Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

20. Jack

Chapter twenty

Jack

T he locker room door banged open with the force of a cannon blast as the Whistleport junior hockey team spilled into the arena lobby. They were still in uniform, sweat-damp hair sticking up at odd angles, faces flushed from exertion and ecstasy. Cody was at the center of the jubilant swarm, his jersey untucked and his smile so bright it would have been visible from the lighthouse.

I stood against the wall, alternating between nodding at the congratulations from other parents and watching my son bask in the glory of his game-winning goal. He pantomimed the shot again for Tyler's mom, arms windmilling as he described every microsecond of the play that had clinched Whistleport's spot in the championship tournament.

"That's the fourth time he's told that story," I murmured, unable to keep the pride from my voice.

"And I bet it gets more impressive with each retelling," Silas replied, his shoulder brushing mine as we leaned against the cinderblock wall. I shook my head. Four months ago, he'd been the new kid—uncertain and out of place. Now he stood surrounded by teammates who treated him like he'd been born wearing Whistleport blue.

"Dad! Dad!" Cody's voice carried over the crowd. He weaved through the forest of adults, dragging Tyler in his wake. "Coach Rory says my goal is going on the highlight reel for the banquet!"

"Absolutely deserves to be there," I agreed, reaching out to ruffle his damp hair.

"And Tyler's pass—that was the real MVP move," Cody added, bumping his friend's shoulder. "Thread-the-needle perfect."

Tyler beamed, his freckles more pronounced against his flushed cheeks. "Couldn't have done it without that decoy move you pulled. That defenseman bit so hard he practically ate ice."

"You played it perfectly, kid," Silas laughed, his usual careful reserve softening around the edges. "Left that goalie guessing until the last second."

Cody's grin somehow managed to widen further. "You were watching? I thought you never came to games."

"That seems to be changing," Silas replied with a wink. "Can't miss seeing Whistleport's future hockey legend in action."

"They'll be talking about that goal for years," I said. "The shot that sent us to the championship."

Cody's face took on an expression I recognized—suppressed excitement mingled with dawning comprehension of his achievement. It was the same look he'd worn when he'd mastered riding his bike without training wheels and later when he'd read his first chapter book solo. My heart swelled at being here to witness another of those moments.

"Mr. St. Pierre!" Coach Rory appeared, clipboard tucked under one arm. He clapped me on the shoulder. "That boy of yours has quite the hockey IQ. That feint right before the shot? Textbook perfect execution."

"Thanks," I said. "Though I can't take any credit for his talent. That's all him."

"Nurture matters as much as nature in this sport," Rory countered. "And speaking of nurture—" He turned to Silas with raised eyebrows. "Don't think I didn't notice you in the stands. Twice in one season? The world truly is full of wonders."

Silas shook his head, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. "Maybe I'm just expanding my interests beyond coffee beans and pastry ratios."

"Or maybe you've got extra motivation these days," Rory suggested, his knowing look shifting between Silas and me.

Before either of us could respond, Brooks appeared, navigating the crowd with the ease of a local celebrity. "There's the man of the hour!" he announced, presenting Cody with a puck. "Game winner. Thought you might want this for your collection."

Cody accepted the puck with reverence, turning it over in his gloved hands. "Whoa. Thanks, Mr. Bennett!"

"Just Brooks, remember?" He ruffled Cody's hair. "And remember what I told you about that top-shelf shot? Angle matters."

"You called it," Cody nodded solemnly. "Exactly like you said."

Something brushed against my back—Silas's hand, gentle and reassuring. The touch lasted only a moment, but its warmth lingered, a quiet anchor in the sea of post-game chaos. When I glanced his way, the openness in his expression caught me off guard. This wasn't Silas the observer, standing apart from Whistleport's rituals. This was Silas fully present—part of it all.

The PA system crackled to life, announcing the rink closure in fifteen minutes. The crowd began to disperse, players reluctantly dragged away by parents, discussions of the game continuing out into the parking lot.

