Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

8. Jack

Chapter eight

Jack

A puck hit the boards high with a loud crack, and an explosive belly laugh followed in its wake. Sharp banter bounced off the arena walls. It was the Sunday hockey pickup game. Whistleport's locals were warming up, slapping passes back and forth before testing the goalies with lazy wrist shots.

I self-consciously adjusted my gloves before stepping out onto the ice. My legs were stiff but steady enough. It had been years since I'd played a hockey game more serious than a driveway shootaround with Cody.

Brooks skated past me, flipping a puck against my blade with the edge of his stick. "Try not to eat it first shift, St. Pierre."

"I'll do my best." I caught the puck and nudged it forward, doing my best to get a feel for the ice. I stayed upright, at least. The rest? That remained a question mark.

Rory coasted up to my other side, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "If you survive today, next week we'll let you in on themost importanttradition—post-game beers followed by a solid round of bad decisions."

"That's bold of you to assume I'll come back."

"It's bold of you to assume you'll have a choice." Rory tapped his stick against mine, flashed a broad smile, and then peeled off toward center ice.

I exhaled, rolled my shoulders, and focused on my first few strides—slow, measured. It was all coming back fast enough. I was a bit out of my element, but I thought I could hang in well enough to appear respectable.

The locker room door banged open again. Silas strode over to the bench on the edge of the ice, his skates over his shoulder. He wore a half-zipped hoodie, and his expression was unreadable. His clothes signaled he was here to play.

My pulse started to race.

Brooks glanced at Silas as he skated past. "Well, well. Look what rolled in off the tide. Any seaweed stuck to those blades?"

Silas ignored him, setting his skates down and stretching out his legs. "Figured I'd make sure Jack didn't break his neck first shift."

I tapped the ice with my stick. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"

He looked up. "Only if you think you need a hand to hold out there on the ice."

Someone hollered from across the rink. "Are we playing today, or is this a damn talk show?"

Brooks clapped a hand on my shoulder. "C'mon, new guy. All eyes are on you. Let's see what you've got."

I pushed off, the cool air filling my lungs as I picked up speed. Silas rose from the bench and pushed off, following close behind me.

I didn't know why his presence made me feel steadier, but it did.

The first few shifts were chaotic in the best way—sticks clashed, pucks flew, and chirps cut through the chilled arena air. Nobody took any of it too seriously. Still, the skating and game- playing strategies on display made it clear that at least half of the guys had been playing each other for years.

I finished my first shift without humiliating myself. That was a win. As I approached the bench, my lungs were on fire, and my legs were heavy, but I was upright. Nobody had to carry me off the ice.

After my feeble first shot went straight into the goalie's glove, Rory skated past. He jabbed me in the hip with the butt end of his stick. "That all you got, St. Pierre?"

"Give me a minute." I panted for air. "Gotta pace myself."

Making it all look so slick and easy, Brooks intercepted a pass at the blue line. He deked once, twice, and then roofed the puck with a ridiculous backhand. "Pace yourself all you want," he called to me. "But don't expectusto slow down."

I didn't have enough oxygen to put together a solid comeback.

Suddenly, Silas was there. He appeared in my peripheral vision and matched my pace. He tapped my stick lightly with his. "Relax. You're fighting it."

"Not fighting… adjusting."

"Right. Well, while you're adjusting, try bending your knees more. You're stiff as hell."

I barely had time to adjust before he peeled away, making a smooth turn to catch a pass from Rory. He handled the puck like he was born with one in his crib. Brooks's professional play was on a different level, but Silas ranked as one of the best of the rest.

The puck came at me again. I let instinct take over. As I collected it, I quickly looked around and snapped a pass back to Rory. Our connection was clean, and he lifted his stick in acknowledgment.

Silas grinned. "See? Not bad. Not bad at all."

Was everything back in order? The easy tone in his voice did something to me—it made me feelanchored in a way I hadn't since moving to Whistleport.

Then, before I could think too much about it, I threw a few words back at him. "Not bad? That was textbook."

"Oh, was it?"

I nodded, trying not to smile. "I'd say so."

Silas snorted. "Okay, let's see if you can keep that up."

We cycled through more shifts, the rhythm coming easier with each pass and stride. It wasn't a coaching session exactly, but he did make sure I didn't embarrass myself. Brooks and Rory didn't cut me any slack, so I needed somebody keeping things as even as possible.

For the first time in weeks, I wasn't thinking about Cody's schedule, unpacked boxes, or how much everything about life still felt temporary and up in the air.

These moments on the ice with the men of Whistleport were easy.

Silas laughed.

It wasn't a quiet chuckle or accompanied by a smirk. It was genuine, arising from somewhere in his gut. The sound was low, warm, and unexpected.

Rory skated close, and Silas asked, "Did you just tell me Cody took his dad down?"

I glanced from one to the other and shook my head. "I wiped out practicing slap shots with Cody. When I lost my balance, I hit the ice."

Silas grinned. "You're finally admitting this?"

"No point hiding it. My kid's ruthless."

