Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

2. Jack

Chapter two

Jack

T he arena parking lot was half-full—SUVs with salt-streaked bumpers and pickups with faded hockey decals. The vehicles were functional and dependable, as I needed Whistleport to be for Cody.

It was the junior league's third Saturday of winter hockey practice, the final one before official games began. While waiting for me to park, Cody's fingers pounded an enthusiastic rhythm against his equipment bag.

"Hey, Dad, look at how many cars are here already. Coach Rory said practice starts at seven, but everyone comes early to—" He paused mid-sentence, squinting through the windshield. "Oh man, is that Oliver from my math class? He wasn't here the last two times!"

I shifted into park, watching the kids hauling their gear toward the entrance. Back in New York, I'd known every parent and every player. Here, almost every face was a question mark. "You're doing great, bud. Just take it slow, get a feel for—"

Cody threw open his door before I could finish, letting in a blast of Maine winter that smelled of pine and sea salt. "I know, I know—Oliver's cool, Dad. You'll like him. And look, he's wearing a Canadiens jersey!"

I watched my son bounce across the parking lot. Pride and worry settled in my chest—feelings I'd known since Cody's first steps on the ice and his first day of kindergarten. Pride that he was already finding his place. Worry that I couldn't protect him from the unknowns of our new hometown.

And there was something else crowding into my thoughts—something sharper but quieter.It was the gut-deep ache of missing how things used to be.

Before the divorce.

I should have been used to it by now. Butsome mornings, I still reached for my phone before remembering there was no one to text about how Cody was smiling in his sleep when I entered his bedroom to wake him.

The dashboard clock read 6:42. We were early, and I decided to stick around to meet a few more of my new neighbors. I had plenty of time to scope out the territory before the real crowd arrived.

I grabbed my travel mug, already half-empty from our morning stop at Tidal Grounds, and stepped out into the crisp air. The renovated arena rose before me, its fresh paint and updated signage standing out against the weathered buildings nearby. Inside those walls, my son would either find his place or...

I shook off the thought. We'd chosen Whistleport for solid reasons—it was a fresh start and a chance for Cody to play the game he loved without the baggage of being "the kid with two dads" or "the one from the messy divorce." Here, I counted on the locals to let him be Cody, the new kid who loved hockey.

It was also the only way I could give him stability without losing my career completely. I'd worked out a deal with my architecture firm before we left—remote projects from here, with quarterly trips back to New York for meetings. It wasn't perfect, but the compromise let me keep my job and my son's best interests intact.

At least, that was the idea.

Inside, the arena hummed with pre-practice energy. Parents clustered in the bleachers, smartphones in hand, while kids clomped around in various states of dress for the rink.

I found a spot halfway up the aluminum bleachers, positioning myself with a clear view of the ice. I was far enough from the chattering crowd to maintain my anonymity, or so I thought. It lasted approximately forty-five seconds.

"You must be Jack!" A woman in a puffy blue coat turned around, coffee sloshing dangerously in her cup. "I'm Ruthie Langford—you might have seen me at Tidal Grounds." She gestured toward the ice. "My grandson Oliver's sitting there with your boy by the lockers. We've been so curious about—" She caught herself. "I mean, it's wonderful to have new families join the program."

"Thanks." I did my best to sound friendly and engaged. "Cody's excited to be here."

"Oh, he's precious. Already making friends, I see. And you're from New York? The city?"

Before I could respond, the arena doors swung open, bringing a gust of cold air and the unmistakable scent of fresh coffee. Silas strode in, balancing a drink carrier and wearing a thermal Henley that hugged his shoulders a little too well. He moved through the space with practiced ease, calling out greetings and dodging equipment bags like a pro.

Our eyes met across the bleachers, and his warm and curious expression made my pulse pound a little heavier in my ears. He lifted the drink carrier in a small salute, and I returned the gesture with my nearly empty cup.

"Oh, you've met our Silas! Of course, dear. You see him every morning at his charming shop." Ruthie puffed up with pride. "Best coffee in three counties, though I'm sure it's nothing like your New York lattes."

I watched as Silas handed a cup to Rory. "His maple latte could hold its own anywhere. New York shops have nothing on him."

Silas heard my comment. "High praise from a city boy, but you missed my seasonal specials for the holidays. Cody would have loved my peppermint hot chocolate. I might have to bring it back as a late-winter treat."

"That would be something. He says he can't live without your standard hot chocolate."

"The highest praise a ten-year-old can give," Silas settled onto the bleachers one row down from me. He smelled like coffee and something warm and spiced—probably whatever he'd been baking that morning. "So, how's Whistleport treating you so far?"

