Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

13. Silas

Chapter thirteen

Silas

F or the fifth time, I wiped the counter—the scent of freshly ground Ethiopian beans mingled with the nervous energy that buzzed beneath my skin. I'd placed each chair at precise right angles to the tables—a small attempt at controlling one thing in a night that threatened to turn chaotic.

Tidal Grounds had hosted poetry nights for years, but this one was different. I had a poem of my own folded in my back pocket. I adjusted the dimmer switch, casting amber shadows across the room, then immediately brightened it again. I didn't want it to be too intimate and obvious.

"I think you're about to wear a hole straight to China in the counter."

I jumped at Rory's voice. He stood in the doorway, holding a shoulder bag stuffed with papers and wearing a knowing smirk on his face.

I tossed the cloth under the sink. "Just making sure everything's ready."

Rory dropped his bag onto a nearby chair and looked around the room. "Chairs, check. Coffee, check. Mic stand that will go completely unused by our host, as usual, check."

"I provide the venue. That's enough."

"Right. That's why you've been practicing that poem in your apartment every night for a week."

Heat crawled up the back of my neck. "Who told you that?"

"Mrs. Henderson. She says you're finishing it up when you open in the morning." Rory approached the counter. "You can recite every regular's coffee order from memory, but you're telling me you can't handle a few lines of poetry?"

I busied myself with the grinder settings. "They aren't the same thing."

"No? I think the poetry's simpler. It involves reading words on paper instead of remembering that Dottie likes her cappuccino with exactly one-and-a-half pumps of vanilla, and Vi needs her tea steeped for precisely three minutes, or she'll give you that disappointed grandmother look."

"Those are facts. Poetry is..." I trailed off. I couldn't figure out how to explain that reading my own words would mean a bold step into the spotlight when I'd spent years content to hover in the background.

The door chimed again. A gust of crisp evening air swept in, along with a lanky figure in a UMaine hoodie and battered jeans.

I beamed. "Ziggy. You came."

Ziggy Knickerbocker, pride of Whistleport, a hockey star with an unlikely talent for verse, grinned and dropped his duffel bag by the door. His dark hair was longer than I'd last seen him, curling slightly around his ears.

"You doubted me? After that desperate voice message?" He crossed the room in three long strides, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stumble. "So? Are you ready?"

I swallowed hard. "Not at all."

He smiled. "Perfect. That means it matters."

Rory laughed and exchanged a fist bump with Ziggy. "Told you he'd try to back out."

"I'm not backing out. I just—"

"You're overthinking it," Ziggy interrupted, hooking an arm around my shoulders. "It's a classic Brewster move. Remember when you spent three weeks deciding what color to paint this place."

"It was an important decision."

"It's blue, man. The obvious choice for a place called Tidal Grounds."

The door chimed again, and a new wave of people filtered in—teachers from the high school, a few of the harbor crew, Dottie, and her book club. Each arrival ratcheted up the tension inside me.

I retreated behind the counter, finding comfort in my familiar coffee-brewing rituals. I measured grounds, tamped them down, and watched the rich brown liquid stream into waiting cups.

Appearing at my elbow, Rory announced, "He's here."

As I scanned the crowd, I spotted Jack near the door, brushing snowflakes off his shoulders. His gaze connected with mine immediately. He raised a hand in a small wave.

Ziggy leaned against the counter nearby. "So that's him, huh?"

"That's who?" I did a pathetic job of trying to sound innocent.

"The guy who's got you writing poetry again after, what—ten years?"

"Keep your voice down."

"Relax. I'm glad to see it. It's about time someone broke through that fortress you call a life.

As I watched Jack find a seat near the back, shrugging off his coat and revealing a deep blue sweater that matched his eyes, I wished I wasn't the host. Then, I could sit beside him.

The paper still lingered in my pocket. Tonight, whether ready or not, I would step out from behind my counter and into the unknown.

The room hummed with anticipation. Chairs scraped against the wooden floor as latecomers squeezed into the packed space. I retreated to my station behind the counter while Rory welcomed everyone.

"For those new faces—and I see a few tonight—we've been gathering monthly to share words and community." Rory's teacher's voice resonated. "And we're incredibly honored tonight to welcome back one of Whistleport's own, fresh from breaking scoring records at UMaine. Ziggy Knickerbocker."

