ate, and the conversation moved on to safer territory: last night's game, upcoming schedule, and whether Pickle's true crime podcast obsession was getting out of hand.
I listened more than I talked, mapping the dynamics. Jake was the chaos engine, but Evan kept him grounded. Pickle was the kid brother everyone protected. Coach was the anchor, saying little but holding space. And Hog—Hog was the heart. He was the one who made sure everyone was okay, smoothed the rough edges, and loved loudly enough for all of them.
Under the table, Hog reached out for my hand, weaving our fingers together. His palm was warm, and when he squeezed once, I felt the slight tremor he was trying to hide.
I squeezed back, letting my thumb find the soft skin of his inner wrist. His pulse thumped under my touch.
The heat of his hand in mine, hidden under the table while Jake dissected last night's game and Evan made notes—it felt more intimate than anything we'd done last night.
"—and that's when Hog brought banana bread to the hospital," Jake said, gesturing with his fork. "We're visiting the guy he just fought, and Hog's handing out baked goods like we're at a church social."
"He had a concussion," Hog said. "Concussions require comfort carbs."
"You gave him your grandmother's recipe."
"It's a good recipe."
"You gave it to someone who tried to take Pickle's head off."
"He apologized," Hog said. "And nobody's head came off. Everyone's fine."
"Soft," Coach muttered.
Hog's face was earnest, slightly defensive, like he expected us to think it was ridiculous. I read the room, trying to figure out whether this was a moment where they were teasing him or criticizing, and I made my choice.
"Well," I said, aiming for light, "at least he didn't knit the guy a get-well scarf."
The words landed like a brick through a window.
No one spoke for a moment.
Jake's eyebrows rose. Pickle's mouth fell open slightly.
Pickle spoke up first. "Actually, Hog made me a scarf. It was in my first week on the team. It had little pickles on it." He looked at me. "I still have it."
Fuck.
My face flushed.
"That's—" I started, then stopped. Smoothing it over would make it worse. "I'm sorry. What I said came out wrong."
"How'd you mean it?" Jake asked. His voice was level, but his eyes were sharp.
