Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

3. Silas

Chapter three

Silas

T he plexiglass creaked under my weight as I leaned against it, balancing two coffee cups and watching Rory demonstrate what he insisted was a "textbook slapshot" to Brooks. It was early morning, before school on a Tuesday, and the rink was empty.

"Your form's getting rusty, Blake," Brooks called out, effortlessly stealing the puck from Rory and wheeling around for a shot that pinged satisfyingly off the crossbar. "Too many poetry readings, not enough practice."

I grinned as Rory abandoned all pretense of technique and chased Brooks across the ice, their skates carving parallel arcs into the pristine surface. Some things never changed—those two had been racing each other around the Whistleport rink since we were kids.

"If you're done showing off," I called out, lifting the cups, "I've got your usual. Though maybe Brooks needs the caffeine more, if he's resorting to cheap shots."

They glided over, cheeks flushed from exertion. Rory grabbed his cup—dark roast and a splash of oat milk—and inhaled deeply. "You're a saint, Si."

"Nah, merely a businessman who knows his regulars." My reply was automatic and a little distracted. Across the ice, Jack appeared, crouching beside Cody, adjusting the boy's skate laces with careful fingers.

"Speaking of regulars," Brooks said, following my gaze with poorly concealed interest, "heard from Ziggy yesterday. Said he's coming up from UMaine for Winter Carnival, between games."

"Yeah?" The news snapped my attention back. "How's the poetry-quoting hockey star doing down in Orono?"

"Making waves." Rory spoke with obvious pride. He'd been a role model and mentor for Ziggy Knickerbocker from childhood. "Coach says he's still driving the team crazy reciting Frost in the locker room. Some things never change."

He paused, then added with deliberate casualness, "I don't think he'll be ready to read anything at Winter Carnival, but you can talk to him about appearing at one of the Tidal Grounds poetry readings soon. He said he's been writing some new stuff."

Brooks chuckled. "Remember that game against Ellsworth when he quoted Emily Dickinson after that high-sticking call? The refs didn't know what to do with him."

Rory grinned. "The kids are going to lose their minds when he walks into the rink."

"Yeah, true." My voice had gone flat because my focus drifted again. Jack had straightened up, one hand resting lightly on Cody's shoulder as they talked strategy. The morning sun streaming through the skylights caught the silver at his temples, and I found myself wondering how it would feel to—

"Earth to Silas," Brooks interrupted, smirking. "You planning to join us on Planet Hockey anytime soon?"

Heat crept up my neck. "Just thinking about inventory," I lied, then immediately felt guilty for the deception. "And trying to remember if I ordered enough hot chocolate for Cody's post-practice visits."

Rory's knowing look told me I wasn't fooling anyone, but he kindly changed the subject. The conversation shifted to safer territory, but I couldn't ignore the warm sensations that spread through me every time Jack's quiet laugh drifted across the ice.

I decided to take a closer look at Cody's skating skills before leaving the arena. He was demonstrating his skills for Jack.

"Papa! Watch this!"

Just twenty feet away, he demonstrated his stopping technique, spraying ice as he came to a perfect hockey stop.

"Coach Blake says I'm getting better at edges!" Cody practically vibrated with pride.

Jack crouched beside him, one hand steadying his son's shoulder. "You are," he said, voice calm and encouraging. "And you know why?"

Cody squinted. "Because I practiced?"

"That helped, but it's also your inside knee. Remember what we talked about?"

Cody frowned for a second, but then he remembered. "Oh! Keep it bent so my blade stays flat."

"Exactly." Jack lightly squeezed his shoulder. "Your edges only work if you trust them. The ice does the rest."

I forced myself to look away,but the image stuck—a father grounding his son, steadying him how only a parent could.

The last time I'd seen a father and son like that—seen it and felt it—I was fifteen, standing in this very rink, watching my own dad lace up my skates before a game.

It was before he left and before the weight of his absence settled into my bones to become an injury that never fully healed.

I pushed away from the boards, suddenly needing air. My hands were trembling slightly as I gathered the empty coffee cups.

Down at the other end of the rink, Brooks caught my eye with a look that was too perceptive for comfort. "Heading out?"

"Yeah, got to prep for the morning rush." I managed what I hoped was a casual smile. "Dottie's bridge club meets tomorrow. If I don't have her lemon scones ready by eight, I'll never hear the end of it."

Something inside me told me to run, but I held onto my composure enough to walk toward the exit, glancing back once at Rory and Brooks. The skating was over, but they lingered near the penalty box, lost in their own world. Brooks absently adjusted Rory's scarf, and Rory responded by brushing a kiss against his partner's palm. The gesture was perfectly natural and unselfconscious.

It wasn't only the casual intimacy that impacted me. It was how they moved through Whistleport together, neither hiding nor advertising who they were. There was a quiet pride in Rory's eyes whenever Brooks announced his latest community project. They'd built something real in town that went far beyond their high school friendship and shared love of hockey.

Looking at them now, I wondered if I'd spent so many years convincing myself I was content with my solitary life that I'd forgotten to imagine anything else might be possible. Or worse—what if I had imagined it at one point in my life? Then, I buried it so deeply that I convinced myself it was not for me. Some people were meant to belong. Others were meant to watch from the outside.

I'd barely taken three steps toward my truck when I heard a voice calling behind me. "Silas! Did you see? Did you see my stop?" Cody zipped through the lobby doors, face flushed with excitement. His dark hair stuck up in damp spikes where he'd yanked off his helmet.

"Sure did, bud. Pretty impressive." I turned back, trying to ignore how my pulse quickened as Jack followed at a more measured pace. His cheeks were pink from the cold rink air, and that shy half-smile appeared as our eyes met.