I was halfway through telling Silas about Cody's encounter with a particularly bold seagull at the harbor when a flash of neon yellow appeared in my peripheral vision.

"Jack St. Pierre!" The voice rang through the arena with enough force to turn several heads. "I was wondering when I'd finally get to meet you properly!"

An older woman in cat-eye glasses and a cardigan that could probably be seen from space bustled toward us with remarkable speed. Silas muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "brace yourself" before plastering on a bright smile.

"Dottie, your timing is impeccable. I was about to tell Jack about the infamous '87 Peewee championship game."

"Oh, who cares about ancient history." Dottie wedged herself onto the bleachers with surprising agility. "I want to hear all about New York. Is it true you worked on restoring that lovely Art Deco building on Park Avenue? The one with all the bronze details?" She leaned in close enough for me to smell her powdery perfume. "My niece Margaret works at an architecture firm in Boston, and she said—"

"Dottie," Silas interrupted gently, "I think Coach Rory's trying to get your attention."

She swiveled around so fast that her glasses went slightly askew. "Where? Oh! That reminds me—I must ask him about the winter carnival committee..." She was up and moving before I could process the transition, leaving a lingering cloud of perfume and questions in her wake.

"Sorry about that." Silas shook his head. "Dottie's our unofficial town crier. Heart of gold, but she could pull secrets out of a brick wall if you let her."

"She knew about the Park Avenue project." I raised an eyebrow at him. "I only mentioned that to you yesterday."

The tips of his ears went slightly pink. "Small town. News travels fast." He cleared his throat. "Especially when it comes with a great cup of coffee."

Out on the ice, Cody was running drills with his new teammates. He'd always been a strong skater, but something about his movements seemed lighter here, more confident. He caught my eye through the plexiglass and gave me a thumbs-up before racing after a puck.

"Rory says Cody's got good instincts for hockey." Silas leaned back. "He's good at reading the ice."

"You play?"

"Used to. My only appearances are at the beer league level now, when they need a sub." He gestured toward the far goal. "Your boy's got better hands than I ever did, though. Must get it from his dad?"

My shoulders tensed. This was usually where conversations got awkward—when I had to decide how much to explain and reveal. At least, that was the pattern with nosy types. Silas's expression showed nothing but genuine interest, and his easy way with words made me want to be honest.

"Actually, neither of his dads played. Edward—my ex—was more of a tennis guy. And I..." I shrugged. "I can almost skate well enough to keep up with an active ten-year-old, but that's about it."

Silas absorbed my revelation with a simple nod. I'd already shared information about Edward at Tidal Grounds. I appreciated the opportunity to flesh the story out more.

"So he found hockey on his own?"

"There was a learn-to-play program at Chelsea Piers." I watched Cody line up for another drill, his face set in concentration. "He saw the kids on the ice one day while we were walking past and wouldn't stop talking about it. Edward thought he'd lose interest after a few lessons, but..."

"Hockey has a way of getting under your skin." Silas's voice sounded like it carried decades of wisdom. He was watching Cody, too, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Even if you're only observing from the stands."

Rory's whistle blew, sharp and clear. He gathered the kids around him and began to explain the next drill. Cody's enthusiasm hadn't waned at all. He leaned forward to catch every word.

"He really wants this to work." I spoke quietly, as much to myself as to Silas. "The move, the team, all of it."

"And you?"

It shouldn't have, but somehow, the question caught me off guard. I'd focused so much on Cody that I didn't spend much time thinking about what I wanted out of our new situation. Silas challenged me to look directly at my feelings about Whistleport.

"I want..." I paused, trying to find the right words. "I want him to have somewhere he belongs. Somewhere, he doesn't have to explain his family or feel different." The words were true, but I realized as soon as I spoke they were still about Cody and not me.

Silas responded in a low, careful tone. "Different isn't always bad. Sometimes, it only means you consider more workable options than others."

A commotion on the ice drew our attention. Cody had managed to thread a perfect pass through two defenders, leading to a goal that had his teammates crowding around him with whoops of celebration. His grin was visible even through his cage.

Silas grinned. "Look at that. I'd say he's getting along fine."

I watched closely as Cody's teammates pounded him on the back. He started moving his stick back and forth, recreating his triumphant moment for his new admirers.

"You know," Silas continued, "this town... it's not as simple as it might seem at first glance. People here, they've got layers. Stories. Sometimes, the ones who seem the most traditional are the ones who'll surprise you."

