Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

9. Silas

Chapter nine

Silas

" M orning." Jack's voice, low and steady, cut through the general hubbub of opening hours at Tidal Grounds.

I looked up to find him at the counter, but something was off. Cody hung back by the pastry case instead of bouncing up with his usual encyclopedia of hockey statistics. He traced abstract patterns on the glass with one finger, deliberately not watching us.

"Hey." I managed to keep my voice even and professional. Like I hadn't been up half the night wishing I'd responded differently at the pickup hockey game.

Jack leaned forward slightly, both hands flat on the counter. "I need to say something."

The espresso machine chose that moment to sputter, and I fiddled with the steam wand, grateful for the distraction. "Okay."

"I won't push you." His voice dropped lower, meant only for me and not anyone else in the morning crowd. "But I'm not interested in chasing something that isn't real."

The words landed like stones in still water, causing ripples that spread quickly to the shore. I gripped the portafilter tighter, and the warm metal suddenly became the only solid thing in my world. "I know," I managed. "I'm sorry for the mixed signals."

The inadequacy of those words hung between us. Jack nodded once, no anger in his expression, just a quiet acknowledgment that he heard me.

"Silas!" Cody's voice pierced the moment. "Did you make any more of those hockey stick marshmallows?"

I reached for the jar behind the counter, grateful for his impeccable timing. "Just for you, bud."

When I handed over their drinks, my fingers brushed Jack's. The brief contact sent an electrical jolt through me.

Then, they were gone, Cody chattered about practice as they headed toward the door. I watched through the window as they made their way down Main Street, Jack's shoulders straight and sure, Cody practically dancing beside him.

Sarah appeared at my elbow with a fresh rack of cups. "You okay there, boss?"

I turned back to the espresso machine. "Fine. Just fine."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, worse than any burnt coffee I'd ever served.

Half an hour later, I told Sarah that I was heading out. I shared my confidence that she could handle anything that would come her way. She raised an eyebrow, but she didn't question me. Since she began working for me, she hadn't known me to take time off that I didn't schedule months in advance.

Ten minutes later, I was driving up Route 1 in my pickup. The late winter coast unfurled beside me like a postcard—waves caught the sunlight, and seagulls wheeled overhead.

I hadn't planned to stop in Camden. Didn't have any particular destination in mind, but a little antique shop caught my eye—Seaside Treasures. Its weathered sign promised Maritime Artifacts & Coastal Curiosities. I'd driven past it dozens of times, always meaning to check it out.

The bell above the door jangled as I stepped inside. The shop smelled like furniture polish and old books, with hints of sea salt drifting through an open window. A tabby cat watched lazily from its perch on a roll-top desk as I wandered the crowded aisles.

I found myself pausing at a restored drafting table, its oak surface gleaming after decades of use. Jack had mentioned wanting a proper workspace for his architectural drawings. I suspected he'd love the brass hardware and how the top adjusted to any angle.

I moved on quickly, only to stop at a vintage NHL pennant—Original Six era. It would be the kind of thing Cody would shout about and eagerly share with his friends. Three aisles later, a leather armchair caught my attention, its rich brown surface worn to butter-softness. A vision appeared in my head: Jack sinking into it after a long day with Cody sprawled nearby doing homework, maybe looking up to share some random hockey stat...

"Beautiful piece, isn't it?" The shop owner's voice startled me. "Just got it in last week."

"It's nice," I managed.

I retreated to the back of the store, where larger pieces crowded together like mismatched puzzle pieces. There I found it—what I'd been looking for even though I didn't know until I saw it. It was an old oak display case that had the original glass panels and brass fittings.

I traced the edges with my fingertips, finding spots worn smooth by years of similar touching. The case needed work—the glass might need replacing, and the hinges wanted oil, but the basic structure was solid. It would fit perfectly next to the window at Tidal Grounds, showcasing our morning pastries.

Another vision popped into my brain: Jack stopping by and leaning against the case while we talked. Cody would press his nose to the glass, debating which treat to choose.

"How much?" I asked the owner before I could think better of it.

It was a deal, and the owner helped me secure the case in the truck bed. An aimless morning drive had led me to a small step forward. It was an auspicious start to the time off.

I took one last look at the leather armchair through the shop window before pulling away. Maybe some other time. I could come back when I was ready for that particular vision to become real.

