Page 64 of Puck Wild
"What if I don't want to leave?"
Hog didn't reply immediately. He waited for me to continue.
"I know that sounds crazy. Moving up is the point, right? But Thunder Bay..." I trailed off, unsure how to explain that a broken-down team in a frozen city had become the first place I felt at home since I was twelve years old.
"And Evan," Hog said quietly.
"What about Evan?"
"Kid, you've looked at that boy like he hung the moon since day one. You think I haven't noticed?" Hog's smile was gentle. "Question is: what are you gonna do about it?"
"I don't know if there's anything to do. He barely looked at me today after Pickle dropped the scout bomb. Maybe he's already writing me off."
"Or maybe he's protecting himself." Hog leaned toward me. "You know what Evan's story is? All those foster homes?"
I nodded.
"He's learned that caring about people who leave hurts like hell. So, when someone he cares about starts looking like they might disappear..." Hog shrugged. "Walls go up. It's not personal. It's survival."
I fidgeted.
"I keep thinking about what I'd be leaving behind. Not only Evan. All of it. The team. Coach's terrible motivational speeches. Your banana bread—"
Hog smirked. "That would suck. My banana bread is legendary."
"—even Pickle's stupid questions about my reality TV past." I looked up at Hog. "Does that make me an idiot? Choosing minor league hockey and a guy who organizes his spice rack alphabetically over a shot at the show?"
Hog tugged his beard out of his scarf.
"You know what I think? I think maybe the question isn't whether you're choosing wrong. Maybe it's whether you're choosing at all, or letting other people choose for you."
"What do you mean?"
"Scouts come. Doesn't mean you have to go. Rockford calls. Doesn't mean you have to answer." His eyes took on a serious glow. "The show's only worth it if you want it. Not if you're chasing it because someone else said that's what success looks like."
I leaned back in my seat. "And Evan?"
"Tell him the truth. All of it. What you're thinking, what you're scared of, and what you want." Hog grinned. "Kid's got a spreadsheet for everything else. Maybe he can make one for this, too."
Despite everything, I laughed. "A relationship crisis management spreadsheet?"
"Color-coded tabs for different scenarios. I'd pay to see it."
We sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by the mundane activity of the parking lot. A lanky teen pushed a long line of carts toward the front door, tails of his scarf catching the breeze behind him.
"Thanks," I said finally.
"For what?"
"For being here. In the yarn aisle. And for," I gestured between us, "this."
Hog's smile was warm. "That's what family does, Vegas. We show up. In craft stores, dive bars, and locker rooms. Anywhere everything's falling apart. The question is: what kind of family do you want to build?"
I thanked him again and climbed out of the Prius. An hour later, I stood outside the apartment door with takeout bags, Hog's words echoed in my head. What kind of family did I want to build? Was I brave enough to find out whether Evan wanted to build it with me?
I stood there for thirty seconds, plastic bags cutting off circulation to my fingertips, while I tried to decide if bringinghome Evan's favorite dumplings qualified as bribery or an actual peace offering.
The apartment was too quiet when I walked in. No laptop clicking. No soft humming from the kitchen. Only Evan seated at the dining table, surrounded by color-coded folders and that label maker he treated like a prized possession.
