Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

21. Silas

Chapter twenty-one

Silas

T he harbor stretched before me, a vast silvery oval rimmed with colored lanterns that transformed our utilitarian fishing port into something from a winter fairytale. Their reflections wavered on the ice, creating kaleidoscope patterns that shifted with each passing breeze. Around the improvised rink, Whistleport families gathered in small clusters, some already gliding across the frozen surface while others huddled near portable fire pits along the shore.

I watched Jack and Cody taking in the scene, their expressions mirroring each other in a way that always made my heart twist with unexpected tenderness.

"This is incredible," Jack murmured, his eyes wide with appreciation.

I approached them, my well-worn hockey skates slung over one shoulder. "Final harbor skate of the season," I explained. "The ice never lasts much longer than this. By next week, it'll probably start breaking up."

Cody had already plopped onto a bench and was enthusiastically yanking his skates from his backpack. "Come on, Dad! I want to try that spin move Brooks showed me."

Jack knelt to help him lace up. "Take it easy out there. It's a different surface than the arena."

"I know, I know," Cody sighed with that exaggerated patience only ten-year-olds can truly master. "Harbor ice is natural and can have bumps and weak spots. Brooks already gave me the safety lecture."

"Smart man, that Brooks," Jack smiled, tugging the laces tight.

The moment his skates were secure, Cody was off, racing onto the ice with reckless abandon. He immediately spotted Tyler and his other teammates, skating toward them with delight. The boys formed a loose circle, no doubt rehashing their victory for the hundredth time.

I sat on the bench Cody had vacated and began lacing up my own skates. Jack did the same beside me, his shoulder occasionally brushing mine in a way that felt deliberate rather than accidental.

"Been a while for me," I admitted, nodding toward the ice. "Couple years at least." The truth was, I hadn't been on the harbor ice since high school, and I'd seen a couple of accidents that gave me a healthy respect for the difference from skating in the arena.

"Like riding a bike," Jack assured me, his voice carrying that quiet confidence I'd come to rely on. "It comes back."

"Let's hope so. My dignity can't afford the hit of face-planting in front of half the town." My joke barely covered the anxiety beneath. It wasn't just about skating—it was about being seen, being watched, stepping out from behind my coffee counter and into the world.

"I'll catch you," Jack promised, the words carrying more weight than I think he'd intended.

I looked up, meeting his eyes. "Well, with that kind of safety net, how can I resist?"

We finished lacing up and approached the ice together. Jack stepped onto the frozen surface first. I hesitated at the edge, one foot hovering over the ice.

"Having second thoughts?" he asked, brows raised slightly.

I shook my head. "Not even close." And I meant it. The time for second thoughts had long passed where Jack was concerned.

I pushed off, gliding forward with a confidence that surprised even me. My first few strokes were cautious and testing, but I found my rhythm within moments, cutting a clean path across the harbor.

Jack followed, quickly catching up to skate beside me. "Not bad for someone who hasn't done this in years."

"Muscle memory," I replied with a half-smile. "Though if we're being technical, I haven't skated on the harbor since high school. I've been on the arena ice for pickup games." The admission slipped out easier than expected.

"Still hiding your talents, Brewster?" Jack's teasing tone wrapped around me like a warm blanket.

"No judging my technique," I warned, grinning with mock seriousness. "I'm a coffee artisan, not an Olympian."

"As long as you don't fall on your ass," he teased, "your reputation as Whistleport's most dignified purveyor of caffeine remains intact."

We completed a circuit of the makeshift rink, gradually finding a shared rhythm. Around us, families skated in loose groups—parents helping toddlers find their balance, teenagers showing off with spins and jumps, older couples gliding with the smooth synchronicity of decades of practice.

Mr. Peterson and his wife moved past us, their hands clasped as they navigated the ice with cautious determination. He nodded as they passed, his acknowledgment including Jack as naturally as it did me.

Dottie Perkins called out a greeting from where she sat bundled on the shore, supervising rather than participating, but missing nothing. Her sharp eyes followed our every move.

"I feel like we're being evaluated," I murmured, nodding toward where Dottie sat with several other Whistleport matriarchs. The town's unofficial approval committee, armed with thermoses and critical opinions.

"Always," Jack agreed. "This town has elevated people-watching to an Olympic sport."

"And what's our current score?" I asked, suddenly curious about how we appeared to others—skating side by side, our movements falling into natural synchronization.

