Storm versus North Bay. Thursday night hockey. Nothing special.
Through the windshield, I watched people stream into the building. Hog would be skating inside.
I exited the truck before I could talk myself out of it.
The cold hit immediately—breath-stealing, face-numbing cold that made my eyes water. I pulled my hood up and shoved my hands in my pockets, joining the stream of people heading for the entrance.
The guy at the ticket window looked half-asleep. "Standing room only, bud. Fifteen bucks."
I handed him a twenty and pocketed the change.
I climbed the stairs to the upper level and found a spot against the back wall where I could stand without anyone noticing me. Pulled my hood down just enough to see but not enough to be seen.
The teams were already on the ice for warm-ups—the Storm in their home whites and North Bay in dark blue. I spotted Hog immediately—impossible not to with his size and presence—skating lazy circles with Desrosiers, stick tapping the ice every few strides.
He looked loose, easy, and alive.
For two hours, I'd sat in a room that smelled like death, watching my father struggle to breathe while machines beeped and dripped and measured the distance between living and not.Here, Hog crashed into the boards chasing a loose puck during warm-ups and came up laughing.
The horn blew. Players cleared the ice. The Zamboni made its slow circuit while the crowd hummed with restless energy.
I stayed against the wall, arms crossed, anonymous in a sea of Storm jerseys and hopeful faces.
The game started fast.
Jake won the opening face-off, snapping a pass to Evan, who sent it deep. The puck bounced around the North Bay zone for thirty seconds before their defenseman cleared it with a weak shot that Branson—the Storm's backup goalie—caught easily.
First shift. The moment the puck dropped, everything about Hog changed. The easy warmth vanished, replaced by something focused and dangerous. He wasn't the guy who baked banana bread or knitted tiny whales. He was the guy who made other guys think twice.
North Bay's center tried to chip the puck past him. Hog stepped up, shoulder to chest, and the guy went down like he'd been shot. It was a clean hit—all timing and positioning—but brutal. The crowd roared.
"THAT'S IT, HOG!" someone yelled from three rows down.
Hog skated back to the bench, not even breathing hard.
North Bay scored first—a power-play goal off a screen that Branson never saw. The Storm tied it up six minutes later when Jake deked around two defenders and went top shelf. The crowd exploded, and I started to forget anything outside of the arena.
Second period, Hog dropped the gloves.
Their fourth-liner had been running his mouth all night, taking liberties in the corners, crosschecking Pickle every chance he got. Finally crossed a line—elbow to Pickle's head, late and high—and Hog was on him before the whistle finished blowing.
No preamble. No trash talk. Just gloves off, jersey grabbed, and punches landing before the other guy knew what was happening.
Hog caught him twice in the jaw. The guy got one in return—Hog's head snapped back—then Hog pulled him close and landed three more before the linesmen got between them.
Both players to the box. Five minutes each.
The crowd was on its feet. I was on my feet, I realized. My heart was pounding like I'd taken the hit myself.
Hog skated to the penalty box with his jersey half over his head, blood on his knuckles, and the crowd chanting his name.
In the hospice room, my father's hands had been still, mottled and cool to the touch.
Here, Hog had split knuckles, bleeding, and was very much alive.
The Storm killed the penalty, then scored shorthanded when Evan picked off a pass and went coast-to-coast. Two-one Storm. The building shook.
In the third period, Jake scored again—a wrist shot from the slot that went bar-down, the kind of goal that gets replayed forever.