Late in the afternoon, I'd returned to Whistleport, and I sat in my truck outside the arena, fingers drumming against the steering wheel while the display case waited behind me. I hadn't planned to visit the arena on my way home, but somehow the truck had found its way to a parking spot with a clear view of the entrance.

My phone felt heavy in my hand as I pulled up Jack's contact. There was no profile picture, only his name and the coffee cup emoji Sarah had added when she programmed it in. I started typing, "You free? Got something to show you," but I didn't hit send, not yet.

Simple words. They could have meant anything, but we both would have known they meant something more.

The arena doors burst open, spilling out noise and pre-teen energy. Cody and Tyler emerged first, hockey bags bouncing against their legs as they acted out what must have been an epic save from practice. Their laughter carried across the parking lot, clear and uncomplicated.

Jack followed, deep in conversation with Rory and Brooks. He had a focused expression, one hand gesturing as he made some point about hockey strategy.

Brooks spotted me first. That was no surprise. Nothing got past him, especially an old friend sitting in a parking lot having an existential crisis. A knowing smirk that spread across his face told me he'd already figured out precisely what was happening.

I could have started the truck, backing out slowly and pretending I was only passing through, admiring my hometown's dedication to hockey. Instead, I opened the door, gravel crunching under my boots as I stepped out.

There was no plan. No script I'd been rehearsing. There was only the weight of that unsent text message and the antique case in my truck that I couldn't wait to share with others.

Brooks was already peeling away from the rest of the crowd, heading straight for me with the practiced glide that had made him famous on the ice. It was the same walk that used to clear paths through our high school hallways.

"Well, well," he called out, closing the distance between us. "If it isn't the one person in Whistleport who never takes a day off, taking a day off."

Behind him, Jack had noticed me, too. Our eyes met across the parking lot, and all my carefully constructed reasons for being present dissolved like sugar in hot coffee.

Brooks reached me before I could figure out what to say. "So," he said, voice low enough that only I could hear, "you gonna tell me what's in the truck, or do I have to guess why you're lurking outside the arena on your first personal day in forever?"

"Not lurking," I muttered, though Brooks's raised eyebrow suggested he disagreed. "I'm... thinking."

"At the exact moment Jack's picking up Cody from practice?" Brooks leaned against my truck, his smirk softening into something more genuine. "Come on, Si. We've known each other too long for this."

I glanced over his shoulder. Jack was still talking to Rory, but his attention kept drifting our way.

"Found an old display case up in Camden." That part was an easy confession. "Thought it might work for the café."

Brooks pushed off the truck and walked around to the bed, letting out a low whistle when he saw it. "Nice piece. It needs a little work, though."

"Yeah."

"Kind of like some other things I could mention."

I shot him a look. "Come on."

"Hey, I'm just saying." He held up his hands. "You drove all the way to Camden, bought some furniture you're going to spend weeks restoring, and just happened to end up here instead of taking it straight to Tidal Grounds?"

Put that way, my actions did sound ridiculous. Brooks had more to say.

"You know what this reminds me of?" He rapped his knuckles against the wood. "It makes me think of that summer you spent restoring a counter in an old bait shop. You told skeptic after skeptic that it was going to work."

"That was different."

"Was it?" Brooks's voice turned serious. "I remember you being scared as hell then, too, but you did it anyway."

The arena doors opened again, spilling out more players. Cody's voice carried across the parking lot: "Dad! Can we get hot chocolate?"

Jack's response was lost in the general noise, but he gestured in the direction of Tidal Grounds.

Brooks clapped me on the shoulder. "You want help loading this into the shop?"

I hesitated, watching Jack gather his things. He moved with such certainty, like someone who knew exactly who he was and what he wanted. Someone who wasn't afraid to say he wouldn't chase something that wasn't real.

"Actually, I've got a better idea."

Brooks raised an eyebrow as I pulled out my phone and finally hit send on that text. It was the one that had been sitting there with the cursor blinking like a challenge.

Silas: You free? Got something to show you.

"Well damn," Brooks said, grinning. "Look who finally decided to get in the game."

The three minutes it took Jack to walk over amounted to the longest wait of my life. Brooks mysteriously slipped away.

Jack stopped a few feet away from me, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Hey."

"Hey." I swallowed hard, unsure where to start. The morning's conversation hung between us, but his expression was open and curious.

"Heard you took a day off."

"Yeah." I gestured toward the truck bed. "Found something in Camden."

