I could've deflected. Could've made another joke and tried to laugh it off. Instead, I looked at Hog, who was staring back at me.
"I was trying to be funny," I said. "Trying to fit in with the chirping. But I made it sound like what he does is a joke. Like the knitting's not serious, and that's not what I think."
"What do you think?" Evan asked.
I looked at Hog again. He was waiting to hear what I'd say next.
"I think Hog fighting for Pickle and then making sure the other guy was okay is exactly who he is," I said. "I think the banana bread and the fighting come from the same place—caring. And I think the people who can't see that are the ones with the problem, not him." I paused. "I'm sorry I made it sound like I was one of those people."
Jake leaned back. "Better," he said finally. "Way better than if you'd tried to joke your way out of it."
"I wasn't joking."
"I know. That's why it's better." Jake's grin came back, but it was different—less sharp and more genuine. "You're gonna fuck up again, Contractor. Probably soon. But if you can own it like that every time, we'll get along fine."
Pickle nodded enthusiastically. "The scarf's really nice. I can show you a picture if you want. It's got fringe and everything." Then, quieter but more serious: "Hog's the best. You seem like you get that."
"I do," I said.
"Good." Pickle smiled. "Then you'll fit in fine."
The conversation moved on. Evan asked Coach about tomorrow's practice, and Jake stole bacon off Evan's plate. The atmosphere had changed. Not acceptance yet. But something closer to it. Like I'd proven I could handle being wrong and still show up honestly.
Under the table, Hog's hand stayed in mine. His grip was steadier. His thumb moved in slow circles against my palm, and I realized he was grounding me the way I'd tried to ground him earlier.
I wanted to pull him out of the booth and into my truck, kiss him until neither of us remembered why we'd been nervous,press him against cold metal, feel his solid weight, and taste the coffee and syrup on his mouth.
Then Evan said, "I like him," to Hog, like I wasn't sitting right there.
"Me too," Hog said, grinning.
"I'm reserving judgment," Jake announced. "But he's doing better than expected."
"What were you expecting?" I asked.
"Someone who'd try to make Hog pick a side. Or someone who'd pretend the sides didn't exist." Jake's grin had softened slightly. "You're doing neither. So far."
So far. The words hung there. I was still on probation.
The check came. Coach paid over everyone's protests, dropping cash on the table and telling us all to shut up. "My team," he said. "My breakfast."
We filed out into the cold. The parking lot was bright with winter sun, snow piled in dirty banks along the edges. Exhaust clouds hung in the still air as engines started.
Jake clapped Hog on the shoulder as he passed. "He'll do," he said, low enough that maybe I wasn't supposed to hear. "But we're paying attention."
Then he was gone, Evan beside him, Pickle strolling after them toward his ancient Civic.
Coach paused by my truck.
"You coach youth hockey," he said—a statement, not a question.
"Yeah."
"Mika's group."
"That's right."
He nodded once. "Good. Kids need that." He paused. "Hog talks about you. More than he probably realizes." His eyes met mine.