Brooks skated by, overhearing just enough. "Falling for a ten-year-old's shot. That's gotta be a first. Maybe we should be scouting Cody instead."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm glad I'm providing entertainment for all of you."

Silas laughed again. "Welcome to the club."

A warm sensation rose from deep inside me.

By the time the final whistle blew, sweat pasted my jersey to my back, and my thighs were like lead weights I had to drag off the ice.

Still, I'd managed to keep up—mostly.

I coasted toward the boards, catching my breath and watching as the others peeled off in groups, sticks tapping in lazy farewells. A few of the younger guys were still goofing around—firing pucks at impossible angles, betting beers on trick shots—but most of us were done for the day.

Brooks skated up beside me, knocking his shoulder into mine. "Not bad, St. Pierre. You might actually survive next week."

I snorted. "That sounds like high praise from the likes of you."

Rory grinned as he flicked his helmet strap loose. "You'll earn your real badge of honor when you survive the one-on-one round robin."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Brooks and Rory skated off toward the locker room, and I turned to follow. Before we reached the edge of the rink, I paused.

Silas was still on the ice, idly sliding the puck along his blade, his gaze distant.

He wasn't waiting for anyone but wasn't rushing to leave either. I hesitated before deciding to skate back toward him.

"You played well," I said, watching how he flicked the puck against the ice and then caught it again.

He didn't look up right away. "You held your own."

"That supposed to mean something?"

Finally, he lifted his eyes. "It means you didn't look completely out of place."

"I'll take it."

The rink was nearly empty. Only a few stray voices echoed from the tunnel leading to the locker room. The world quickly narrowed down to the two of us and the scrape of our skates.

I don't know what made me do it. Maybe the easy rhythm we'd found or how Silas laughed earlier as the weight of whatever was on his mind had lifted.

I reached out—enough to touch his arm, brushing my fingertips against the sleeve of his hoodie. It wasn't enough to pull or ask for anything. It was only a touch.

I took a breath. Silas tensed.

His reaction was quick. It wasn't dramatic, but it was clear. He bit his lip, and his muscles locked. Next, he stepped back, not in a dramatic way, but it was a clear pullback.

"See you around, Jack." His voice was even, lacking any emotion.

Silas turned, skated toward the tunnel, and disappeared.

The sounds of the locker room—laughter, the clatter of sticks, and the hiss of showers—drifted toward me, pulling me back to the present.

I followed the others, peeling off my gloves and flexing my fingers. In the locker room, it was easy to blend in. Loud laughter mingled with quieter voices and the sharp smells of sweat and menthol. Half-dressed guys shared stories between towel snaps.

I went through the motions—peeling off my pads, stripping down to my compression gear, and stretching my legs, knowing they'd feel worse in the morning. Brooks was talking shit, something about how Rory's backhand was as useless as his poetry degree.

The guys would have welcomed me jumping in with the back and forth, but my head was still out there on the ice. With Silas.

I rolled my shoulders, forcing myself to focus on untying my skates. I'd touched his arm. That was all. It was a small, passing touch, but it still hit a nerve.

I'd been through enough in my life to understand the message he'd sent. It wasn't surprise or hesitation. It was a wall snapping into place, like a door slamming shut, before I could glimpse what was inside.

I exhaled, pressing my fingers into my thighs. Nurturing personal drama wasn't the reason I chose Whistleport.

We'd moved for Cody. For stability. For a clean slate and a town where my kid could be a kid, not someone caught in the fallout of a messy divorce while his dads tried to navigate two different versions of parenting.

It was easy to tell myself that, but my mind kept circling back to how Silas moved on the ice. He helped keep me steady without making it a big deal. His laugh was a surprise, and I wanted to hear it again.

Brooks appeared and sat on the bench by me, rubbing a towel over his hair. "You good?"

I blinked. "Yeah. Just beat."

"Uh-huh. Is that why you look like you just lost a staring contest with the boards?"

I shook my head, exhaling through my nose. "It's nothing."

Brooks didn't push. He merely smiled and made it clear he sawsomething.

"Well, next week, we'll work on getting you an actual shot on the net instead of straight into the goalie's glove."

I scoffed. "I'd like to seeyoublock a shot from a ten-year-old sniper on a driveway."

"Ah, yes. The hotshot son taking over the family legacy by schooling his dad."

I flipped him off without looking up.

He laughed and clapped my shoulder before heading off to find the rest of his clothes, and I exhaled.

I finished dressing, pulling on my hoodie, and running a hand through my hair. The last few guys trickled out as I packed up my gear. The cold would hit hard when I stepped outside, but I looked forward to welcoming it.

I needed the air. It would help settle my thoughts.

When I stepped into the parking lot, I scanned instinctively. Silas was gone, of course. I clenched my jaw, adjusting the gear bag strap on my shoulder, and then headed for the car.

I told myself it was fine. Everything was fine.

I climbed into my SUV, turned the key, and let the heater kick in. I rubbed my palms together, exhaling hard. I came to Whistleport to start fresh and build something steady. So, why the hell did it feel like I was skating straight toward something uncertain?