Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

7. Silas

Chapter seven

Silas

M y precious dark roast beans scattered across the counter. I desperately tried to sweep them into a neat pile, but my hands refused to cooperate. They let each coffee bean skitter away, half falling to the floor. Three in the morning was too early to be at Tidal Grounds, but sleep didn't come easy lately.

The coffee grinder's hum pounded in my head. It was too aggressive and loud. I'd overloaded it, and before I stopped the machine, it processed the Ethiopian beans into powder. I'd ruined them. The waste bin already contained multiple earlier mistakes: burned pastries, a collapsed quiche, and measurement errors that would have made my culinary school instructors cringe.

"Get it together, Brewster," I muttered, dumping the over-ground beans to start fresh.

Music from the kitchen radio filled the air. It was a late-night jazz station out of Portland. Normally, it was soothing, but even Miles Davis couldn't soothe my thoughts. Every note reminded me of the carnival and the firelight painting shadows across the handsome angles of Jack's face.

My kettle shrieked, startling me back to reality. Water sloshed over the counter as I yanked it off the heat.

I measured fresh beans carefully, determined to get the new batch right. It was a valiant effort, but I still couldn't stop my mind from wandering back to the parking lot and the soft press of Jack's lips against mine. I remembered how his hand gently rose before I bolted like a spooked deer.

Getting lost in the memory made me fumble the pour-over, splashing hot water dangerously close to my wrist. The resulting coffee would be bitter, extracted too quickly and carelessly.

Sarah would arrive in three hours, expecting to have everything prepped for opening. I had a long way to go. My empty display case—no scones or morning glory muffins—was evidence of my scattered focus.

Outside, a gull's cry pierced the pre-dawn quiet. It reminded me that the harbor would be stirring soon. The lobster boats would rumble to life while their crews prepared for another day at sea. They had an admirable certainty in their routines, following the steady rhythm of the tides.

My own certainty was feeling paper-thin.

I slowly filled the bakery case as morning edged closer. Each item I managed to prepare looked almost but not quite right—muffins golden but slightly lopsided, scones a touch darker than usual, and the morning's coffee cake missed its usual streusel topping. Sarah would notice.

I wiped down tables, adjusted chairs, and straightened the local notices on the bulletin board. A flyer for Sunday's pickup game caught my attention. Someone—probably Brooks—had scrawled "ALL SKILL LEVELS WELCOME" across the bottom in bold marker. I started to pull it down, but then I let my hand drop.

The eastern horizon bled purple to pink beyond the harbor. It was time to unlock the doors, paste on a smile, and pretend everything was normal. I flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN just as Vi's shadow appeared on the sidewalk. She was right on schedule with her crossword puzzle tucked under her arm.

The morning regulars filtered in. Vi claimed her usual table, and Joe MacPherson began his usual morning monologue about the weather before he reached the counter. The predictable rhythms should have settled me at the start of a new day, but my nerves remained on edge.

"And then Margaret said the most extraordinary thing about the new harbormaster—" Dottie Perkins paused mid-sentence, her paisley scarf askew. "Silas, dear, you've given me two shots in this cappuccino."

I blinked. She was right. "Sorry, I'll remake it."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself. The extra kick might help me stay awake through bridge club." She peered at me over her cat-eye frames. "Though you look like you could use it more than me. Everything alright?"

"Fine. I stayed up too late experimenting with some new recipes." The lie tasted sour. I busied myself wiping invisible spots from the counter.

"Well, if you need to talk—"

The bell above the door chimed, saving me from Dottie's well-meaning interrogation. Rory walked in. He unwound his scarf, carefully observing the scene.

"Morning." I reached for his usual mug. "Dark roast?"

"Yes, and maybe a few words about whatever's troubling you." He leaned against the counter. "You haven't posted your daily quote."

The chalkboard behind me stood blank—evidence of another break in my usual routine. I usually had some literary snippet or local wisdom scrawled across it before opening.

"Been busy."

"Right." Rory accepted his coffee but didn't move. "You know what they say about denial."

"That it's not just a river in Egypt?" My attempt at humor fell flat.

"That it's exhausting." He took a slow sip. "Almost as exhausting as not sleeping."

