Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

14. Jack

Chapter fourteen

Jack

T he harbor fog hadn't yet burned away when I opened my eyes. I lay in Silas's bed. His sheets—soft, faded blue flannel that smelled of cedar and salt—tangled around my legs.

Silas was on his back, awake, one arm tucked behind his head. He stared intently at the ceiling.

I studied his profile—the strong line of his nose, the curve of his beard-roughened jaw, and the soft fullness of his lower lip. Last night, those lips had traced paths across my skin that still burned in my memories.

He finally spoke. "I don't regret it."

"Neither do I."

Something loosened in his expression—it wasn't full relief, but neither was it as intense as before. Outside, a lobster boat's engine grumbled to life, the sound rattling through a partially open window. I reached over to cuddle up close, and he flinched, not pulling away but startled by the contact, like someone unaccustomed to casual intimacy.

"Hey," I murmured, withdrawing slightly to give him space.

"Hey."

After a few more moments of silence, Silas swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, reaching for a navy hoodie draped across a nearby chair. He pulled it on before padding barefoot toward the kitchen.

I sat up, watching him go, allowing myself a moment to absorb the reality of where I was. I looked more closely at Silas's apartment in the morning light. Bookshelves lined one wall, volumes arranged not by any visible system but by what appeared to be personal preference: coffee table books on architectural history nestled beside dog-eared paperbacks of poetry.

A collection of hand-thrown pottery mugs lined three wooden shelves, each one different in shape and color. Near the window, a small table held what looked like a journal and several well-worn field guides to coastal Maine.

It wasn't only where Silas slept. It was where he'd built his life—every object a deliberate choice.

I pulled on my pants and followed the scent of freshly ground coffee. In the kitchen, Silas moved with practiced precision, his back to me as he measured beans into a grinder, added water to a copper kettle, and set it on the stove. His shoulders remained tense, the line of his spine rigid beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie.

I leaned against the doorframe, watching as he began the ritual of making pour-over coffee. He didn't ask how I took it—he already knew.

Steam rose from the kettle. He poured two mugs, sliding one across the counter toward me without making eye contact.

"Are you okay?" I asked finally, wrapping my fingers around the warm ceramic.

"I'm tired," he replied. There was likely truth in the comment, but it was evasive, too.

I took a sip, letting the rich complexity bloom across my tongue. Even distracted, Silas brewed coffee with extraordinary care.

"This is perfect."

His eyes flickered to mine briefly, a hint of a smile touching his lips before disappearing. "Thanks."

We drank in silence, the harbor slowly coming alive outside the window. A lobster boat cut through the fog, red and white against gray water. The town was waking up, unaware that something fundamental had shifted in Silas Brewster's apartment.

I waited, giving Silas plenty of space to find his words. The clock on his wall ticked softly, marking seconds that stretched between us.

When he finally looked at me again, his expression was guarded, almost wary—like he expected me to change my mind and announce what we'd done had been a mistake.

I took another sip of coffee, deliberately unhurried. Setting my mug down, I met his gaze steadily.

"What's going on in your head right now?"

Silas exhaled. "I don't—" he started, then stopped. "This isn't..." He shook his head, frustrated with his own inability to articulate the emotions churning inside him.

I waited.

He set his mug down. "I don't do this. Relationships." The word emerged almost reluctantly as if naming it might conjure complications he wasn't ready to face. "I don't know how to... do this. I'm not sure I would have known what to do if Nico didn't leave."

The admission was painful; I saw it in the tightness around his eyes.

"We figure it out," I said, keeping my voice even. "One day at a time."

"You make it sound so damn easy."

"It doesn't have to be hard."

"Doesn't it?" His gaze drifted toward the window where Whistleport was waking up below us. "Nothing worth having comes easy."

"Maybe," I conceded. "But worth having and deliberately complicated aren't the same thing."

He turned back to me, something vulnerable flickering across his features before he could mask it. "Cody—"

"Loves you already," I finished for him. "And before you make this about him needing stability or me focusing on being a dad, just know that I've thought about all of that. Extensively."

Surprise registered in his eyes.

"I'm not rushing into anything blind, Silas. I know what's at stake."

