Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

16. Jack

Chapter sixteen

Jack

T he last piece of lasagna sat abandoned on Cody's plate, a testament to my overly large portion sizes. I gathered the dishes while he finished his milk, leaving a white mustache along his upper lip. He wiped it away with his sleeve instead of the napkin sitting inches away.

"Homework finished?" I asked, sliding the plates into soapy water.

"Almost." Cody slouched against his chair. "Just have to finish reading that chapter for English. It's about this kid who finds a stray dog, but the dog keeps running away, and the kid has to decide whether to keep chasing it or let it go."

"Sounds complicated for fifth grade."

"That's what I said!" He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Ms. Gardner says it's about themes and metaphors and junk. I just think the kid should build a better fence."

I laughed, appreciating his practical approach to literary problems. "Maybe there's a lesson in that, too."

Cody was about to respond when his phone buzzed against the table. He glanced at the screen.

"Can I take this?" he asked, already rising from his chair.

"Sure, bud."

He moved toward the living room, his voice dropping as he answered. "Hello?"

I continued washing dishes, the warm water swirling around my hands as I scrubbed, but I couldn't stop being curious about the call. Cody's tone was softer with a note of formality he didn't use when he spoke to his friends.

"Yeah, we won. I scored twice." A pause. "No, I'm using the new stick. The composite one." Another pause, longer this time. "Actually, I'm playing center now. Coach Rory says my passing is getting better."

The dish soap bottle slipped from my fingers, hitting the sink with a dull thud. I knew the conversation pattern. Cody expressed subtle pride in sharing accomplishments. I'd heard it countless times during those initial, awkward post-separation phone calls.

"I miss you too, Dad."

The words hung in the air between the kitchen and living room. Four simple syllables that sent ice water cascading up my spine. I gripped the edge of the counter, fingers pressing into the cold laminate as Cody's conversation continued, now too quiet for me to hear.

Five minutes stretched into an eternity before Cody wandered back into the kitchen, phone clutched loosely in his hand.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"Yeah." He shrugged. "He just wanted to know how hockey's going."

"Edward called about hockey?"

Cody nodded, seemingly oblivious to my tension. "He saw that picture I posted from the Camden game and said my form looked good." He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl, examining it closely. "He wants to catch a game sometime."

"Does he?" I wiped my hands dry, each movement deliberate and controlled.

"Maybe when he visits his sister in Boston. It's not that far from here." Cody bit into the apple, the crisp sound punctuating the silence between us. "Can I finish my homework in my room?"

"Sure, bud."

He disappeared up the stairs, leaving me alone with the remnants of dinner and a growing sense of dread. Edward hadn't shown interest in Cody's hockey since we'd moved.

It had been our thing—practices before dawn, weekend games, and countless hours shooting pucks in the driveway. Edward had been too busy working sixty hours a week to attend more than a handful of games back in New York.

Now, suddenly, he was an engaged hockey parent? The timing couldn't have been worse—just as we'd found our footing in Whistleport and Cody had started to flourish.

I finished the dishes with mechanical motions while my mind replayed fragments of the negotiations over custody agreements and visitation schedules.

Our arrangement was amicable but firm: I had primary custody, with Edward taking Cody for holidays and part of summer break. We'd both agreed the plan was best for Cody's stability.

But what if Edward changed his mind?

The kitchen clock ticked away the seconds. I dried the last plate with unnecessary thoroughness.

Later, Cody curled against me on the couch, his attention divided between a book and his occasional glances at his phone.

"This chapter's weird," he muttered, flipping a page. "The dog keeps coming back to this one spot but won't let the kid get close."

"Maybe the dog is looking for something," I suggested, my arm draped around his shoulders, holding him perhaps a fraction tighter than usual.

"Maybe." He yawned. "Or maybe dogs just don't make sense sometimes."

"That's true of most things in life, bud."

He looked up at me, his expression curious. "Are you okay? You seem kind of quiet."

"Just tired." I recognized that as what Silas said to avoid interrogations and forced a smile. "Thinking about that display case on the far wall. Still need to finish sanding the back panel."

Cody settled back against me, satisfied with the explanation. I stared at the top of his head, at the cowlick that refused to lie flat no matter how much I wetted it down in the mornings. He had a small scar near his hairline from when he'd fallen learning to skate.

So many memories of our shared life began to flood back. The thought of losing any of it made me nauseous.

