"Fuck," Evan muttered. "That's terrible, even for you."
"What? It's a knitting pun. I'm being supportive."
I laughed, authentic humor. Maybe that was my real job. Not the fights, penalty minutes, or highlight reel hits. Perhaps it was this—keeping the threads together when everything else frayed.
My phone buzzed a third time. I pulled it out.
Rhett:You okay? Know you've got a lot going on. I'm here if you need to talk. Or not talk. Whatever you need
I typed back:
Hog:Have something tonight. Class at Margaret's. Can I come by after?
Three dots appeared immediately.
Rhett:Of course. I'll be in the workshop, and I'll leave the light on.
***
The yarn shop smelled like wool and chamomile tea, soft lamplight pooling over the tables Margaret had arranged in a neat circle. I stood near the register, checking my notes for the third time like they were a game plan instead of instructions for a basic knit stitch.
"You're going to wear a hole in that paper," Margaret said, setting out tiny scissors and stitch counters with the precision of a nurse prepping an operating room. "It's six people, Connor. Not Madison Square Garden."
"Six people who paid money to learn something." I folded the notes, unfolded them, folded them again. "What if I'm terrible at this?"
"What if you trust yourself for five minutes?"
The bell above the door chimed.
Five people filtered in over the next ten minutes. An older woman with her husband in a cardigan. A teenager—all elbows and attitude—dragged here by someone. A woman in scrubs who looked like she'd just finished a twelve-hour shift at the hospital.
And then Gary Pelletier.
I recognized him from the mill—or what used to be the mill before it closed last fall. He'd been in the paper and quoted in an article about layoffs. He was fifty-three years old, thirty years at the same job, gone overnight when the parent company restructured.
He stood in the doorway like he wasn't sure he belonged, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.
"Gary," Margaret said warmly. "Glad you made it."
He nodded once and sat, not making eye contact with anyone.
The older woman introduced herself as Dorothy, nudging her husband. "I'm Dorothy, and this is Harold. He's only here because I told him it would help with his arthritis."
"Doctor said it might," Harold muttered.
The teenager—Bryce—was staring at me. "Wait. Are you that guy from the Storm? The enforcer?"
Every muscle in my body tensed. Here it was—the moment when both worlds collided and somebody got hurt. When the yarn shop crowd realized I was the knuckle-dragging goon, or when the hockey fan figured out the enforcer spent his free time making tiny animals out of yarn.
"That's me," I said, trying for casual. "Connor. Hog. Whatever works."
"Dude, you've been in some awesome fights," Bryce said, perking up. "Like Kellner—you just—" He mimed an uppercut.
Gary shifted in his seat but didn't look up.
I looked around the circle—six faces staring at me with expressions ranging from curious to star-struck to mildly confused. The nurse looked too tired to care who I was as long as I could teach her something relaxing.
"So," I said. "Who wants to learn how to knit?"
