My phone buzzed again.
This time, it was him.
Hog:Coffee sounds good. Tomorrow? Most places are closed today anyway.
I stared at the message, reading it three times before the words fully sank in—no hesitation or awkwardness about last night. Just Hog being Hog—practical, straightforward, maybe a little considerate about giving us both time to process whatever this was.
Rhett:Common Thread? 2?
I hit send. Two texts in one morning—practically a record for me. His response came back almost immediately:
Hog:Perfect. After morning skate. See you at 2.
Tomorrow at 2:00 PM. Enough time to get through his morning practice and for me to finish the cabinet project I'd been avoiding and review drills for Tuesday's practice with the ten-year-olds.
The ten-year-olds. Damn. Last week, little Mika Mackenzie had been bouncing on her skates, going on about the big hockey guy who taught her to knit a scarf for her grandma. I'd half-listened, focused on fixing her slap shot form.
I hadn't put it together until now. Hog wasn't only Thunder Bay's loudest export—he'd been quietly woven directly into my world for months, one kid's story at a time.
We'd sit across from each other in Common Thread and probably talk about everyday things—hockey, work, the weather. Underneath it would be the memory of choosing him, of walking across that room and asking for what I wanted.
I didn't know where it would lead. Didn't know if Hog wanted more than coffee. For once, I wasn't planning three moves ahead. Wasn't calculating the safest option or the most practical outcome.
I took another sip of coffee and watched the snow begin to fall again outside my window—fat, lazy flakes blowing in off Superior.
I pulled out my phone to check the weather forecast, thumb swiping to the local news app out of habit. TheThunder Bay Chronicle'shomepage loaded, and I scrolled past the usual NewYear's Day content—resolutions, year-end summaries, photos from around town celebrating—
I stopped scrolling.
There, in a slideshow titled "Thunder Bay Rings in 2025," was a photo of The Drop's dance floor at midnight. And right in the center, clear as day, was me with my hands on Hog's face, kissing him while confetti fell around us.
The caption read: "Local contractor Rhett Mason and Storm enforcer Connor 'Hog' Hawkins share a New Year's moment at The Drop."
Chapter three
Hog
One word was waiting for me when I pushed through the locker room door.
"Domesticated."
Jake said it, rolling it around in his mouth while he grinned at his phone. The photo from theChronicleglowed on his screen—Rhett and me, midnight kiss, confetti falling.
I dropped my gear bag. The thud echoed off the cinder block walls.
"That's the word you're going with?" I yanked my practice jersey over my head, fabric catching on my beard. "Domesticated?"
"It fits." Jake held up his phone so the entire team could see. "Look at you. All soft and claimed. Next thing, you'll be scheduling date nights and sharing mimosas at Sunday brunch."
Pickle appeared from around a corner, stick in one hand and a protein bar in the other. "What's domesticated mean?"
"It means flannel guy collared Hog," Jake explained, delighted with himself. "House-trained. Tamed. Soon he'll stop fighting and start doing couples' yoga."
The locker room erupted—whistles, someone banging equipment, the usual chaos. The word stuck to my ribs like tape residue.
Domesticated.
I'd heard versions of it before. Different words, same meaning:You're too much of one thing. Not enough of another. Pick a lane. Be simpler.