Jack pretended to consider, scanning the faces of our observers. "Solid eight out of ten. You lost points for wearing the wrong brand of winter hat."

"Tragic," I deadpanned. "I'll never recover."

As we completed another lap, I suddenly stumbled, my skate catching on a rough patch of ice. Jack reached out instinctively, catching my elbow to steady me. My hand gripped his forearm, fingers pressing through the layers of his coat. We held that position for a heartbeat too long, balance restored, but neither of us pulled away.

"Thanks," I said, my voice lower than intended.

"Anytime," he replied, the word carrying a weight that settled in my chest.

We continued skating, but something had shifted between us—an unspoken acknowledgment of where we stood with each other. His hand found its way to the small of my back as we navigated around a family with small children. My shoulder pressed against his as we paused to watch Cody demonstrate a particularly complicated hockey move for his admiring friends.

The night air was crisp, carrying the promise of one final winter storm before spring's arrival. Our breath formed clouds that mingled in the space between us, visible evidence of shared air, shared space.

"Want to take a break?" Jack suggested after our third circuit. "There's cocoa on shore."

I shook my head, suddenly not wanting this moment to end. "Actually, I'd like to keep going. But maybe..." I gestured toward the far end of the harbor, away from the main group of skaters. "Over there? It's quieter."

Jack understood immediately. "Lead the way."

We skated toward the harbor's edge, where the ice stretched in a natural extension beyond the lantern-marked boundaries. Here, the surface was less groomed, wilder, illuminated only by moonlight and the distant glow of the town's streetlamps. The sounds of laughter and conversation faded behind us.

I slowed, my blades making a softer sound against the untouched ice. Jack matched my pace, moving alongside me in comfortable silence. The harbor stretched before us, silver-white against the dark water beyond, like a blank page waiting to be written upon.

"My dad used to bring me here," I said suddenly, the words escaping before I could reconsider them. "When I was little, before he left. He taught me to skate on this exact spot and said it was the smoothest ice in the harbor."

"Was he right?" Jack asked, keeping his voice neutral in a way I appreciated.

I nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of my mouth despite myself. "Yeah. He knew every inch of this harbor—where to fish, where to skate, where to watch for seals in summer." I paused, my skates cutting twin trails across the pristine surface. "For years after he left, I couldn't come here without feeling angry. It felt like he'd stolen this place from me, along with everything else."

"And now?" Jack's question was gentle, without pressure.

"Now I'm reclaiming it," I said. "Making new memories." I didn't add with you, though the words hung silently between us.

I pushed forward, feeling a fluid confidence I rarely experienced in other parts of my life. On this frozen harbor, away from Tidal Grounds and the watchful eyes of Whistleport, I felt unburdened.

A laugh from the main skating area drew our attention. Cody attempted to teach Tyler some complicated spin, and both boys tumbled onto the ice in a tangle of limbs before scrambling up to try again.

"He's thriving here," I observed, watching Jack's expression soften as he looked at his son. "You both are."

"We are," he agreed. "Though I didn't expect it when we first arrived."

"What did you expect?" I asked, genuinely curious about how he'd viewed Whistleport when they'd first come to town.

"A temporary way station. Somewhere to catch our breath after the divorce, somewhere Cody could play hockey without the baggage of our old life. I figured we'd stay a season, maybe two, then move on."

His answer confirmed what I'd suspected but hadn't wanted to acknowledge. They had never planned to stay.

"And now?" I asked, unable to keep a hint of vulnerability from my voice.

Jack turned to face me fully, his features illuminated by moonlight—the strong line of his jaw, the depth in his eyes, the openness in his expression that had become increasingly frequent in recent weeks.

"Now," he said, "I'm having a hard time imagining being anywhere else."

We'd skated to the furthest edge of the harbor ice, where the frozen surface met the shadow of the old cannery building. The moon hung directly overhead, casting our elongated shadows across the untouched expanse. From here, Whistleport appeared as a collection of glowing windows and lantern light, the town's reflection wavering in the ice like an invitation to some parallel universe where everything familiar was transformed into something magical.

"I never get tired of this view," I murmured, coming to a stop. The words carried in the still air, undisturbed by the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation from the main skating area.

Jack halted beside me, respecting the deliberate space I'd placed between us—not from hesitation, but to take in the moment fully. I could feel his eyes on my profile as snowflakes began to dust my shoulders. The weather was shifting, the air growing heavier with moisture as clouds gathered above us.