A ripple of applause passed through the room. Whistleport loved its hockey heroes almost as much as it loved its lobstering fleet. Ziggy unfolded his long frame from a corner stool and approached the microphone with the same easy confidence he showed on the ice.

He adjusted the mic with one fluid motion while his dark eyes scanned the room. "Been a while since I've been nervous about performing here at home." His voice had a hint of his father's rasp. "But poetry's different from hockey. You can't body-check the audience if they don't like your metaphors."

Laughter spread through the room. I watched as he rolled his shoulders once, twice, settling into himself like a player before a big game.

Then, he began.

Blue line boundaries, white ice stretching endless— The moment before collision, suspended, Heartbeat pounding against armor that never quite protects What matters most.

Somewhere amid his recitation, the cocky grin disappeared. in its place was something raw and electric.

The puck skids on winter's breath, Shadows chasing fire, chasing ghosts, Every bruise a story, every scar a history, Written in blood beneath the surface.

I glanced toward Jack. He sat with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. The blue sweater stretched across his shoulders, rising and falling with each measured breath. Even in profile, I saw the intensity in his expression.

We collide at center ice, at center heart, The crack of contact echoing through empty arenas, Long after crowds forget our names— What remains is what we risked.

Ziggy's voice dropped lower. It was barely above a whisper. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand.

Not the victory. Not the score. But the willingness to bleed.

When he finished, the room was silent. Someone exhaled and broke the quiet. Massive applause followed.

Ziggy accepted it with a small, humble nod. He stepped away from the mic back into his usual confident personality.

Across the room, I saw Jack tilting his head toward the microphone. It wasn't my turn yet, but he was eager to hear my words.

Several others took their turns—Vi with her gentle nature poems, Mr. Peterson's surprisingly sensitive recitation about his late wife's garden, and a high school student nervously sharing verses about climate change.

Through it all, I remained camped behind the counter, brewing coffee for my customers.

Rory approached between readers, sliding an empty mug across the counter. "You're up soon."

"I can't do this."

"Can't? Or won't?" He leaned closer.

"What if it's too much? And what if he—" I gestured vaguely toward the back of the room where Jack sat.

"That's exactly why you need to recite. He'll hear your heart."

The high school student finished to enthusiastic applause. Rory squeezed my shoulder once, then returned to the microphone.

"We have time for just one more reader tonight." He paused. "This is a very special reading because someone who usually stays safely behind the counter has finally agreed to share his words with us. Please welcome Silas Brewster."

The room shifted its collective attention toward me. I gripped the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles blanched white.

Ziggy appeared at my side, somehow extracting me from my fortress without a word. His hand remained steady on my shoulder as he guided me forward.

"Breathe. It's only words."

We both knew that wasn't entirely true. Words were rarely ever only words.

As I approached the microphone, Jack straightened in his chair, eyes locked on mine.

His voice, low and steady, rode above that of others: "Go on, Si."

He did it.

The familiarity of the nickname and the gentle tone wrapped around me like a warm hug. I stepped forward, unfolding the paper.

The microphone loomed before me. My fingers trembled slightly as I pressed the creases flat. Unlike Ziggy, I hadn't memorized my words. It was too risky to think I might forget vital words.

I cleared my throat once and then twice. The familiar faces of my neighbors blurred into one, except for Jack. He remained in sharp focus, standing apart from the others.

"This is, um—" My voice caught. I started again. "I don't usually do this."

A few encouraging murmurs rippled through the crowd. Dottie Perkins nodded vigorously.

I took a deep breath and began:

The harbormaster knows the tides by heart, maps them in his sleep, predicts the pull with weathered fingers and salt-worn charts. He never questions the moon's hunger, its relentless claiming of the shore.

The words flowed easier once I'd begun. I found a rhythm somewhere inside the lines. My poem didn't have the drama and fire of Ziggy's, but I liked the quiet intensity. It was a confessional by someone who had spent too many years watching instead of living.

I've studied safer waters, learned to navigate the shallows where nothing much is risked. I've memorized the contours of ordinary days,the precise temperature of perfect extraction, the exact moment milk transforms to silk.