"Coach Blake says I'm getting better at edges," Cody continued, practically bouncing. "Papa, can we tell him about the thing? The cool thing?"

"Why don't you tell him yourself?"

"I got picked for the shootout competition!" Cody could barely contain himself. "At the Winter Carnival! Coach Blake says I can do it!"

"That's fantastic." I grinned. "You'll have to practice your celebration move. It might not be literary flourishes like Ziggy Knickerbocker used to use, but I'm sure you can think of something."

"Wait—Ziggy Knickerbocker? The UMaine player?" Cody's eyes opened wide. "He's from here?"

"Born and raised," I confirmed. "His dad has a lobster boat in the harbor. I heard Ziggy's going to be at the carnival."

"That's so cool!"

"Did you know Ziggy worked for me?" I watched Cody's face light up

"Really? At Tidal Grounds?"

I nodded, smiling as memories flooded back. "When he was in high school. He was great. One winter, right before Christmas, we had this massive snowstorm. Roads were terrible, and power was out all over town."

Jack leaned in to listen, too.

"Ziggy walked through the snow from his house—not for his shift, mind you. He wasn't even scheduled. But Mrs. Henderson was grieving having recently lost her husband, and he knew she'd be devastated to miss her morning coffee and chess game with Mr. Perkins. Said someone needed to make sure the regulars could count on us."

"He walked in deep snow?" Cody blinked.

"Yep. We fired up the backup generator, and he spent the whole morning serving coffee and keeping spirits up. Even taught Mrs. Henderson's grandson some hockey moves using sugar packets on the counter as players. That's just who Ziggy is—always thinking about how to make someone else's day better."

"Wow, a nice guy."

"Yeah," I winked at Jack, "he taught another kid how to do a proper wrist shot with a stirring straw."

Cody turned to Jack. "Papa, can we go to the carnival? Please? I want to see everything and meet Ziggy!"

Jack hesitated, and I found myself holding my breath. "Well..." he started.

"You really should come," I heard myself say. "It's one of Whistleport's best traditions. The ice sculpture competition alone is worth it."

"Papa, please ?" Cody tugged at Jack's sleeve. "We have to go!"

Jack's expression softened as he looked at his son. "Alright. We'll go."

The pure joy on Cody's face was infectious. "Yes! Can we practice more this week? I want my celebration move to be perfect!"

"We'll figure something out," Jack assured him. Then, to me: "Thanks for the invitation. It'll be nice to experience some Whistleport traditions."

"Thank you for accepting," I replied and immediately felt foolish. Who talks like that? But Jack smiled that smile again, and I decided maybe a little foolishness wasn't the worst thing in the world.

As they headed for their car, I heard Cody asking Jack if they could look up videos of Ziggy playing hockey. Jack's warm laugh wrapped around me like a favorite sweater.

It signaled trouble. The kind that starts with a single glance across a rink and ends with sleepless nights wondering if you're imagining the sparks… and, too often, a broken heart.

The walk back to Tidal Grounds usually cleared my head. Something about the salt air and the rhythm of waves against the seawall always put things in perspective. But today, my thoughts refused to settle, spinning like loose sugar in a mixing bowl.

I rounded the corner onto Main Street, the familiar creaky sign of Tidal Grounds swaying gently in the breeze. Through the front window, I saw Sarah—my new morning shift lead—reorganizing the pastry case. The normalcy of it should have been comforting.

Instead, I reminded myself of all the little changes I'd made without thinking about them. My hockey puck-shaped cookies had become a regular feature. I now carefully timed my weekend morning baking so Jack's coffee would be ready right when he and Cody came in before practice.

The bell chimed as I pushed through the door, and the familiar embrace of coffee-scented air wrapped around me. Sarah looked up from the display case.

"Everything set for the carnival?" she asked, straightening a row of muffins.

"Yeah, mostly." I headed behind the counter, grabbing my apron from its hook. "Though I should probably start on those marshmallows for the hot chocolate station."

My hands moved on autopilot, gathering sugar, gelatin, and vanilla ingredients. The precise measurements of candy-making usually centered me, but today each step felt charged with new meaning.

I found myself reaching for the small hockey stick mold I ordered last week—ostensibly for the carnival, but if I was honest with myself...

"Really?" Sarah's amused voice broke into my thoughts. She watched me carefully pipe the marshmallow mixture into the mold.

"What?" I tried for casual. "Kids love themed treats."

"Uh-huh." She raised an eyebrow. "And this has nothing to do with a certain new regular and his hockey-obsessed son?"

Heat crept up the back of my neck. "It's good business," I muttered, focusing intently on the marshmallow shapes. "Customer satisfaction. Community engagement. That kind of thing."

"Right." Sarah's tone made it clear she wasn't buying it. "And I suppose the new coffee blend you special-ordered—the one that's perfect with a splash of cream—that's only business, too?"

I looked down at my hands, suddenly aware I was tracing the edge of the mold with unnecessary precision. "Don't you have tables to wipe down or something?"

Her laugh followed me as I retreated to the walk-in cooler, supposedly to check inventory. In reality, I needed the cold air to fade the color of my flushed face.

Through the cooler window, I stared at a slice of the harbor. A lobster boat was heading out, cutting a clean line through water that sparkled like scattered diamonds in the morning sun. Simple. Predictable. Everything my life had been until Jack St. Pierre walked into my café with his quiet smile and his hockey-loving kid.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. "You're being ridiculous," I told my reflection. "This is nothing. This is just... friendly. Normal."

My reflection didn't appear convinced.

With a sigh, I turned back to the kitchen. Those marshmallows weren't going to shape themselves into tiny hockey sticks. And if I spent a little extra time making sure each one was perfect—well, that was only professional pride.

Nothing more.

Right?