"It's different from here," he agreed. "You can see the whole town at once."

"Like looking at your life from the outside." The words emerged unbidden, revealing more than I'd intended.

"Is that what you're doing? Looking at your life from a distance?" His question was gentle but perceptive.

I turned to him, feeling the weight of the moment. "I spent years doing exactly that. Standing behind my counter, watching Whistleport live around me without really being part of it."

"And now?"

"Now I'm tired of watching." I drew a deep breath, letting it fill my lungs completely before releasing it into the cold night air. "I want to participate."

A snowflake landed on his eyelash, and he blinked it away. The world around us had quieted as if nature itself was holding its breath. Even the distant sounds of the other skaters seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of us suspended in this perfect, private moment.

"What changed?" he asked, though his expression suggested he knew the answer.

I smiled—not my careful, measured smile that I offered customers at Tidal Grounds, but something that felt raw and honest. "You know what changed. You and Cody arrived."

The admission hung in the air between us, honest and unadorned. Jack reached for my hand, our gloved fingers intertwining with practiced ease. The gesture had become natural over the past months—a bridge between the careful distance I'd always maintained and the intimacy we'd been slowly building.

"We weren't looking for Whistleport," he admitted. "It was an accident—a wrong turn that somehow ended up being exactly right."

"Some wrong turns aren't wrong at all," I said, squeezing his hand, then unexpectedly pushing off across the ice, pulling him along with me.

We skated together, moving in unison without discussion or plan. The connection between us had evolved beyond the need for constant verbal confirmation—we'd learned to read each other's movements and anticipate each other's thoughts. It was a dance we'd been rehearsing for months without fully acknowledging its steps.

Cody's laughter echoed across the harbor as he executed a perfect spin, arms extended like a miniature Olympic figure skater. The affection I felt watching him surprised me with its intensity.

"He's amazing," I said, watching Jack's face transform with pride. "You've raised an extraordinary kid, Jack."

"He makes it easy," he replied. "Most days, anyway."

"And the other days?" I asked, thinking of the occasional challenges I'd witnessed over the past months.

"The other days remind me why parenting is the most terrifying adventure possible."

I nodded, thoughtful. "You're good at it. Being his dad."

"I try," he said. "Though some days I feel like I'm making it up as I go along."

"Aren't we all? Making it up as we go?" The question felt important, encompassing more than just parenting.

We completed another circuit of the harbor's edge in contemplative silence. Snowflakes were falling more steadily now, dusting the ice with a fresh powder that hissed beneath our blades.

I slowed to a stop again, this time at the farthest point from shore. I turned to face Jack, suddenly aware that we'd reached a moment of decision.

"Jack," I began, then paused, gathering my thoughts. "I've been thinking a lot lately. About Tidal Grounds, about Whistleport. About my life here."

He waited, giving me space to find my words—one of the many things I'd come to appreciate about him.

"For years, I convinced myself that stability meant standing still. If I maintained the same routines, served the same coffee, kept the same careful distance from everything and everyone, I could avoid being hurt again." I shook my head, snowflakes dislodging from my hair with the movement. "But that's not stability. That's stagnation."

"And now?" he prompted gently.

"Now I understand that real stability isn't about staying in one place. It's about building something strong enough to withstand movement, change, growth." My eyes met his, direct and certain. "Let's build a life together."

The words hung in the air between us, five simple syllables that had taken me years to find the courage to speak.

"No ring?" he managed, his voice rougher than usual.

I smiled, feeling lighter than I had in years. "No pressure. Just a promise."

He reached for my hand, holding on tight. "Yeah. Let's."

The simplicity of our exchange belied its significance. There was no need for grand speeches or elaborate declarations—we'd moved beyond that. What remained was the essential truth: we were choosing each other deliberately and with full awareness of all it entailed.

Cody's distant figure caught our attention as he performed an elaborate victory lap around his friends. His joy was infectious, even from this distance.

"Does Cody know?" I asked, watching the boy who had become so important to me.

"That I'm hopelessly falling for the local coffee guy? I think he's suspected for a while." Jack smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. "He approves, by the way. Though I think your hot chocolate skills factored heavily into his decision."

"Smart kid. Knows how to evaluate the important qualities in a potential stepfather." The word slipped out before I could consider its implications, hanging in the air between us, unexpected but not unwelcome. Neither of us acknowledged it directly, but its presence shifted something fundamental in our understanding of where this path might lead.