He absorbed my comment. "And you still want... this? I mean, me."

Before Silas could respond, three sharp knocks rattled the apartment door.

He tensed and stood. He set his mug down and moved toward the door.

Through the door's small window, I glimpsed Brooks's tall frame. Silas hesitated for a fraction of a second before turning the knob.

"Morning," Brooks greeted. His gaze flicked past Silas to where I stood in the kitchen doorway, and his expression shifted slightly. It wasn't surprise. It was more like satisfaction in seeing the dots connect as he expected. "Jack. Didn't expect to see you this early."

"Brooks," I nodded, grateful for the coffee mug that gave my hands something to do.

Brooks held up a paper bag with the Miller's Bakery logo stamped on the side. "June asked me to drop these by. Said you'd ordered extra scones for today." His easy tone suggested nothing unusual about finding me in Silas's apartment at seven in the morning, though the subtle rise of his eyebrow told a different story.

Silas took the bag, moving toward the kitchen with deliberate steps. "Thanks. Tell her I appreciate it."

"Will do." Brooks remained in the doorway, rocking slightly on his heels. "Great game yesterday, wasn't it? Cody's goal was something else."

"Good crowd, too," he added, his words casual but full of additional meaning.

"Yeah," Silas answered, his back to us as he busied himself with rearranging things on the counter. "Cody's finding his rhythm with the team."

I watched Silas fold inward, physically distancing himself from the conversation and, by extension, from me. The shift was subtle but unmistakable—he'd stepped back into the role of Whistleport's reliable coffee guy, the man who observed but kept himself separate.

Brooks's gaze moved between us, assessing. If he noticed the change in Silas's demeanor—and I was certain he did—he chose not to comment on it directly.

"Rory wanted me to remind you about the team fundraiser next weekend. He said something about donating coffee service?" His eyes remained on Silas, who nodded without turning around.

"Already on my calendar. Sarah's handling the morning shift, so I can be there."

"Good, good." Brooks lingered a moment longer than necessary. "Well, I'll let you get back to your... morning." The pause was deliberate, friendly, and pointed.

I caught his eye and offered a slight nod of acknowledgment—for what, exactly, I wasn't entirely sure. Support, maybe. Understanding. Brooks returned it with a barely perceptible smile before stepping back into the hallway.

"See you both around," he said, then closed the door behind him.

I finished the last of my coffee, setting the mug down with a soft clink. The clock above Silas's stove showed 7:36. Shannon had been clear about dropping Cody off by nine, which gave me just enough time to head home, shower, and change before greeting my son.

"I should go," I said, breaking the silence. "Shannon will drop Cody off soon."

Silas nodded without looking up, arranging the scones in a precise line on a plate. "Right."

I watched him a moment longer, taking in the controlled movements of his hands. Last night, those same hands had moved across my skin with hunger and purpose. Now they built invisible walls, brick by measured brick.

"Silas. Let's not make this complicated."

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, exhaling slowly.

I waited, giving him space to find words if he needed them.

Instead, he nodded again, a gesture that acknowledged my statement without agreeing or disagreeing with it.

I gathered my jacket from where it had landed on the floor near his bedroom doorway last night. The motion brought memories flooding back—Silas's hands fumbling with buttons, my mouth on his neck, the shared breathless urgency as we'd stumbled toward his bed.

At the door, I paused, struck by the urge to cross the room and kiss him, to break through whatever had closed around him since Brooks's arrival. But something in his stance—the careful way he maintained distance—told me he wouldn't welcome it. Not right now.

"I'll see you," I said instead.

He looked up then, his eyes meeting mine directly for the first time since Brooks had left. "Yeah," he replied, his voice low. "See you."

As I stepped into the hallway, I heard him moving behind me—clothing rustling and bare feet padding on hardwood. The door closed behind me without another word.

Walking down the narrow staircase, I passed through the closed Tidal Grounds. The chairs remained upturned on the tables, and the espresso machine was silent. I saw Whistleport coming to life through the front windows—shopkeepers unlocking doors, early risers walking dogs along the harbor front. Normal Saturday morning routines, unchanged by what had transpired upstairs.

