"Why?"
Because they weren't enforcers. Because they didn't know what it felt like to drop gloves at center ice while twelve thousand people screamed. Because they'd never had their entire identity wrapped up in being the guy who protected everyone else, and now I was supposed to what—teach people to purl?
I couldn't say any of that, so I shrugged.
"Here's what I know about you," Rhett said finally. "You're scared of things that matter. Workshop visits, team breakfast, and bringing me to the knitting circle—you get nervous when something's real. When it counts."
"I'm not scared—"
"You dropped three stitches tonight. Edith told me when I texted to see if you were ready." He merged onto the street that led toward my apartment. "You only drop stitches when your brain won't shut up."
Damn him for being observant. Damn Edith for her texting habit.
"Margaret's offering you something that matters," Rhett continued. "Something your grandmother built and loved and wanted you to have. That's terrifying. Way scarier than taking a hit from some asshole who wants to rearrange your face."
The truck's wipers kept beating their rhythm. Outside, Thunder Bay scrolled past.
A car behind us honked. Rhett lifted a hand in apology and accelerated through the intersection.
I took another sip of hot chocolate to give myself something to do with my hands, but it had cooled enough that I could taste it now—real chocolate, not the powdered stuff, with a hint of vanilla.
"I think I'm going to tell her yes," I said.
"Good." Rhett's voice was steady and sure. "You should."
"Not right away. I need to—I need to think about it. Figure out how it would work with the season. With playoffs."
"Makes sense."
We turned onto my street. The old Victorian that housed my apartment was lit up—Mrs. Johnson, on the first floor, always kept her lights on late, saying it made the neighborhood safer. My windows on the second floor were dark.
Rhett parked and killed the engine. The sudden silence was loud—only our breathing and the tick of the cooling motor.
"You hungry?" he asked.
I looked at him. At the way his hand rested on the gearshift, close enough to touch. At how he'd driven across town to pick meup from the knitting circle without me even asking, just texted to say he'd be there.
"For food or for trouble?"
His grin was slow, deliberate. "Yes."
I laughed—real this time, not the nervous kind. "You're a bad influence."
"You love it."
I did. That was the terrifying part.
We got out of the truck and headed up the walk. Snow had drifted across the steps—nobody'd shoveled since the morning. Rhett grabbed my elbow when I slipped on a patch of ice, his grip steady and sure.
Inside, the building was warm, smelled like Mrs. Johnson's cooking—something warm and nostalgic that made my stomach growl. We climbed the stairs to the second floor, boots leaving wet prints on the worn carpet.
I unlocked my apartment and flicked on the lights.
"Welcome to the chaos," I said, kicking aside a yarn basket that had colonized the entryway.
Rhett stepped inside, snow melting off his jacket. He looked around—at the laundry chair piled high with clean clothes I hadn't folded, the half-finished projects draped over every surface, and my hockey gear drying by the radiator.
"It's you," he said. "I like it."
