Hometown Heart (Whistleport Hockey #3)

1. Silas

Chapter one

Silas

I watched through Tidal Grounds' plate glass windows as Whistleport stirred to life on a Saturday morning in late January. A lobsterman in a faded knit cap trudged toward the docks, his breath a visible cloud in the chill morning air. I read the daily special chalkboard outside Miller's Bakery across the street: Maple Pecan Scones – Get 'Em While They Last! A couple of early risers sat on benches near the water, huddled over steaming cups, their conversation drowned out by the occasional squawk of gulls.

Ruthie Langford caught Vi Callahan's eye across their usual table, the one with the best view of both the door and the harbor. They had the uncanny Maine-centric ability to have entire conversations without saying a word—a skill honed over decades of shared morning coffees and town gossip. I'd learned to read their signals through the years: raised eyebrows meant intrigue, pursed lips spelled concern, and the slight tilt of Ruthie's head meant she was already composing tomorrow's conversation for Dottie's Book Group.

The bell over the door jingled, and the air in my coffee shop shifted.

I looked up mid-motion while changing a coffee filter. A man stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders squared against the winter wind.

Jack St. Pierre.

He was tall and lean, his charcoal peacoat crisp despite the weather. The silver at his temples caught the light, adding a streak of distinction to his dark hair. His eyes scanned the café like a pilot, looking for the safest place to land.

Beside him, a boy—maybe nine or ten—practically vibrated with excitement. His oversized Montreal Canadiens jersey hung loosely on his small frame, and he clutched a brand-new hockey stick like a lifeline.

"Papa, ca sent bon ici," he stage-whispered, inhaling deeply as he tugged at his father's sleeve. His accent was soft, unmistakably French Canadian.

Jack's expression eased for a heartbeat, something unspoken flickering across his face. Then it was gone.

Something about the way Jack moved intrigued me. Maybe it was the careful grace of someone used to navigating spaces with a child in tow. It was different from the lobstermen's weather-worn stride or the summer tourists' uncertain meandering. He had a steady presence that made the room feel safer.

I got the introductions out of the way. "I'm Silas Brewster, owner of Tidal Grounds." I reached out to shake hands.

"Jack St. Pierre, and this is my son, Cody." As I expected, his grip was firm and warm.

Men like Jack didn't walk into Tidal Grounds every day. Not looking like that or with that kind of presence. Not with a son at his side.

Ruthie and Vi fell silent, exchanging looks over their half-finished coffees. They didn't speak, but I knew that look— Whistleport's finest brand of observational curiosity. No doubt, by lunchtime, speculation about Jack St. Pierre and his son would be in full swing.

Cody moved toward the counter, his hockey stick narrowly missing a table leg. Jack's hand shot out, steadying a wobbly mug before it could fall. The movement was instinctive, practiced—parental reflex.

"Sorry about that," he murmured, his voice lower than I expected, carrying that familiar Quebecois cadence. His eyes met mine, then flicked away just as fast.

"Cody, does the stick need to wait in the car?"

"Dad, practice is—"

"Soon, yes," Jack interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. "But we might not make it there if your stick causes a catastrophe here."

Cody sighed in a theatrical display of suffering but propped the stick safely against the wall before focusing on the pastry case. His breath fogged the glass. "Dad, look! The marshmallows are shaped like little seashells!"

Jack exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching, just shy of a smile.

"Perfect for Tidal Grounds coastal hot chocolate," I said, already reaching for a cup.

"One hot chocolate. Small," Jack said.

"Medium," Cody countered, turning his most hopeful gaze on me. "With extra whipped cream? Please?"

I glanced at Jack, who hesitated before giving a small nod, his fingers tapping on the counter.

"One medium hot chocolate, moderate whipped cream. And you?" I asked.

"Black coffee, no sugar. Splash of cream."

Cody remained entranced by the marshmallows as I spooned a few into his drink. "You make these yourself?"

"Family recipe. Can't have boring marshmallows in coastal Maine."

