Chapter one
Pickle
Iburst into The Drop like a human confetti cannon with a loose fuse—my own metaphor, and I was already laughing at it before the door finished swinging shut behind me.
Thunder Bay's hockey faithful packed the bar. We were just a week into the new season. Storm jerseys everywhere, scarves knotted around necks, beer pitchers sweating on every surface. Half the booster club claimed the back corner, and Biscuit—Hog's ridiculous rescue mutt, who looked like someone had assembled a dog from spare parts—threaded between ankles.
"Pickle's here!" someone shouted, unnecessary since I'd already vaulted onto the nearest barstool and nearly tipped backward into oblivion.
Evan caught my hoodie. Yanked me upright.
"Insurance liability," he muttered, not quite under his breath.
"Love you too, spreadsheet daddy."
His eye twitched. I lived for that.
The TV above the bar froze on theShark Tanklogo, and the entire room vibrated with the energy of people pretending to bechill while losing their minds. Rhett was about to be on national television. Our Rhett.
He was the guy who'd spent the last year quietly building easy-to-use packaging that could be unlocked with a swipe of a payment card. He worked on it in his workshop while also building a life with our team's enforcer, Hog.
He sat in a corner booth with his knitting out. That was how we all knew it was serious.
I cupped my hands around my mouth. "HOG AND RHETT! HOG AND RHETT!"
The bar picked up my chant. Stomping feet, clinking glasses, and someone's voice cracking on the high notes. The chant rattled the windows and probably pissed off the Thai place next door. I fed on it like it was oxygen.
This. This was everything.
These people, this noise, and the team that had somehow decided I was worth keeping around even when I showed up late to practice because I'd gotten my hand stuck in a Pringles can. Again.
I loved every single one of them. Even the ones who rolled their eyes at me, which was most of them.
The countdown to airtime gave me approximately seven minutes to generate chaos, which was five more than I usually needed.
First casualty: the beer pitcher.
I'd grabbed it from the bar with every intention of delivering it safely to the back table where Desrosiers and a couple of the D-men were setting up camp. Simple task. Toddler-level difficulty. I'd been walking since I was eleven months old—Mom had the video evidence and zero shame about showing it.
But then Jake called my name from across the room, and I turned without slowing down, and Evan's skull interrupted the pitcher's trajectory.
He ducked. Years of defensive instincts were finally paying off in a civilian context.
Beer sloshed across the floor. A little got on his sleeve. It was his good flannel, the shirt Jake had bought him that he pretended not to care about but also washed on the delicate cycle.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry—"
Jake was cackling so hard he had to brace himself on a table.
Evan closed his eyes for a long moment. Centering himself. Finding his calm. Probably mentally updating some internal spreadsheet titledReasons Pickle Should Be Traded to the North Pole.
"I'll get napkins," I said.
"You'll sit down," Evan said.
"But—"
"Sit."