A group of high school students burst in ahead of their school day, filling the shop with chatter about an upcoming chemistry test. I welcomed the distraction, but their orders came out wrong—vanilla in a plain latte, forgotten whipped cream, temperatures too hot or barely warm.

"Sorry, sorry." I remade each drink, aware of Rory's steady gaze.

When the students left, he spoke again. "Brooks mentioned you might skip Sunday's pickup game."

"Got inventory to do."

"You've done inventory on Monday mornings for six years."

"Maybe I'm changing things up."

"Maybe you're hiding."

The words were unnecessarily pointed but accurate. I grabbed a clean rag, attacking imaginary coffee rings. "Don't you have hockey plays to diagram or sonnets to critique?"

"Actually, I have a free period." He settled more firmly onto his stool. "Perfect time for a chat about how fear can make us miss the best parts of life."

"I don't need—"

"A lecture? No. But you need something." He set his mug down.

The morning rush kept me just busy enough. Rory retrieved a pile of papers from his messenger bag and started in with a red pen.

When the crowd thinned enough that Sarah could manage alone, I grabbed a clipboard and muttered something about checking on deliveries. I turned the handle on the back door. At least I could have a momentary escape.

The side alley beside Tidal Grounds was quiet except for the sounds of the harbor. I leaned against the wall and let my thoughts drift. Finally, the tension in my shoulders began to unwind.

I heard the sound of boots announcing Rory's approach before I saw him. He rested one gloved hand on the weathered wood siding and tucked the other into his coat pocket.

"Delivery's late?"

"So, I made that up. I needed some air."

"Must be quite the air. You've been out here fifteen minutes."

I kicked at a patch of ice. "You timing me now?"

"Sarah asked me to check. Said something about you nearly jumping out of your skin when Jack's name came up in the morning gossip."

"Dottie needs new material."

"And you need to stop pretending this is about Cody." Rory's voice remained neutral, but his words struck home. "That's your new excuse, right? He's got a kid to think about, so he doesn't have time for you?"

"It's not an excuse if it's true."

"No? Then explain something to me." He pulled his hand back from the building. "How does pushing Jack away protect Cody? From where I stand, all it does is give you an out. It's a reason to run that sounds noble instead of scared."

The word scared burrowed its way under my skin. "Easy for you to say. You and Brooks, you're like some small-town fairy tale. The hockey star comes home, finds his high school sweetheart—"

"You think we didn't work for that?" Rory's laugh held no humor. "We spent two years trying to make distance work. Then, it fell apart, leaving massive scars. We almost lost everything forever because we were both too stubborn to admit what we really wanted."

A truck rumbled past the end of the alley, its shadow momentarily darkening the space between us.

"That's different," I muttered.

"Why? Because we figured it out? Because it worked?" He stepped closer. "You know what the scariest moment was? It wasn't when we called it all off, and it wasn't when Brooks first came back to Whistleport. It was that first morning I woke up next to him and realized I could have him—for real. It was the terror of actually getting what I wanted. Knowing I was the only one who could screw it up. Is that what you're running from?"

I stared at my feet. "You don't understand."

"Then make me understand. All I see is my friend choosing loneliness over possibility."

I tried to form words. Staying silent was my comfort zone. I listened to others. They didn't listen to me. Rory waited patiently.

"Okay, he kissed me like he meant it." That was the first thing I could blurt out that tasted like the truth. My confession was barely audible over the sound of traffic on the street. "It was only seconds, but sometimes you know."

"And that's the problem, isn't it?"

I pushed off from the wall. "I need to get back inside."

"Si—"

"Sarah can't handle the rush alone." I yanked open the back door, letting it swing shut on Rory's sigh.

I spent the next twenty minutes trying to fall back into a normal routine, but it didn't work. I needed to get away to somewhere more private than the side alley.

Our little storage room, not much more than a closet, smelled of coffee and old wood, a decade of ground beans worked into every crack and crevice. I stood among the shelves, supposedly doing inventory but actually hiding from Rory and his well-intentioned words. Numbers blurred on my clipboard as unwanted memories surfaced.

The last time I'd seen Nico had been during finals week at culinary school. He'd caught me practicing latte art at midnight in the empty teaching kitchen. "You're getting too good at this," he'd said, watching me create a perfect rosetta. "Ready to take over the coffee world?"