"New York ones are all boring. We should come here every morning before weekend practice! Right, Dad? It's on the way to the rink and—"

"We'll see." Jack pulled out his wallet while reaching for his coffee.

I waved him off. "First visit's on the house. Welcome to Whistleport."

Jack hesitated. "We couldn't—"

"Dad, that's so nice! Thank you, Mr. Silas!"

"Just Silas," I corrected. "Mr. Silas makes me sound like I should be teaching algebra. And I was terrible at math."

Jack's eyes met mine for a second longer this time. "Silas, then. Thank you."

The bell above the door jingled again. Rory Blake strode in, cheeks flushed from the wind. He stopped short at the sight of Cody's jersey.

"You must be Cody St. Pierre."

Cody stood a little straighter, practically bouncing. "Are you Coach Blake? I mean—yes, sir!"

"Coach is fine." Rory grinned, then turned to Jack. "You met with Brooks yesterday?"

Jack nodded. "He's been very helpful."

Cody turned to me. "Did you know there's a real-life NHL player here?"

I nodded. "He sat two seats behind me in high school biology."

Rory smirked. "I'm sure Brooks covered everything, but if you have any questions, feel free to ask. Fair warning—he's running drills this morning that had me sore for days back when we played together."

Jack's grip on his coffee cup relaxed slightly. Cody, however, was all enthusiasm.

"Speaking of which," Rory checked his watch, "practice starts in fifteen. Coming, Cody? I'll show you where the locker room is."

Cody looked to Jack, who nodded. "Go ahead. I'll bring your stick."

Cody shoved his empty cup at me. "Thanks for the hot chocolate and the marshmallows and—"

"Go," Jack chuckled, ruffling his son's hair. "I'll bring your hat too. I think you left it in the car."

The door chimed as Rory led Cody out, a gust of cold air curling into the café. Jack lingered, his fingers tightening briefly around the hockey stick before adjusting his grip.

"He's a good kid," I said.

Jack's lips curved into something more genuine this time. "He is. Makes everything worth it."

The affection was unmistakable. A bond built on a solid, unshakable foundation.

"If you want to fit in around here, the hockey part's a good choice. Nothing brings this town together like the rink."

Jack nodded. "That's what we're hoping." He turned to leave, then paused, letting the hockey stick lean against his body. "You know, this is his third stick in two months."

I waited, sensing he had more to say.

"The first one he left at Edward's—his other dad's—place in New York. The second..." Jack's voice softened. "He broke it the day Edward canceled their weekend. Said he was too busy with his new—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Sorry. You don't need our whole story."

The morning light caught the silver in his hair, and for a moment, I saw what Cody's face must have looked like when that stick broke. "Sometimes the story needs somewhere to go," I said quietly. "Might as well be here."

Jack blinked and gazed into my eyes. "You should've seen him that night. He didn't cry, didn't throw a tantrum. He walked out to the back porch, sat down, and started breaking it. He dismantled it splinter by splinter, like he was trying to unravel something inside him." Jack exhaled, shaking his head. "Took me way too long to realize what he was really breaking wasn't the stick."

Jack met my eyes then, really met them. "Third stick's the charm, right?"

"Third stick, third town, third chance," I said. "We're good with thirds around here."

He smiled—small but real—and turned toward the door. The bell jingled one last time.

I let out a slow breath and turned back to the counter, but my mind remained focused on the look in Jack's eyes and how some broken things weren't about the specific item at all.

I hadn't even finished wiping down the espresso machine when Dottie Perkins burst through the door in a flutter of paisley scarves and jangling bracelets, making the bell chime with unusual urgency. Her cat-eye glasses were slightly fogged from the temperature change, but that didn't slow her down.

"Girls!" She made a beeline for Ruthie and Vi's table, barely pausing to wave her regular order at me. "I saw the most gorgeous man walking into the arena with a little boy at his side. Surely, you've seen him. If you know anything, do tell."

I busied myself with Dottie's usual— double-shot cappuccino with extra foam and a dash of cinnamon—trying not to give away that I was hanging on every word.