Jack walked around to look, and I watched his face as he examined the display case. He traced the brass fittings with his fingers.

"It's beautiful. The proportions and the detailing... you don't see craftsmanship like this anymore." He glanced at me. "Needs a little bit of work."

"I know. But I thought..." I took a breath. "I thought maybe you might want to help. With the restoration."

His hand stopped moving. "Yeah?"

"You mentioned wanting a project. Something to do with your hands when you're not coaching or drafting." The words flowed easier than they had in days. "And I've got all my grandfather's old tools, but I've never really learned how to use them properly."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "So, you're saying you need my expertise?"

"I'm saying I want to share this with you." The honesty of my comment surprised me.

Jack stepped close enough that I could smell a mix of coffee and wool. "This morning, you could barely look at me. Now you're asking me to help restore antique furniture?"

"I know." I ran a hand through my hair. "I drove to Camden, trying not to think about you. But everything I saw there, every damn thing, I kept wondering what you'd think of it. If you'd like it. If Cody would get excited about it."

"Silas—"

"And then I found this," I pressed on, needing to get the words out. "It reminded me of Tidal Grounds when it was still only a rundown bait shop. How scared I was to change it and make it something new."

Jack was quiet for a moment, studying me with his dark eyes. "That's a lot of meaning to attach to one piece of furniture."

"Yeah, well." I managed a small smile. "I spend too much time with poets."

Jack laughed softly, and then he reached out for my hand. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Let's restore it. Together." His thumb brushed across my knuckles. "But you should know, I'm not only saying yes to the furniture."

From across the parking lot, Cody's voice rang out: "Dad! Are we still getting hot chocolate?"

Jack didn't let go of my hand. Instead, he called back, "Hey bud, come check out what Silas found!"

As Cody jogged over, I realized my fear was dissipating. Somehow, my anticipation outweighed the trepidation.

When I returned to Tidal Grounds, the sun was starting to set, painting long shadows across the nearly empty café. We'd managed to get the display case inside—Jack insisted on checking the floor's weight tolerance first. Now it sat in its designated corner, waiting for its transformation.

Cody perched on a nearby stool, swinging his legs. "Dad, can we work on it this weekend? I've never restored anything before."

"We'll see, bud." Jack rested his hip against the counter, watching his son with fond amusement. "Might need to do some research first. Make sure we do it right."

I busied myself making hot chocolate—Cody's usual and something new I'd been working on for Jack, a subtle blend of dark chocolate and espresso. The familiar motions helped steady my hands.

"You know," Jack said quietly as I handed him his mug, "this isn't how I expected today to go."

"No?" I leaned against the counter beside him, our shoulders almost touching. "What did you expect?"

"Honestly? I thought you'd need more time. After this morning..." He paused, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. "This is new."

"Good new or bad new?"

"Good. Definitely good." He turned the mug in his hands. "Like a lot of things today."

Cody had moved on to sketching what looked like improvement plans for the display case, complete with helpful arrows and enthusiastic exclamation points.

"I did need time," I admitted. "Just not as much as I thought. Sometimes you have to drive to Camden to understand what's right in front of you."

Jack set his mug down and turned to face me fully. "And what did you figure out?"

I thought about the leather armchair I'd left behind in the antique shop, about all the possibilities it had represented. "That I'm tired of watching life happen from behind the counter. Maybe it's time to see what happens when I leave the shop."

"And would that involve someone specific?"

"Yeah." I smiled, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. "Someone specific and his hot chocolate-obsessed kid."

"Hey!" Cody protested without looking up from his drawings. "I'm diversifying into coffee soon. Sarah said so."

"Did she now?" I shot Jack an amused look. "We'll see about that."

Jack laughed, and the sound seeped into the walls. Outside, Whistleport was settling into its evening routine—lobster boats returning to the harbor while shop lights blinked on along Main Street. Soon, the first stars would appear over the water.

"So," Jack said softly, his hand finding mine again. "What happens now?"

I intertwined our fingers, no longer afraid of what that simple touch might mean. "Now? Now, we are restoring an antique display case. And maybe figure out what else we can build together."

"I like that plan," he said and squeezed my hand.

Across the café, Cody held up his sketch, beaming with pride. "Look! I added a special shelf for hockey stick marshmallows!"

And just like that, I knew—some things didn't need to be complicated. Sometimes, they only needed to be real.