I kissed him because I didn't know what to say.
When we broke apart, he didn't let go.
"Stay tonight?" he asked.
"Yeah." I pulled back just enough to see his face. "But Rhett—if they move the team, if I have to go—"
"We'll figure it out." His voice was steady and grounded. "One choice at a time, but you've got options. That's new."
Options. The word sounded strange in my head. For twelve years, hockey had been the only choice that mattered. Everything else—where I lived, who I knew, and what I built—came second to the next contract, season, and fight.
Tonight, Margaret had offered me a future that didn't depend on my fists. Tonight, Rhett kissed me in his workshop and said he wanted the quiet version of me.
"Come on," Rhett said, taking my hand. "Let's get out of this cold."
He killed the lights one by one and locked the workshop door behind us. Fat flakes of snow caught in his hair and melted on my face. Our breath fogged in the air between us.
"Follow me?" he asked.
"Yeah."
The drive to his place took five minutes. I watched Rhett's taillights cut through the snow ahead of me. Red dots in white nothing. Steady. Certain.
I parked next to his truck at the house where he lived on the second floor, snow already piling up on our shoulders.
"Cold enough for you?" he asked, fumbling with his keys.
"Brutal."
"Welcome to Thunder Bay in late January." He got the door open and held it for me. "Come on up."
I dropped onto the couch while he hung up his coat, suddenly aware of how tired I was. The day sat heavily on my shoulders—Crawford's watch, the team's fear, teaching six people to cast on, and the conversation in the workshop.
My phone buzzed. It was Jake sending a GIF of a cartoon character setting himself on fire with the caption, "This is fine."
I almost laughed. Almost. Tomorrow we'd find out how fucked we really were. Whether Crawford's preliminary discussions had turned into concrete plans, and whether contracts were getting shredded.
"You okay?" Rhett asked from the kitchen. I heard water running and the clinking of glasses.
"Yeah. Just Jake being Jake."
He returned with two glasses of water, handed me one, then sat close enough that our knees touched.
"You want to talk about tomorrow?" he asked.
"Not really." I took a drink. "I'd rather think about tonight."
"Tonight was good."
"Yeah." I set the glass on the coffee table—handmade, scarred with years of use.
I leaned into Rhett, let my head rest against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around me, hand settling warm against my ribs.
We sat there for a few minutes, his thumb tracing slow circles through my hoodie while somewhere above us a TV blared through the ceiling. The radiator hissed.
Rhett spoke. "Come to bed." It wasn't a demand. It was an invitation.
I followed him down the short hallway to his bedroom—neat in a way that reminded me of Evan, but warmer. A quilt his grandmother had made draped across the bed. He had hockey equipment tucked in the closet and skates hanging by their laces. Photos on the dresser showed people who looked like family.