I couldn't look up. If I saw understanding in Jack's expression, I didn't think I'd be able to continue.

But lately, the tide charts fail me. The predictable patterns shift— morning arrivals carrying winter on their shoulders, laughter cutting through steam and silence, eyes that see past practiced deflection.

My voice was steadier as I neared the end, gaining confidence from the attentive silence that had fallen over Tidal Grounds. For once, I wasn't watching others live their stories; I was stepping into my own.

The ocean doesn't ask permission to touch the shore It crashes in, relentless, again and again, never afraid to want more, to leave its mark, to reshape what was solid into something new. Perhaps it's time I learned to be that brave.

I folded my paper quickly, nodding once at the crowd before retreating from the microphone. Applause followed me.

Rory stepped up to close the evening, thanking everyone for coming, but I didn't hear his words. I looked directly at the counter, my safety zone.

My neighbors gathered their coats and scarves, voices rising in conversation as they prepared to brave the cold. Some stopped to offer kind words about my poem. I said "thank you" and forced smiles.

While they greeted me, I sensed Jack was waiting.

Ziggy caught me as I cleared abandoned coffee cups from the tables. "Not bad for someone who swore he'd never read in public."

"Don't get used to it," I muttered.

"Too late. You're on the roster now." He grinned, lowering his voice. "Looks like someone wants to talk to you."

I didn't need to turn to know who he meant. "I need to clean up."

"You need to stop hiding. You just stood up there and told everyone you wanted to be brave. Now's your chance."

He squeezed my shoulder once and then gathered his things. As he passed Jack, they exchanged a brief nod. "Tell Cody I said hi," Ziggy offered as he swept past.

The crowd thinned until only a handful of stragglers remained, engaged in quiet conversations by the door. Jack finally stood and began to walk slowly toward me as if he had all the time in the world.

I continued stacking chairs, a methodical process that required just enough concentration to justify my silence. Each chair placed upside down on a table marked another moment I didn't have to face what was coming.

The final group lingered by the door as they buttoned their coats. Dottie glanced back at me, smiling.

All that remained was Jack and me and all the words we had yet to say.

I started to wipe the counter down. "Need help with any of this?"

Without waiting for an answer, Jack lifted a chair and flipped it smoothly onto a clean table. He knew how to perform the needed tasks without being told what to do.

"Thanks."

We worked in silence, moving around each other in a careful dance. I swept while he gathered used napkins. He stacked mugs while I wiped down the pastry case.

I didn't know where to start. Finally, the last chair was stacked, and I'd wiped the last surface clean. Somebody had to say something.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed over my chest. Jack stood by the front window, silhouetted against the streetlights outside. Snow had begun to fall again, fat flakes swirling under the glow of lamps along Main Street.

"Thank you," I said. "For helping clean up."

Jack nodded, taking a step closer. "Seemed like the right thing to do."

"You didn't have to stay. I'm sure you've got better things to do on a Friday night."

"No." His response was immediate. "I don't."

My fingers gripped the edge of the counter behind me, seeking something solid. He was on his own for the rest of the evening.

Jack took another step forward. "That was a good poem that you read."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Another step. "Brave."

A brittle laugh escaped me. "I'm not feeling brave."

"No? Putting your feelings out there for everyone to hear seems pretty brave to me."

I swallowed hard, caught between an impulse to run and the desperate need to stay exactly where I was and see what would happen between the two of us. So many words on the tip of my tongue…

Jack stared into my eyes, unflinching. "That was about me, wasn't it?"

He waited and gave me plenty of space to answer.

"Yeah."

The single word was the simple truth.

Jack nodded once as if that word was all he'd been waiting for. He raised his right hand, hesitating for a moment before resting it against the side of my neck, his thumb brushing lightly along my jaw.

"I wanted to be sure."

"And now?"

Instead of answering, Jack closed the remaining distance between us. His lips found mine in a kiss that held nothing back. It didn't raise any more questions. It was a clear, unmistakable answer.

His mouth was warm, tasting faintly of coffee. My hands found their way to his shoulders, clutching the soft wool of his sweater as the world around us disappeared.

The kiss deepened, slow but certain. My back pressed against the counter as Jack's fingers raked into my hair, cradling the back of my head. Years of holding back and watching from the sidelines dissolved in the heat between us.