I tucked Cody into his bed around nine but found him standing in my doorway an hour later; pillow clutched against his chest. "Can't sleep," he mumbled, eyes heavy with drowsiness.

Now he lay curled beside me at 2 a.m., one arm flung above his head, breath escaping in soft, whistling exhales through slightly parted lips. His presence should have been comforting—instead, it heightened my awareness of how much suddenly felt at stake.

Edward's call played on repeat in my mind, each imagined word more intrusive than the last. What exactly had he said? Had he hinted at wanting more time? Was he making conversation or laying the groundwork for something more disruptive?

I rolled onto my side, watching Cody's profile in the dim light. The slope of his nose mirrored mine, but his cheeks were still soft from childhood. People often remarked on our resemblance despite no biological connection. "He has your expressions," strangers would say, not realizing they were witnessing learned behavior instead of genetic inheritance.

Would a judge see that? Would the law recognize the thousands of small moments that had knit us together—the mundane Tuesday mornings and endless hockey practices that formed the backbone of our relationship?

I thought back to when Cody was seven, the night a brutal stomach flu had ripped through him. I'd sat on the bathroom floor, my back against the tub, while he dozed fitfully in my lap between bouts of vomiting. My legs had gone numb, but I'd stayed motionless for hours, afraid any movement might wake him during those precious minutes of relief.

Edward had been in Chicago that week. He was away on a business trip.

It wasn't a unique memory. I'd been the one to handle fevers, nightmares, and homework frustrations. It wasn't because Edward was a terrible parent, but we'd slipped into our roles organically. I became the primary caregiver while Edward built his career.

The arrangement had made sense then. It made sense now. So, why would he suddenly want to change it?

A car passed outside, headlights briefly illuminating the ceiling before disappearing. In their wake, the darkness was heavier.

I eased myself out of bed, careful not to disturb Cody. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I made my way down the hall to his bedroom. The door stood ajar, exactly as he'd left it hours earlier.

Stepping inside felt like entering a museum dedicated to my son's evolving interests. Hockey posters dominated one wall—pride of place given to Ziggy Knickerbocker's UMaine team photo, now signed with a personal message that Cody had reread approximately eight hundred times.

A bookshelf sagged under the weight of adventure novels and hockey statistics manuals. His desk housed an abandoned science project—something involving bean plants and different growing conditions. I sank onto the edge of his bed, fingers tracing the hockey stick pattern on his comforter.

What if Edward's renewed interest meant he wanted to renegotiate custody? What if his career had stabilized enough that he could now divide Cody's time more equally? The custody agreement favored me, but it wasn't irrevocable. Nothing about parenthood came with guarantees.

The uncertainty gnawed at my insides, hollowing me out. I'd moved us to Whistleport to create stability and give Cody somewhere he could put down roots after the turbulence of the divorce. I'd watched him blossom in the small town. He easily made friends while excelling at hockey and developing the quiet confidence I'd always hoped he'd find.

For the first time in years, I'd also allowed myself to imagine a future for me that might involve more than being Cody's dad. Silas had slipped past my carefully constructed barriers, showing me that embracing vulnerability didn't always lead to heartbreak.

None of that would matter if Edward decided to upend our arrangement. The law had its own priorities and definitions of parenthood.

I pulled Cody's blanket taut across the empty bed, smoothing invisible wrinkles. A hockey puck sat on his nightstand, used as a paperweight for a stack of hockey cards. I picked it up, feeling its solid weight against my palm.

"I won't let you go without a fight," I whispered to the empty room, making a promise to both Cody and myself.

The puck was cold and hard against my skin. Whatever came next, I would face it head-on—for Cody and for everything that mattered.

Morning arrived with the persistent beep of my alarm, jarring after a night of fractured sleep. I'd finally dozed off around four, only to wake constantly, checking that Cody remained beside me. Now, he sprawled diagonally across the bed, one foot dangling over the edge, unaware of my night of silent panic.

"Cody. Buddy. Time to get up." I gently shook his shoulder.

He groaned, burrowing deeper into the pillow. "Five more minutes."

"That's what you said ten minutes ago. Practice starts at seven."

The hockey reminder penetrated his fog of sleep. He sat up, hair flattened on one side and wildly askew on the other, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Is there time for pancakes?" he asked, rubbing his face.

"If you shower in under five minutes."

