Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

15. Silas

Chapter fifteen

Silas

T he suddenly irregular sound of the espresso machine's hiss mirrored my unsettled mind. I tried to coax it back to its usual rhythm, but it was determined to disrupt my morning.

"More foam on that cappuccino," Vi called from her table, not bothering to look up from her crossword puzzle. "You're skimping this morning."

"Since when do you critique my foam technique?" I asked, eyebrow raised as I delivered her drink.

She peered at me over her half-moon glasses. "Since you started grinding those poor beans into dust. Something on your mind, Silas?"

I turned away without answering. Tidal Grounds hummed with Monday morning energy—ceramic mugs clinked against saucers, newspapers rustled, and conversations seemed to quiet every time I passed by.

Dottie and Ruthie huddled near the pastry case, their conversation slowing when I approached. Then, Dottie, never one for subtlety, nudged Ruthie with her elbow and spoke a touch too loudly.

"Did you see them together at the game yesterday? Silas rarely attended junior games until Jack and his boy, Cody, came to town."

Ruthie's attempt at discretion was feeble at best. "Well, it's hardly surprising, given how Jack looked at him."

"Ladies," I interrupted, brandishing the coffee pot like a shield. "Need a refill?"

"Oh, Silas!" Dottie looked up. "Yes, please, dear. Your dark roast is divine today—robust, like certain new friendships in town."

The bell above the door chimed as more customers filed in. I retreated behind the counter, grateful for the distraction, only to knock over a canister of coffee beans. They scattered across the floor like marbles.

Sarah appeared with a broom. "You okay, boss? That's the second spill this morning."

"Fine." The word was curt and sharp. I followed up in a softer tone. "Sorry. I'm distracted."

"Hmm." She swept efficiently, gathering the beans while shooting me a look I pretended not to see. "Does it have anything to do with a certain hockey dad?"

"Don't you start."

She grinned. "Too late. The whole morning crew's been buzzing about you two."

I sighed. "There is no us two . We're friends."

"Right." Skepticism dripped from each letter of the word. "Friends who look at each other like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're memorizing each other's faces." She handed me the dustpan of ruined beans. "For what it's worth, I think it's nice. You've been alone too long."

Before I could formulate a response, the milk I'd been steaming screamed in protest, bubbling over the rim of the metal pitcher. I yanked it away from the steam wand, cursing under my breath.

"I'll remake this," I muttered to Sarah. "Can you handle the register?"

She nodded. "Take a breath. It's only coffee."

Tidal Grounds was never only coffee. It was my sanctuary, and it was suddenly too exposed to whispers and knowing glances. For years, I'd been practically invisible despite standing in plain sight—Silas Brewster, reliable purveyor of caffeine and occasional recipient of town gossip, never its subject.

Until now.

The milk foamed perfectly on my second attempt. I poured it carefully into the waiting espresso.

"Jason, your drink's ready."

No one approached. I glanced up to find the café had gone oddly quiet. The door chimed, and there stood Jack, shrugging snowflakes from his shoulders. His gaze swept the room before landing on me, and a small smile curved the corners of his mouth.

The conversation resumed around us, slightly too loud, as if someone turned the volume back up a little too high. Jack moved toward the counter with unhurried confidence, seemingly oblivious to the attention he'd drawn.

"Morning."

I held a dish towel tightly. "Hey. Usual?"

"Please." He leaned against the counter, relaxed. "Busy morning?"

I nodded, reaching for a clean mug. "Beginning of the week rush."

As I prepared his coffee, dozens of eyes followed our interaction, analyzing every word and gesture for hidden meaning. The espresso machine's hiss was deafening in the lulls between conversations.

I slid his coffee across the counter and offered idle conversation. "Did Cody make it off to school fine this morning?"

"Yep. I had to pull him away from practicing shots with his hockey stick in his bedroom." Jack wrapped his fingers around the mug, his eyes never leaving mine. "You alright? You seem tense."

"Fine," I said, too quickly. "Busy."

His expression told me he didn't believe me for a second.

The afternoon crawled forward as the morning swell eased. I found myself performing unnecessary tasks: polishing mugs that already gleamed and rearranging scones in the pastry case.

The café's remaining patrons had settled into their respective territories—a college student tapped at her laptop by the window, an older couple shared a scone with surgical precision at the corner table and a solo tourist leafed through a guidebook with salt-stained edges. None demanded my attention, and that left my mind dangerously unoccupied.

The next arrival shattered my efforts at distraction. Brooks Bennett ducked through the doorway. He didn't approach the counter immediately. Instead, he surveyed the room.

When his gaze finally landed on me, his expression shifted from neutral to something more challenging. He ambled toward the counter, claiming a stool directly in my workspace without glancing at the menu board or offering a greeting.

"Not here for coffee?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Nope." He drummed his fingertips against the countertop—a rhythm echoing the absent-minded stick taps I'd seen him perform before games. "Here for something stronger than caffeine. Truth."

I folded my arms. "Sounds like a terrible beverage."

"Cut the deflection, Brewster." His voice dropped an octave, low enough that only I could hear. "That performance this morning was something to behold."

"Performance?" I kept my voice deliberately neutral.

Brooks snorted. "You practically vibrated out of your skin when Jack walked in. Half the town watched like it was the third act of some community theater production. Jack, cool as winter ice, acted like he didn't notice."

"You're exaggerating."

"Am I?" He leaned forward, elbows creating twin divots in the dish towel I'd abandoned. "I thought you looked like you wanted to crawl inside that espresso machine and disappear into the steam valves."

