Page 115 of No Contest
"It is." He stepped closer. "You think your dad taught kids to skate? You think he cleared a drawer for his boyfriend? You think he gave a shit about making things better than what he inherited?"
He pressed his hand flat against my chest. "The business, yeah, he started it, but you made it yours. You hired Justin because you wanted to teach someone. You take jobs your dad would've turned down. You stay late finishing details nobody else would notice because you care."
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out.
"And this workshop?" He gestured around us. "This is you. You're not him. You've never been him. And trying to erase yourself to maintain his legacy is the worst thing you could do with what he taught you."
I raked my fingers through my hair. "I don't know how to separate it. Who I am from who he needed me to be."
"Yeah, you do." He took my hand and turned it palm-up, tracing the calluses.
I stared at our joined hands. His were bigger, scarred from different work—hockey tape and fights, knitting needles and banana bread.
"She asked what was really keeping me here," I said. "Like Thunder Bay was a trap instead of a choice."
"Is it?" He rubbed my palm with his thumb. "A trap?"
I thought about the life I'd built in the margins.
"No. It's not."
"Then tell her that."
I pulled my hand free and grabbed the utility knife from my pocket—worn smooth from years of use. I set the blade against the wood and carved my initials—R.M.
Mine.
The letters were rough, uneven. They looked like someone claiming space.
I stepped back. "That's good," Hog said quietly.
I folded the knife and turned to face him.
"I'm not moving to Nipigon."
The words came out clear and confident.
Hog tilted his head and started to smile. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I took a breath. "I'll help Mom, but I'm not selling the business. I'm not leaving. This is mine. I chose it."
"About fucking time."
I laughed.
He crossed to me and pulled me into his arms—solid and warm and smelling like an ice rink. I buried my face in his shoulder and held on.
"We'll figure it out," he said against my hair. "The logistics. Your mom. All of it."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He pulled back to look at me. "You're stuck with me, Rhett."
I kissed him. I meant it to be quick and grateful, but his hand came up to cup the back of my neck and turned into something deeper. He tasted like the terrible coffee, and his beard scrapedagainst my jaw. The whimpering sound I made would be embarrassing around anyone other than Hog.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing harder.
"So," Hog said. "Now what?"