"Single father, I'd bet," Ruthie supplied, lowering her voice. "From Montreal originally. There's no mistaking that accent."

"But the boy mentioned New York," Vi added, clearly pleased to have a detail to contribute. She looked at Ruthie. "Divorced?" They both nodded.

My hand tightened involuntarily on the portafilter. Divorced. That explained something about the weight on Jack's shoulders.

"Poor woman. Letting that hunk of man escape." Dottie leaned in, her bracelets clinking against her coffee cup as I set it down.

"No, the ex is a man—Edward," Vi corrected. "Somewhat of a louse, I'd say."

I fumbled my way back to the espresso machine. It was a good excuse to turn away and mask the expressions filling my face.

"And he's already got Cody signed up for hockey?" Dottie was practically vibrating with excitement. "Oh, Brooks Bennett will be pleased. We need fresh blood in the junior league if we're going to beat Camden this year."

"Silas," Ruthie called out, "didn't you think he had remarkable eyes? So soulful."

The milk pitcher nearly slipped from my grip. "I'm not sure I noticed. I was more focused on getting their order right." That wasn't entirely a lie.

I did focus on their order. And Jack's voice. And how his hand settled protectively on Cody's shoulder.

"Speaking of orders," Dottie pivoted in her chair, "what did they get? That tells you so much about a person, you know."

"Black coffee with a splash of cream," Vi answered before I could say it was nobody's business. "Very classic. Very masculine."

Hearing Vi's response, I wondered what my own go-to drink order said about me. It was a complicated pour-over with house-made vanilla syrup.

"And the boy got hot chocolate with those adorable little seashell marshmallows," Ruthie added. "Did you make those yourself, Silas? They're charming."

"Family recipe."

"Oh! That reminds me," Dottie exclaimed, "speaking of family recipes, you'll never guess what I heard about Betty's secret ingredient in her award-winning clam chowder—"

The bell chimed again, bringing Brooks Bennett through the door, his cheeks reddened from the cold. He was still imposing in his casual clothes, though the fierce intensity I remembered from our high school hockey days had mellowed into something warmer.

"Silas," he nodded, then turned to the gossip table with an easy smile. "Morning, ladies."

"Brooks!" Dottie straightened in her chair. "We were discussing the new addition to your junior league. Such a promising young player, wouldn't you say?"

"Cody's got natural talent," Brooks agreed, leaning against the counter. "And a father dedicated to giving him a fresh start." His eyes met mine briefly. Of course, Brooks would know Jack's story—he'd probably heard it during registration.

I busied myself with Brooks' usual order—an Americano with an extra shot. "How're the drills going?"

"Good. However, Jack might need another coffee after watching Cody take some hits. The first practice is always tough on hockey parents."

As if summoned by our conversation, the door opened again. Jack stood there, looking slightly shell-shocked.

"That bad?" I asked, already reaching for a fresh cup.

"He got checked into the boards—a little harder than in New York." Jack's voice was rough. "Got right back up, grinning like it was Christmas morning. My heart, however..." He pressed a hand to his chest. "I sent him off with his new buddy, Tyler. He got invited over for a couple of hours while I decompress."

"Welcome to Whistleport hockey dad life," Brooks chuckled. "You'll get used to it. Eventually."

Jack's eyes found mine as I slid the fresh coffee across the counter. "On the house?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"This one you're paying for," I said, surprising myself with how easily the teasing came. "Can't have people thinking I'm running a charity instead of a business."

"Wouldn't want to start rumors," Jack agreed, and something in his tone made me glance at Dottie's table. The three women quickly looked away, suddenly fascinated by their cups.

As Jack paid, his fingers brushed mine, warm despite the arena's chill. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For your wise comment earlier. Sometimes the story does need somewhere to go."

I nodded, my throat unexpectedly tight. "Same time tomorrow?"

"It's Sunday, so practice starts at eleven." He paused, then added, "But we might come a little early. Those marshmallows made quite an impression."