Page 107 of No Contest
Protection didn't always mean standing between someone and the hit.
Sometimes it meant stepping back, giving them room to face it on their own terms.
I shoved my feet into my boots and followed Mae and Liam into the backyard, where three lopsided snowmen stood waiting in the twilight.
When we came back inside, I found Rhett drying dishes in the kitchen. His mother had disappeared somewhere upstairs.
"Ready?" I asked quietly.
He set down the towel and nodded once.
We said our goodbyes—brief, awkward, the kind that happened when nobody knew what else to say. His mother hugged him at the door, holding on for a beat too long. Rhett promised to return soon. Sloane squeezed my shoulder as she passed.
Then we were outside in the cold, walking toward Rhett's truck.
The headlights carved tunnels through the dark. Snow fell. The heater blasted warm air that smelled faintly of antifreeze and the peppermint air freshener Rhett hung from the rearview mirror.
I drove Rhett's truck while he sat in the passenger seat, his head tipped back against the headrest, eyes half-closed. I kept my eyes on the road. Red River Road was empty this time of night—only us and the occasional snowplow, yellow lights flashing as it pushed snow into neat banks along the shoulder.
Rhett's hand moved on the console between us, reaching for my thigh. His palm was warm. He squeezed once. That was the entire conversation.
When I pulled into my building's parking lot, Rhett's breathing had slowed. Not quite asleep, but close.
"We're here," I said quietly.
He nodded but didn't move, sitting with his head against the headrest, staring at nothing.
"You good to walk?"
"Yeah." He fumbled with the door handle, missing it the first time. "Yeah, I'm good."
Rhett walked into my apartment and stopped in my living room like he'd forgotten what came next.
"Sit," I said.
He sat. Collapsed, really—onto the couch. I grabbed a blanket—the one with the Storm logo that Pickle had given me last Christmas—and draped it over him. He pulled it up to his chin without opening his eyes.
While Rhett slowly drifted off to sleep, I grabbed my project bag from a chair in the corner. Settled onto the floor with my back against the couch, needles and yarn already in my hands.
The project was a scarf for one of Rhett's youth hockey kids—simple garter stitch in Storm colors. Something I could do without looking. It let my hands move while my brain shut down.
The needles clicked. Soft, repetitive.
Above me, Rhett's breathing deepened.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.
I pulled it out one-handed, still knitting.
The Storm group chat was exploding.
Jake:Emergency meeting tomorrow 9 AM. Mandatory. No excuses
Pickle:IS THIS ABOUT THE SALE
Pickle:GUYS IS THIS ABOUT THE SALE
Desrosiers:Obviously, it's about the sale.