He nodded solemnly, accepting the challenge, and shuffled toward the bathroom.

The water pipes rumbled as the shower turned on. I moved through the kitchen with automatic efficiency, measuring flour and milk and cracking eggs into the bowl. The familiar routine should have been comforting, but Edward's call lingered like a shadow over every mundane task.

By the time Cody thundered down the stairs, hair still damp, I'd arranged a stack of pancakes on his plate and brewed a pot of coffee strong enough to combat my exhaustion. He slid into his chair, immediately dousing the pancakes in syrup.

"Coach says we're doing power play drills today," he announced between bites. "Tyler and I have been practicing our passing after school."

"I noticed. The garage door has the dents to prove it."

He grinned. "Sorry, but we're getting better at bank shots."

I sipped my coffee, watching him demolish his breakfast while scrolling through his phone.

"What did you and your dad talk about yesterday?" I asked, striving for casualness.

Cody shrugged without looking up. "Hockey stuff, mostly. He wanted to know if I'm still using that training app he downloaded for me."

"Are you?"

"Sometimes. It's better for tracking stats than for actual drills." He speared another piece of pancake. "He said he might come up to see a game before the season ends."

I gripped my fork tightly to avoid dropping it. "When did he decide that?"

"Dunno. He mentioned his sister moved to Boston, so he'd be up this way more often." Cody glanced up, finally noticing my expression. "Isn't that cool? He can see me play."

I forced a smile. "Sure, that will be great."

"I told him we should catch a game when he visits. He doesn't really get the new plays Coach Rory taught us. I tried explaining, but it's easier to show him."

My fingers trembled as I set down my coffee cup. Every word from Cody's mouth sounded like distant thunder, warnings of a storm gathering on the horizon.

"I'm glad he's taking an interest in your hockey," I managed.

Cody returned to his phone. "I showed him that picture from the Camden game where I scored. He said my form looked better than last year."

The memory of that game—Cody's triumphant grin as he'd skated back to the bench, the pride swelling in my chest as parents clapped me on the shoulder in congratulations—felt tainted now, knowing Edward had seen it too and commented on it as if he'd been there.

"Hey, Dad? Are you working late today?" Cody asked, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.

"No, why?"

"Tyler's mom invited me over. They're having that chicken thing I like."

"Shannon's lemon chicken?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Can I go? I can do homework at their place."

"Sure." The word emerged automatically. "I'll pick you up around eight."

"Cool." He checked the clock, then bolted upright. "We're gonna be late for practice!"

We scrambled to gather his equipment, the morning's rhythm accelerating like a stone rolling downhill. As we drove to the arena, Cody chattered about power play strategies and weekend plans while my thoughts circled relentlessly around one central fear.

I dropped him at the arena entrance, watching as he joined his teammates, immediately falling into step with Tyler. Cody had found his place here—team, friends, and community. The thought of disrupting that, losing any fragment of our carefully constructed new life, was intolerable.

As I pulled away from the curb, I made a decision. I couldn't simply wait for whatever Edward might be planning. I needed advice—I needed to understand my options before any storm broke.

I reached for my phone at the next stoplight, scrolling to a contact I hadn't used in months. It was the divorce lawyer who had guided me through the initial custody agreement. Melissa Winters had been thorough, practical, and unexpectedly compassionate throughout that painful process.

The call connected on the third ring.

"Winters Legal, this is Cassie, how can I help you?"

"This is Jack St. Pierre. I need to speak with Melissa about a custody concern."

"Let me check her availability, Mr. St. Pierre. Can you hold?"

I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, watching wispy clouds drift across the harbor.

"Mr. St. Pierre?" Cassie's voice returned. "Ms. Winters can speak with you tomorrow at eleven. Would that work for you?"

"Yes, that's perfect. Thank you."

I ended the call, feeling a peculiar mixture of dread and relief. Taking action, however small, provided some sense of control over the situation. I couldn't predict what Edward might do but could prepare myself. I could gather information and build defenses against the worst.

As I pulled into the Tidal Grounds parking lot, my phone buzzed with a text from Silas:

Silas: Morning coffee waiting. You look like you could use it.

The simple message, evidence that someone noticed me and cared about my well-being, warmed me from head to toe. I sat in the car for a long moment, staring at those words on the screen, feeling the weight of everything I stood to lose—and everything I'd begun to find.