When we finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Jack stared into my eyes. "I've wanted to kiss like this since you handed me that first cup of coffee."

"Should've done it sooner."

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "You weren't ready."

"Has that changed?"

"Yes." He brushed his thumb across my bottom lip, a gentle barely-there touch. "Now, I think maybe we're both ready."

Outside, the snow fell harder, dancing in swirls that matched the emotions inside me. Main Street had emptied, the familiar storefronts dark and shuttered against the night. It was just us, suspended in an inevitable moment.

"Cody's at Tyler's," Jack said quietly, his eyes never leaving mine. "For the night."

His implication was clear. There was no rush to get home and no reason to part ways.

My breath was shaky when I spoke. "My place is upstairs."

Jack nodded. "If you're sure."

"I am." And for the first time in years, maybe ever, I had no doubts at all.

We walked up the narrow staircase silently, my fingers fumbling with the keys. Every creak of the wooden steps echoed around us.

My apartment was familiar to me, but it had seen relatively few visitors over the years. I tried to see it through Jack's eyes—the copper kettle on the stove, books stacked on every surface, windows framing the harbor view now obscured by darkness and swirling snow.

Jack paused just inside the doorway, taking it all in. His gaze lingered on an old record player in the corner and then on my collection of hand-thrown pottery mugs lining three shelves.

"It suits you." He wrapped an arm around my waist.

I moved to turn on a lamp, grateful for something to do with my hands. The soft glow spread across the room, casting long shadows against the walls.

Jack shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair.

"Can I get you anything?" I asked, retreating to the comforting territory of hospitality. "Coffee? Or I might have some wine somewhere—"

"Silas." Jack's voice was gentle but firm. He took a step toward me, closing the distance I'd created. "Stop hosting."

My rehearsed responses died on my lips. Jack stood before me, patient, his eyes reflecting the lamplight.

"Sorry," I murmured. "Habit."

"I know." He reached for a hand and twined our fingers together. "You take care of everyone. Let someone take care of you for once."

The simple statement pulled a knot loose that had been tightening inside me for years. I exhaled, shoulders dropping as the tension seeped away.

"I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"Let someone in." My gaze dropped to our joined hands. "I've spent so long keeping people at a safe distance."

Jack's free hand came up to tilt my chin, bringing my eyes back to his. "I know. I've been watching you do it since the day we met." A small smile spread across his lips.

"And still, you're here."

"Here I am." His thumb brushed against my cheek. "Because some things are well worth waiting for."

His sincerity broke through my final defenses.

Jack pulled me closer. His hand slid around my waist, steady and warm through the thin flannel fabric of my old shirt. He pressed his body against mine.

A soft sound—somewhere between a sigh and a moan—came from me while the tip of his tongue teased mine.

We moved across the room without breaking our touch, stumbling slightly when my hip caught the corner of the coffee table. Jack steadied me. The back of my legs hit the edge of the sofa, and he gave a light push. We tumbled onto the plush surface together.

"Is this okay?" He murmured the question against my lips.

I didn't answer in words. Instead, I pulled him against me, sliding my hands up under the back of his shirt.

"So much more than okay."

Time slowed as we explored each other with unhurried touches. Jack's fingers worked at the buttons of my shirt, exposing skin inch by inch. His hands were slightly calloused, architect's hands that knew how to build and create. They moved across my shoulders and down my arms, learning my contours with deliberate care.

I ran my fingers through his hair, amazed at how soft it was, contrasting with his solid, muscular build. When his lips found the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder, a shiver raced up my spine.

"You're beautiful," he whispered against my skin.

No one had ever said that about me. Something caught in my throat—nearly a sob. Jack noticed, pulling back to study my face.

"Too much?" he asked quietly.

I shook my head. "No. Just... unexpected."

His thumb traced my jawline, eyes never leaving mine. "I've been wanting to tell you that for weeks."

"Why didn't you?"

"It all happens in good time." A smile tugged at his lips. "You practically ran the first time I touched you, remember?"

I laughed softly, remembering that moment at the carnival. "I was scared."

"And now?"

"Still scared," I admitted. "But not of you. Of how much I want this. How much I want you."