I pushed through the door into the crisp morning air, letting it clear my head as I walked to my car.

The drive home gave me space to think. My SUV's heater fought against the February chill, slowly filling the cab with warmth. Main Street stretched before me, bordered by salt-weathered buildings and framed by glimpses of the harbor between alleyways.

I didn't regret a single moment with Silas.

Every touch and every whispered word felt right in a way I hadn't experienced in years—maybe ever. There had been no hesitation between us when we'd tumbled onto his couch or when we'd made our way to his bedroom.

I turned onto Harbor View Drive, where most of the houses still slumbered behind drawn curtains. The MacPhersons' two-story Cape stood halfway down the block, warm yellow light spilling from the kitchen windows. Shannon would be making breakfast, probably for a tableful of hockey players running on too little sleep and too much excitement after yesterday's win.

Silas was scared. I don't think I scared him specifically. It was more what I represented—change and the possibility of having to live through another relationship falling apart. Those ghosts Rory had mentioned haunted the space between us this morning.

The question wasn't whether we had something worth pursuing. The question was whether Silas would let himself take the leap.

I pulled into my driveway, killing the engine. The house looked exactly as I'd left it yesterday—porch light still burning despite the morning sun, Cody's hockey stick leaned against the railing where he'd forgotten it. Nothing had changed, and yet everything somehow looked different.

Inside, I moved through the quiet rooms, shedding my clothes from yesterday as I headed for the shower. Hot water pounded against my shoulders, washing away the lingering traces of Silas's touch but not the memory of it. I closed my eyes, letting myself replay moments from the night before—his fingers threading through my hair, the soft gasp when I'd found a sensitive spot along his collarbone, and how he'd whispered my name in the dark.

I couldn't walk away from him.

I shut off the water, clarity settling over me. Whatever Silas's fears and whatever complications lay ahead, one thing remained certain: what we'd started between us deserved a chance.

The sound of Shannon's minivan pulling into my driveway spurred me into action. I dressed quickly, running a hand through my damp hair as I headed downstairs to greet my son.

Cody burst through the door like a tornado in human form, hockey bag swinging wildly from one shoulder, hair sticking up in at least six different directions.

"Dad! Dad! Tyler's dad showed us footage from when he played in college; it was so cool! They won the championship that year, and he said my goal yesterday was better than anything he ever did." He paused, finally drawing breath, his eyes taking in my damp hair and the coffee mug I'd just poured. "Were you still sleeping? It's so late!"

"Not exactly." I ruffled his already chaotic hair. "Just took a shower. How was your night?"

"Epic!" He dropped his bag with a thud that reverberated through the floorboards. "We stayed up watching hockey videos until midnight, and Mrs. MacPherson made these amazing pancakes this morning with chocolate chips shaped like hockey pucks!"

Shannon appeared in the doorway, her expression a mix of amusement and exhaustion. "They actually went to sleep around ten, but don't tell him I ruined the midnight myth." She handed me a container. "Leftover pancakes. The chocolate chips are mini Oreos cut in half."

"Thanks for having him," I said, accepting the container. "Hope he wasn't too much trouble."

"Please. Tyler talks about nothing but Cody and hockey these days." She smiled warmly. "They're good for each other."

After Shannon left, Cody continued his energetic recounting of every moment spent at the MacPhersons', from the hockey videos to the impromptu mini-stick tournament in the basement to Tyler's cat Max stealing a pancake directly off his plate.

I listened, nodding in all the right places, but my thoughts drifted back to Silas—the uncertainty in his eyes when I'd left and the quiet tension in his shoulders.

"Dad?" Cody's voice cut through my distraction. "Are you okay?"

I blinked, focusing on my son's face. His expression had shifted from excitement to concern, his eyebrows drawing together in a way that made him look suddenly older than his ten years.

"Yeah, buddy. I'm thinking about things."

"What kind of things?"

I hesitated, unsure how much to share and how to translate the complexity of adult relationships into something a ten-year-old could understand. But Cody had always been perceptive, especially when it came to the emotional currents running beneath the surface of our lives.

"People stuff. Grown-up stuff."