Practice wrapped up with a scrimmage with all the parents leaning forward in their seats. Cody's earlier pass had earned him a spot on one of the first lines, and even with my limited hockey knowledge, I saw how hard he was working to prove he deserved it.

Silas lowered his elbows to his knees and whistled between two fingers. "He's got that look. It's the one that says he's already planning tomorrow's practice in his head."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Takes one to know one." I glanced at him with questions in my eyes. "Let's just say I always tried to stay one step ahead in culinary school. Still have the notebooks somewhere."

The mental image of a younger Silas, probably wearing that same focused expression I'd seen behind his coffee bar, made me smile. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me at all."

"I'll have you know I was one of the coolest in my class." He chuckled under his breath. "Ask Dottie. She's got photographic evidence from pretty much every stage of my life. I'm Whistleport born and bred."

"Now, those I'd like to see."

"Careful what you wish for. She's probably already planning a slideshow as a side element for the next poetry reading."

The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of practice. Kids began skating toward the boards, faces flushed with exertion and excitement. Cody was among the last off the ice, trading fist bumps with his teammates before making his way to where I waited with his water bottle.

"Dad! Did you see that pass? And then in the scrimmage when Tyler and I—" He spotted Silas and somehow managed to grin even wider. "Silas! Are you coming to all the practices? Because that would be awesome, and you should bring hot chocolate next time because after skating it would be like, the perfect—"

I placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. "Breathe, bud."

"We'll see about the hot chocolate, and I come to practice once in a while," Silas said, standing and gathering his empty cups. "I'm testing a new maple chocolate scone recipe tomorrow morning. You know, in case any hungry hockey players happen to stop by."

Cody's eyes lit up. "Dad—"

"Yes, we can stop at Tidal Grounds before school." I shook my head at Silas. "You're going to have us in there every morning at this rate."

"That's the plan. See you tomorrow, men." Silas's gaze lingered on me for a beat longer than expected before he turned away

I watched him weave through the dispersing crowd, stopping to chat with Rory and wave to a few departing parents. He moved through the space entirely at ease, working to make everyone around him feel included.

"Dad?" Cody's voice brought my attention back to him. "Can we practice that pass in the driveway when we get home? I want to make sure I can do it again tomorrow."

"Sure, buddy." I helped him gather his gear, consciously pushing away thoughts of warm brown eyes and gentle smiles. "But homework first, okay?"

On the drive home, Cody broke down every drill, pass, and pointer Rory delivered. I listened, offering the appropriate noises of appreciation while navigating the quiet streets of Whistleport. The sunset painted the harbor in shades of purple and gold.

"And Tyler says there are pickup games for adults sometimes on Sundays when the ice is free. Can we come to those, too? Please? I can see Brooks play, a real life NHL player." Cody's reflection in the rearview mirror was full of barely contained energy. "He says lots of parents play too, even if they're not that good, and—"

"We'll see." I turned onto our street in the oldest part of Whistleport. According to the realtor, our two-story house had belonged to a lobstering family for almost one hundred years. They'd recently sold it to an out-of-state owner who set it up as a rental property. "Let's get through a few regular practices first, okay?"

"But you had fun today, right?" Cody sounded slightly worried. "I mean, you talked to Silas the whole time, and he's cool. Way cooler than Mr. Anderson from my old team. He never brought coffee or knew anything about hockey or—"

"Cody." I pulled into our driveway, killing the engine but making no move to get out. "Are you worried about me?"

He fidgeted with his equipment bag's zipper. "Maybe? It's just... you always said we moved here for me because of hockey and stuff. I want you to like it and have friends and everything."

The simple honesty of his wishes hit me like a check to the boards. "Come here, bud." I turned in my seat. "Yeah, we moved here for you. But I'm not just... watching from the penalty box, okay? I'm learning to skate through this new life, too."

"Like how you got Silas to remember your coffee order at Tidal Grounds?" His grin turned sly. "I heard him tell Coach Rory you ordered the same thing three times in a row."

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. My usual defense about "liking routine" sounded thin, even to me.

Cody was already scrambling out of the car. "Can we practice now? I promised Tyler I'd master that spin move by tomorrow."

I watched him bound toward the house, all gangly limbs and infectious enthusiasm. Through our kitchen window, I saw the warm glow of the light I forgot to turn off in the darkness of early morning—my morning since I'd been the one to get up early, drawn to the quiet comfort of Tidal Grounds and drawn, if I was being honest, to the familiar voice and easy smile behind the counter.

Three Saturdays in a row.

I followed Cody inside. We had passes to perfect, and tomorrow morning would bring a new wave of welcoming warmth, one scone and one cup of coffee at a time.