"We should probably head back," Jack said, noticing the snow falling more heavily now. "Before we get snowed in out here."

"Would that be so terrible?" I asked, my thumb tracing circles on his palm through our gloves.

"Not terrible," he admitted. "Just impractical. Cody has school tomorrow, and you have a café to open at ungodly hours."

I laughed, the sound carrying across the ice. "Always the responsible one."

"One of us has to be."

We turned together, skating back toward the shore where figures were beginning to pack up their belongings as the impromptu skating party wound down. Cody spotted us and waved enthusiastically, gesturing for us to hurry.

"Dad!" he called as we approached. "Tyler's mom invited us for hot chocolate at their house. Can we go? Please?"

Jack glanced at me, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

"Don't look at me," I said, raising my hands in mock surrender. "Shannon's hot chocolate might be the one in town that rivals mine."

"Is that an admission of defeat, Brewster?"

"Strategic retreat. Different thing entirely."

Cody looked between us, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You guys are weird," he declared with the confidence of youth. "So, can we go?"

"Sure," Jack agreed. "But not too late. You've still got school tomorrow, championship game or not."

His dramatic groan was offset by the speed with which he zoomed away to deliver the good news to Tyler. The MacPherson family was already gathering by the shore, Shannon waving in our direction with a mittened hand.

"Looks like your evening just got freed up," I observed as we skated toward the edge of the ice, trying to keep my tone casual despite the sudden flutter of anticipation in my chest.

"So it seems."

"Any plans?"

Jack studied my face, his eyes lingering on mine. "I was thinking about helping a local business owner inventory his coffee bean supply."

"Thrilling offer," I laughed. "But I had something a bit more interesting in mind."

"I'm listening."

"Brooks lent me that documentary about architectural preservation you mentioned wanting to see. The one about that Art Deco restoration in Chicago."

The surprise in his expression was worth the effort it had taken to track down the film. He'd mentioned it once, months ago, during a quiet moment at Tidal Grounds. I'd remembered, sought it out, and planned for us to watch it together—a small piece of the life we were already building.

"That sounds perfect," he said as we reached the shore.

Shannon MacPherson approached, her arms laden with Tyler's skating gear. "We've got plenty of room for Cody tonight if you two want some time to yourselves," she offered with a knowing smile. "He's always welcome for a sleepover."

Jack glanced at me, and I felt heat creeping up my neck despite the cold. "That's very generous, but—"

"We'd appreciate that," I interrupted, surprising both of us. "If you're sure it's not an imposition."

Shannon waved a dismissive hand. "Please. The boys will be up all night replaying that winning goal anyway. Might as well contain the excitement to one household."

With arrangements quickly finalized and Cody's overnight essentials promised for delivery within the hour, we found ourselves standing alone at the harbor's edge. The improvised skating rink had emptied, lanterns being collected by the town volunteers who had set them out hours earlier.

Jack reached for my hand once more, our fingers interlacing with natural ease. "That was unexpected," he said. "You accepting Shannon's offer."

I squeezed his hand, feeling snowflakes gathering on my eyelashes as I gazed up at him. "I'm tired of watching life happen around me, remember? I'm ready to participate." I paused, then added more softly, "In everything."

The implication wasn't lost on him. This night had shifted something fundamental between us—crossed a threshold from possibility into commitment.

"There's no rush," he said, his voice gentle. "We have time."

"I know." I smiled, feeling it reach my eyes in a way that was becoming more natural with each passing day. "That's the point. We have time. All the time we need."

As we walked back toward town, the snow continued to fall around us, blanketing Whistleport in a fresh layer of white. Behind us, our skate marks on the harbor ice were already disappearing, filled in by new snow—not erased, but transformed, becoming part of something new and pristine.

Cody's laughter echoed in the distance as he and Tyler raced ahead toward the MacPhersons' home. Jack's hand remained firmly in mine, warm and solid despite the late winter chill. Ahead of us stretched Main Street, its familiar storefronts and streetlamps guiding our way home.

Not just his home or my apartment above Tidal Grounds but something new we were creating together—a shared life built on coffee beans and hockey games, quiet morning conversations, and harbor-edge revelations. On promises made not with grand gestures but with steady presence and deliberate choice.

The snow fell heavier, transforming Whistleport into something magical—familiar yet new, just like the path we'd chosen to walk together.