We'd had it all planned out—a café in Boston's North End, combining his business sense with my recipes. Simple, elegant pastries. Coffee sourced directly from small farms. It would be the kind of place that would make critics take notice.

"Two weeks in Colombia immediately after graduation," he'd said that night, sketching possibilities in the steam on the espresso machine's sides. "Meeting suppliers, learning the trade from the source. Then we'll start looking at locations."

Two days later, his dorm room stood empty. No note. No call. Just an Instagram post months later showing him behind a coffee bar in Medellin, Colombia.

It's funny how running home to Whistleport was supposed to be temporary. It was just a visit to clear my head after graduation and the Nico disaster. Then, I saw the FOR SALE sign on the old bait shop, weathered and tilting in the spring wind. Something about the building's solid bones and harbor view called to me, promised something steadier and more rewarding than chasing dreams in Boston.

The storage room door creaked open. Sarah poked her head in. "Hey, boss? The Masons are here for their wedding cake tasting."

"That's not until—" I checked my watch. Two hours had evaporated while I'd been lost in the past. "Right. Thanks. I'll be right out."

She hesitated. "I can handle it if you need a minute."

"No, I'm good." I forced a smile. "Lost track of time."

I'd spent years losing track of time, building Tidal Grounds into something entirely mine, and telling myself that independence meant success. I'd crafted this life like I crafted my espresso drinks—measured, precise, and predictable: the morning rush, afternoon lull, and evening regulars. Even the town gossip followed reliable patterns. I convinced myself this carefully structured solitude was enough, more than enough.

But Jack moved through my ordered world like water, finding paths through stone—gentle and persistent, changing everything he touched. And that was the real terror, wasn't it? Not that he'd leave, but that he'd stay. That he'd weave himself into my daily rhythms until I couldn't remember how to be alone. That he'd show me all the empty spaces in my life I'd pretended not to see, filling them with morning smiles and shared jokes and casual touches that felt like belonging.

It was easier to fear abandonment. Harder to admit I was terrified of how much more life could be.

I did manage to rally enough to leave the Masons smiling over their choice for their wedding cake. Sarah and I managed the lunch crowd with careful attention to orders and mini pep talks for those having a tough day.

When the post-lunch lull settled over the café, even Dottie had moved on, probably busying herself spreading fresh gossip at the hair salon. I wiped down the counter, feeling the fatigue caused by my sleepless night settling in.

Suddenly, June Miller bustled in, flour dusting her apron. "Those morning glory muffins were different today," she announced, settling onto her usual stool. "Less cardamom?"

"More orange zest." My hands moved automatically, preparing her afternoon Earl Grey. "I was trying something new."

"Hm." She accepted the tea, studying me over the rim. "Sometimes new works. Like that hockey dad's boy making the shootout competition. Who'd have thought a newcomer would take to Whistleport so quickly?"

My grip tightened on the teapot. "Jack's good with him. Patient."

"Patient men are rare birds." June blew across her tea. "Worth holding onto when you find them."

The afternoon sun caught the bits of flour in her hair, turning them golden. She'd been friends with my mother in high school and had watched me grow up alongside her own kids. She'd seen me run away to culinary school and come back home with a deed to a bait shop.

"What if—" The words stuck. I busied myself wiping invisible spots from the counter. "What if holding on isn't something you're good at?"

"Oh, honey." She set her cup down with a gentle clink. "Nobody's good at it at first. That's why they call it practice."

Practice.

Like Cody drilling his shots against the boards. Like Jack learning to steady himself on rental skates. Like all those pre-dawn hours I'd spent in culinary school perfecting recipes that scared me.

"The thing about running a business in a small town," June continued, gathering her purse, "is that everybody sees everything anyway. Might as well give them something worth watching."

She left a five-dollar bill under her saucer—too much for a cup of tea—and headed for the door. The bell's chime faded into afternoon quiet.

I untied my apron, a decision crystallizing in my head like sugar in hot coffee. Sarah looked up from restocking the pastry case.

"Can you handle closing?" I asked.

"Sure, but—"

"Thanks." I grabbed my keys from the hook, not letting myself overthink it. "I need to go practice something."