"Since when are you monitoring my work behavior?" I couldn't avoid a defensive tone.

"Since you started looking at Jack St. Pierre like he's the answer to questions you've been afraid to ask for years." He was blunt but also kind—cutting through pretense without angering me.

I exhaled, focusing on wiping imaginary coffee residue from the already gleaming counter. "It's complicated."

"I don't think it is." Brooks shook his head, disappointment painted across his face. "You're scared, Silas. I get it. But if you think Jack's going to orbit around your self-imposed isolation forever, you're making a catastrophic miscalculation."

The accusation stung. "You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly. This isn't about Whistleport's gossip mill. It's about you being terrified of letting someone close enough to matter."

My knuckles whitened around the edge of the counter. "That's not fair."

"Maybe not. But it's accurate." His voice softened. "This café? It's magnificent, Si. But it's also your fortress—your excuse to avoid participating in life. It's like you're standing on the other side of the plexiglass at a hockey game. Observe, serve, smile, but never fully engage."

The college student closed her laptop, gathering her belongings with the languid movements of someone who'd been sitting too long. Her departure left the café quieter, Brooks's words resonated uncomfortably in the open space.

"I've known you since we were kids," he continued. "I watched you pour your soul into this place while keeping everyone at a calculated distance. And now Jack and Cody have somehow breached those walls, and instead of embracing them, you're reinforcing the barricades."

"I'm not—" The protest died on my lips, withering under the weight of recognition.

Brooks studied me with the penetrating gaze that had intimidated countless opponents on the ice. "You're at a crossroads. You can retreat behind your counter and carefully measured life, or take a chance on something real."

"What if it falls apart?"

"What if it doesn't?" Brooks countered. "What if this time, you get to be happy not because you're controlling every variable but because you're brave enough to let go?"

He rose from the stool, his point made. "Jack's a good man. The kind who doesn't walk away easily. But even the most patient people have limits."

The bell chimed his departure, leaving me alone with uncomfortable truths and decisions too long postponed.

Evening descended on Whistleport, dragging indigo shadows across Main Street. Inside Tidal Grounds, I moved through my closing rituals with mechanical efficiency: chairs lifted onto tables with soft thuds, floors swept free of crumbs and stray sugar packets, and pastry cases emptied and wiped until they gleamed under the dimmed lights.

My fingers worked the register's buttons while my mind wandered through the mental labyrinth Brooks had constructed with his unflinching observations. The day's receipts tallied neatly—orderly numbers that made sense, unlike the tangled emotions rolling around in my head.

Sarah emerged from the back room, winter coat already buttoned. She had her scarf—the burgundy one I'd given her last Christmas—wound loosely around her neck.

"Cash drawer's balanced," she announced, leaning against the doorframe. "You want me to take the deposit to the night drop?"

I shook my head. "I've got it. Thanks."

She lingered, studying me with the penetrating gaze of someone who'd witnessed my daily routines for years. "You've been a million miles away today."

"Tired."

"Well, you have a good evening, and be kind to yourself."

I blurted out, "Does anyone in this town mind their own business?"

"Not really, no." She laughed. "It's part of Whistleport's charm. That, and watching you try to pretend you're not completely tangled up in knots over Jack."

I leaned against the register, suddenly exhausted by the weight of my own resistance. "Is it that obvious?"

Sarah adjusted her scarf. "Only to everyone with functioning eyesight." She paused, then added with unexpected solemnity, "You deserve something good, Silas. Maybe stop running from it?"

The simplicity of her statement disarmed me more effectively than Brooks's direct confrontation. "I wouldn't know where to start."

"Yes, you would." She moved toward the door, fishing her car keys from her pocket. "You know what to do. You're scared of where it might lead and how fantastic it might be."

After she left, the building settled around me—creaking floorboards, ticking radiator, and waves lapping against the dock beyond the windows. I completed the closing duties meticulously, as if each perfectly aligned container and spotless surface might impose order on my chaotic thoughts.

I dimmed the pendant lights to their lowest setting, leaving only the small lamp above the register illuminated. The shadows deepened, transforming the familiar space into something more intimate.

The man reflected in the darkened windows stared back at me—familiar yet somehow altered as if the day's events had subtly rearranged my features. I'd spent years cultivating one persona: Silas Brewster, reliable purveyor of caffeine and keeper of Whistleport's morning rituals. A presence, but never the focal point.

Jack had upended that careful construction with impossible ease. His quiet confidence and the attentive way he listened, making every word matter. He had a gentle sense of humor that surfaced unexpectedly.

I tugged my phone out of my pocket. The screen's glow was harsh in the dim light. My thumb hovered over Jack's name in my contacts.

Silas: You free? I think we should talk.

I stared at the words, pulse quickening, and then pressed send before I could reconsider.

The message status shifted from "Sending" to "Delivered," then almost immediately to "Read." Three dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared as if Jack, too, was weighing his response with careful consideration.

Finally, a reply materialized:

Jack: Come over.

Two words. Simple. Direct.

I locked the café door behind me. The February air bit at my exposed skin as I stepped onto the sidewalk,

Overhead, stars punctured the velvet darkness, their ancient light reaching me across impossible distances. I wondered how something so distant could feel so present and so important to understanding where I stood.

I turned toward Harbor Street, toward Jack's house with its weathered blue siding and wraparound porch. I was heading toward something unknown but increasingly necessary, like oxygen, daylight, or the sea itself.