"We should probably get going," I suggested as Cody stifled a yawn. "Champions need their rest."

Cody's face scrunched in protest. "I'm not even tired."

"That's the adrenaline talking," Silas said. "Trust me, you'll crash hard once it wears off."

"Fine," Cody sighed dramatically.

As we headed toward the exit, Brooks fell into step beside me. "Good game," he said, voice pitched for my ears only. "And I don't just mean the one on the ice."

I followed his gaze to where Silas was walking ahead with Cody, listening intently as my son recounted his goal yet again.

"It's nice," Brooks continued, "seeing him like this. Part of things."

I nodded, unable to articulate the peculiar mixture of pride and wonder I felt watching Silas and Cody together—two pieces of my world fitting together in ways I'd hardly dared to hope for.

"Don't mess it up," Brooks added, clapping me on the shoulder before peeling away toward the coaches' office.

Outside, the April night carried hints of approaching spring. Cody raced ahead to the car, hockey bag bouncing against his legs, still riding the high of victory.

Silas paused at the edge of the parking lot, his face lifted toward the star-speckled sky.

"What is it?" I asked.

His smile was soft, private. "Nothing. Everything." He turned to look at me. "A great night."

It was. One of the best.

"Can we walk home?" Cody asked, surprising me as we reached the car. "It's not that cold tonight."

He was right. The brutal Maine winter had relented enough to make the idea appealing rather than punishing. The temperature hovered just below freezing—practically balmy.

"Sure," I agreed, glancing at Silas. "If you're up for it?"

"Sounds perfect," he replied, adjusting his scarf. "Nothing like a post-victory parade through town."

We left the car in the arena lot and set off along Main Street, Cody bounding ahead with inexhaustible energy. His hockey bag now rested in the trunk, but he'd insisted on carrying the game-winning puck, occasionally pulling it from his pocket to examine it under each passing streetlamp.

Whistleport transformed after dark. During daylight hours, it was all practical New England efficiency—lobster boats, hardware stores, and residents going about their business with salt-of-the-earth determination. But at night, a certain kind of charm emerged. Streetlamps cast golden pools on cobblestone sidewalks. Fairy lights twinkled in shop windows. The smell of the ocean hung in the air, mingling with woodsmoke from chimneys.

"We should celebrate properly," I suggested as we passed Miller's Bakery, its windows dark but the faint aroma of the day's baking still lingering. "Maybe dinner tomorrow? Championship preparation feast?"

"Pizza!" Cody called over his shoulder, now walking backward to face us. "With those garlic knots from Gino's that Silas likes."

I raised my eyebrows at Silas, who smiled faintly.

"Observant kid," he murmured.

"He notices everything," I agreed, watching Cody pivot back around and skip ahead, now humming something that sounded suspiciously like his school's fight song.

Silas and I fell into step beside each other, close enough that our knuckles occasionally brushed—accidental touches that sent sparks up my arm despite their innocence. Silas had gone quiet, his hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes scanning the storefronts, harbor, and narrow side streets as if seeing them for the first time.

"You're quiet," I observed, nudging his elbow gently.

"Just... taking it all in," he replied, his voice soft. The lamplight picked up the strands of copper in his beard.

"Brooks says the ice on the harbor is perfect right now," I ventured. "Strong enough to skate on, but not for much longer with spring coming."

"Harbor skating," Silas nodded. "Whistleport tradition. Been years since I've tried it."

"We should go," I suggested, keeping my tone casual. "Tonight. After we drop Cody's things at home."

Silas hesitated, eyes drifting toward the harbor where moonlight illuminated a smooth sheet of ice extending from the public dock. "You sure he's not too tired after the game?"

I followed his gaze to where Cody was now performing an elaborate victory dance on the corner, apparently for the amusement of Dottie Perkins's ancient cat, which watched from a windowsill with regal indifference.

"I think he's got some energy to burn," I laughed. "What about you? Up for breaking Whistleport tradition by actually participating in it?"

