I couldn't find the words. I watched the tension in his jaw and realized we could have been on opposite ends of the continent. Coach blew his whistle. Evan put his helmet back on and skated away without a word.
I meant to drive straight home after practice. Instead, I zoned out and cruised down Red River Road with no destination in mind.
The thoughts clattered together in my head like hockey sticks. The scout. Tomorrow. Evan's face when he'd looked right through me.
I parked outside the Bay Centre and wandered in, hoping the fluorescent lights and generic mall atmosphere might lobotomize whatever part of my brain was currently eating itself alive. Twenty minutes later, I'd opted for big box stores instead and ended up standing in the yarn aisle of Michaels. I thought perhaps I could figure out how to make the world's biggest stress puck. I was going to need it.
"Vegas?"
I spun around and nearly knocked over a display of crochet hooks.
Hog stood three feet away, massive arms cradling what appeared to be half the store's inventory of pastel-colored yarn. He's tucked his beard into a hand-knitted scarf and wore reading glasses that made him look like a lumberjack librarian.
"What the actual fuck are you doing here?" I was a little too loud, as usual. A mom and her teenage daughter turned and stared.
"Yarn shopping. You?" Hog raised an eyebrow. "Having an existential crisis in the crafts section?"
"I—" I gestured vaguely at nothing. "I was just—"
"Avoiding going home to Spreadsheet." Hog's voice was matter-of-fact. "Yeah, I figured."
He shifted his yarn haul to one arm and studied my face.
"Heard about tomorrow. The scout."
My stomach dropped. "Word travels fast."
"Pickle's got a mouth like a megaphone. The kid's probably on the phone with his grandmother by now." Hog paused. "How you feeling about it?"
"Terrified."
Hog nodded. "Good. Means it matters."
A woman with a toddler squeezed past us, shooting judgmental glares at the two grown men blocking the aisle withan impromptu therapy session. Hog gestured toward the front of the store.
"Come on with me to the checkout. We can talk in my car."
After Hog paid for his massive yarn haul, I followed him through the parking lot, expecting to climb into some massive truck or SUV that matched his lumberjack aesthetic. Instead, he stopped beside a pristine silver Prius and clicked the key fob.
I stared. "You drive a Prius?"
"Gets great mileage, and it's big enough to hold my yarn." He opened the hatchback to reveal an organizational system that would make Evan weep with joy—labeled bins, a fold-out shelf, and what appeared to be a custom-built rack for transporting finished knitted goods. "Plus, it's got excellent cup holders."
"Hog. You're six-foot-three and weigh two-fifty. How do you even fit in that thing?"
"Seat goes all the way back." He grinned, settling behind the wheel with surprising ease. "And before you ask—yeah, I get shit from the guys. But you know what I tell them?"
"What?"
"This car's paid for, gets forty miles to the gallon, and has never left me stranded on the side of the highway." He adjusted his rearview mirror with thick fingers. "Sometimes the practical choice is the right choice, even if it doesn't look like what people expect."
While we sat together there in the parking lot, Hog began the interrogation. "So, talk."
"About what?"
"About why you're so miserable you ended up staring at yarn." His eyes were kind. "About why getting scouted—the thing every player dreams about—has you whimpering like a lost puppy."
I exhaled long and low.