He momentarily considered my comment, absently pulling off his socks and dropping them on the floor beside his bag. "Is it about Silas?"

The directness of the question caught me off guard. "What makes you ask that?"

Cody shrugged. "You look at him different. And he looks at you different, too." He paused, considering. "Plus, Brooks told Rory that he thought you guys were... you know."

"Brooks said what?" I nearly choked on my coffee.

"He didn't know I was listening," Cody admitted, a hint of mischief in his expression. "I was tying my skate under the bench."

I made a mental note to have a conversation with Brooks about appropriate rink-side discussions.

"I like it when Silas is around," Cody continued, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful. "He makes things feel... I don't know. Like they fit."

It was a simple but powerful observation. Like they fit. Out of the mouth of a child came the perfect description for what I'd been trying to articulate since meeting Silas.

"Yeah," I said softly. "He does."

I reached for my keys as a decision began to form. "Hey, bud. Change of plans."

Cody looked up from retrieving his discarded socks. "What kind of plans?"

"I need to run an errand. Are you okay with a quick stop before lunch?

"Where are we going? I'm starving. Can we get burgers? Or pizza? Mrs. MacPherson's pancakes were awesome, but that was hours ago."

"We'll get food after, promise." I grabbed my jacket. "Let's go."

Cody eyed me suspiciously but followed, pausing only to stuff his feet into sneakers without bothering to tie the laces. "Is this a boring grown-up errand? Because if we're going to the bank, I'm staying in the car."

"Not the bank," I assured him, holding the door open.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into a parking space across from Tidal Grounds. The Saturday morning rush was in full swing—locals crowded the sidewalk outside, clutching steaming cups and paper bags while exchanging weekend plans.

Through the large front windows, I watched Silas behind the counter. He pulled levers and steamed milk while maintaining a stream of conversation with his customers.

Cody peered through the windshield. "Are we getting coffee? I thought we were getting real food."

"We will," I promised. "I just need to talk to Silas first."

Understanding dawned on Cody's face. "Oh. About the stuff. The grown-up stuff."

"Yeah. The stuff."

"Can I get a hot chocolate while you talk about the stuff?"

I smiled. "Extra marshmallows."

"Hockey stick shaped?"

"Is there any other kind?"

Cody grinned, already reaching for his seatbelt. "Let's go then."

We waited outside for nearly fifteen minutes as the line inched forward. Silas hadn't spotted us yet. He was too focused on the demands of the morning rush.

When we finally reached the counter, Silas was bent over the espresso machine, his back to us. Sarah took our order.

"One hot chocolate with extra hockey sticks," she called over her shoulder. "And a black coffee, splash of cream."

Silas turned, coffee pitcher in hand, and froze momentarily when he saw us. "Morning again," I said, keeping my tone casual for Cody's benefit.

"Again?" Cody looked between us, curious. "Did you guys already see each other today?"

Silas recovered quickly, his professional mask sliding back into place. "Your dad stopped by earlier for coffee," he explained, the partial truth rolling easily off his tongue.

We stepped aside to wait for our drinks, letting the line continue moving. Cody wandered toward the pastry case, leaving me a moment alone when Silas brought our order to the pickup counter.

"You're back," he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the café's buzz.

"I am." I accepted the drinks, letting my fingers brush against his. "You free later? I've got some thoughts on this whole 'figuring it out' thing."

Silas hesitated, his eyes searching mine. For a moment, I thought he might retreat again. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

"I close at three today. Come by after."

Behind him, Sarah called for assistance with a complicated order. Silas glanced back, then returned his gaze to mine.

"I'll be here," I promised.

Cody appeared at my side, eyeing his hot chocolate with obvious approval. "Did you talk about the stuff?"

I handed him his drink, the marshmallows arranged in a pattern that looked suspiciously like a ten-year-old's jersey number. "We're going to. Later."

"Good." He took a sip, leaving a whipped cream mustache above his lip. "Because I think he likes you too, Dad."

I rested my hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward the door. I glanced back through the window as we stepped outside into the crisp morning air. Silas stood at the espresso machine, his movements sure and practiced, and his eyes followed us until we disappeared from view.