The smile that spread across Silas's face was worth every second of the months I'd spent coaxing him from behind his coffee counter.

"Yeah," he nodded. "I'm up for it."

We passed the hardware store, its window display featuring snowblowers now marked with "CLEARANCE" signs—a hopeful harbinger of spring. Mr. Peterson was inside, doing late inventory. He spotted us and offered a wave.

"Everyone's in excellent spirits tonight," Silas observed.

"Hockey victory will do that," I replied. "Plus, there's something about this time of year—when winter's still hanging on, but you can sense it loosening its grip. Makes people friendlier."

"It's not just that," Silas said, his voice thoughtful. "It's different lately. The way people look at me—at us."

I turned to study his profile. "Different, how?"

He shrugged, but the gesture wasn't dismissive. "Like I belong. Not just as the coffee guy who remembers their orders, but as... Silas. Part of whatever this is." He gestured vaguely around us.

"Part of Whistleport. Part of one of the town's families." I supplied.

"Yeah. That."

We walked silently for half a block, the weight of his admission settling between us like a tangible presence. I'd struggled since arriving to find my place in this tight-knit community. Silas had lived here his entire life but had worked just as hard to keep himself separate.

Now, somehow, we'd both found ourselves inside the circle rather than orbiting around it.

"Dad!" Cody's voice interrupted my thoughts. He'd stopped at the corner, pointing excitedly toward the harbor. "They've got the lanterns out on the ice! Can we go? Please?"

Sure enough, the traditional colored lanterns had been placed around the harbor's improvised skating area, their warm light reflecting off the ice in jewel-toned patterns.

"Just what I was thinking," I called back. "We need to drop your stuff at home first."

Cody groaned theatrically. "That'll take forever!"

"Twenty minutes, tops," I promised. "Then we can head right back down."

"I'll run ahead and get my skates," Silas offered, gesturing toward Tidal Grounds and his apartment above. "Meet you down there?"

I nodded, suddenly reluctant to part ways even temporarily. "Don't change your mind while you're up there."

His fingers brushed mine, a deliberate touch this time. "Not a chance."

As we continued toward home, Cody circled back to walk beside me. "Is Silas going skating with us?"

"That's the plan."

Cody nodded, absorbing the information with unusual solemnity. "Cool. That's... cool."

I glanced down at him, catching an expression I couldn't quite interpret, flitting across his features. "Something on your mind, bud?"

He kicked at a pebble, sending it skittering across the sidewalk. "It's different now, isn't it? With you and Silas."

The question caught me off guard. We'd been careful—not hiding anything, exactly, but not making grand pronouncements either. Still, Cody had always been perceptive, particularly when it came to shifts in the emotional landscape around him.

"Yes," I admitted. "It is."

He nodded again, this time with the satisfaction of a hypothesis confirmed. "I thought so. Tyler says his mom thinks Silas looks at you like you hung the moon."

I nearly tripped over my own feet. "Tyler's mom said that?"

"Well, not to me," Cody clarified. "Tyler overheard her telling his aunt. He thought it was gross, but I told him adults are weird about that stuff."

A laugh escaped me—part amusement, part disbelief at having our relationship analyzed by the Whistleport Elementary School grapevine. "Very mature of you."

"I'm almost eleven," he reminded me.

We turned onto our street, our house visible halfway down the block. The porch light welcomed us, golden against the blue-black of the evening.

"So you're okay with it?" I asked, voicing the question that had lingered at the edges of my thoughts for weeks. "With Silas being... part of our lives?"

Cody looked up at me, his expression shifting to something startlingly adult. "He already is, Dad. Has been for ages."

We walked the rest of the way home, Cody chattering about the upcoming championship game, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement. But beneath his hockey analysis ran an undercurrent I couldn't miss—acceptance, and perhaps even approval, of the change taking shape around him.

By the time we reached our front door, something fundamental had shifted in the universe. The path ahead cleared as if the final piece of a puzzle had quietly slipped into place.