Pickle sealed it with an empty-netter in the final minute, and the building shook like the whole city needed to remember how to cheer. Four-two. Storm victory.
The team mobbed Branson at the net—gloves flying, sticks raised, that moment of pure joy that made everything else worth it. Hog was in the middle of it, one arm around Pickle's shoulders, the other pumping his stick in the air.
The crowd cheered—the full-throated roar of people who'd needed this on a Thursday night in late January.
The players saluted the crowd. Hog skated past the section where I stood—too high up and too far back for him to see me,but I saw him. Saw the blood on his jersey, split knuckle, and the grin that said he'd do it all again tomorrow.
I stayed until most of the crowd had cleared out and the maintenance guys started sweeping popcorn from the aisles. Then I pulled my hood back up and headed for the exit.
Outside, the cold bit hard. My breath fogged in front of me, and I heard car doors slamming somewhere across the parking lot and engines turning over.
I walked toward my truck, keys in hand, and realized I didn't want to go home yet. I didn't want to sit alone in my apartment in silence and with the knowledge that Sloane would call when it was time.
I wanted Hog. I wanted to see him off the ice, out of the gear, back to being the guy who made tiny animals and worried about being too much. Wanted to touch him and be touched and remember that people existed outside the hospice room where they measured time in morphine drips.
My phone buzzed.
Hog:You at the game? Thought I felt you watching.
I stared at the message. He'd felt me watching. He'd somehow known I was there.
Rhett:Yeah. Upper level. You played well.
Hog:Meet me at the loading dock. Ten minutes
I thought about going home and letting him celebrate with the team. I didn't. Instead, I walked toward the loading dock.
It was around back, away from the main entrance, where families were still filtering out—service vehicles only—Zamboni access and equipment trucks.
Snow was falling under the floodlights, fluffy flakes that caught the yellow glow and turned the air thick with white. My boots crunched over packed ice as I rounded the corner.
Hog was already there.
Still in his gear—shoulder pads visible under his unzipped Storm jacket, skates traded for slides, and hair damp from the helmet. His knuckles were taped fresh, white gauze covering whatever damage he'd done to them during the fight.
"You came," he said.
"Needed to see you play." My voice was sandpapery and raw.
He crossed the distance between us in three strides, one hand coming up to cup the back of my neck. His palm was warm despite the cold, solid and grounding.
"Don't," I said quickly. "Don't ask me if I'm okay. Please don't make me explain. Just—"
"Okay."
We stood under the floodlights while snow fell and the sounds of the arena faded behind us.
"Your place or mine?" he asked quietly.
"Yours."
"Follow me?"
I nodded.
He squeezed my neck once more—gentle but firm, like he was trying to keep me anchored to the ground—then let go and headed for his Prius.
The drive took ten minutes. I kept his taillights in sight the whole way, red dots cutting through white snow, steady and sure.