Jack drew me closer, guiding my head to rest against his shoulder. His arms enveloped me, strong yet gentle, sculpting a space that felt safer than any I'd known.

"We don't have to rush anything. We've got time."

I closed my eyes, breathing in his scent—pine and wool. For once, I didn't feel the need to escape and retreat behind my carefully constructed walls. For the first time in years, maybe ever, I let myself be held—without planning an exit strategy.

Outside, snow continued to fall, wrapping Whistleport in a quiet blanket of white. "Stay," I whispered against his neck. Not a question this time, but a statement. An invitation.

Jack's arms tightened around me, his lips pressing a soft kiss to my temple. "For as long as you'll have me."

The night stretched before us, full of promise and discovery. And for once, I wasn't afraid of what morning would bring.

Jack's lips found mine again, this time with a deeper hunger. Our breaths mingled as our bodies pressed closer, the heat between us intensifying. His hands roamed over my chest, each touch igniting sparks of desire that coursed through my veins.

I let my hands wander, tracing the lines of his back, kneading his muscles as his shoulder blades moved. His skin was warm and inviting, and I couldn't get enough of it. Every caress and every kiss revealed something new—Jack's light whimpers and the light, trimmed hair across his chest.

Jack's mouth moved down my neck, his stubble brushing my skin. He paused at my collarbone, planting soft kisses before moving lower. He unbuttoned the rest of my shirt, pushing it aside to expose more of me to his touch.

I gasped as his lips found my right nipple, his tongue circling it gently before moving to the other. My hands gripped his shoulders, anchoring myself as waves of pleasure washed over me. His hands moved lower, tracing the waistband of my jeans, teasing me with the promise of more.

I reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in my eagerness. He chuckled softly, helping me with the clasp before pushing his pants down. We kicked off our remaining clothes, finally bare and vulnerable before each other.

Jack's eyes roamed over my body, his gaze full of admiration and desire. "You're perfect," he murmured.

I pulled him back to me, our bodies aligning as I pressed my face into his bare chest, his pecs molding against my belly. The feel of his skin against mine was intoxicating, every touch amplifying the sensations coursing through me. Reaching down, he wrapped his hand around both our cocks, lightly stroking, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through my body.

Our movements became more urgent, our breaths coming in ragged gasps. Jack's lips found mine again, his kiss deep and passionate, pushing me closer to the edge. I reached over to the end table, fumbling with the drawer until I found the condoms I had purchased the first time I dared to hope there might be more with Jack.

With trembling hands, condoms, and lube, I managed to prepare us both, the anticipation heightening every sensation. Jack's eyes met mine, full of a mix of desire and tenderness that made my heart race even faster.

As we moved together, the world around us faded away. The pleasure built to an almost unbearable level.

With Jack's final, desperate thrust and my hand wrapped around my cock, I let go, waves of pleasure crashing over me as I cried out his name. Jack followed soon after, his body shuddering against mine as he reached his own climax. We clung to each other, our hearts pounding in sync.

At that moment, there was nothing but the two of us, lost in the aftermath of our passion, finding solace and comfort in each other's arms.

"Stay with me," I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Jack's lips brushed against my forehead. "Yes," he replied.

We moved together in an unhurried rhythm, learning from each other in ways words could never capture. Jack's hands traced slow, reverent lines across my skin, his breath warm against my shoulder.

At some point, we found ourselves tangled in the blankets, bodies still pressed close. Jack's fingers skimmed my forearm, a light touch like he was memorizing me in the dark.

Neither of us spoke for a long time. The only sounds were our breathing and the faint crackling of the old radiator, fighting against the cold seeping through the windowpanes.

I exhaled, pressing my forehead to his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath me. "You're warm," I murmured, half-asleep.

Jack laughed softly, shifting to pull the covers higher around us. "That's the point."

A beat of silence stretched between us before he spoke again, quieter this time. "You good?"

I nodded against his skin, my fingers curling lightly, rubbing the curly hairs in the center of his chest. "Yeah. Really good."

Jack's lips brushed my hair, the barest ghost of a kiss. "Good," he murmured.

Outside, the wind howled against the glass, but here, in the dim light, the world had shrunk to the two of us.

I closed my eyes and let myself stay—let myselfbe held, for once, without overthinking what came next.