4. Jack
Chapter four
Jack
C ody's hockey stick clattered against the kitchen island, nearly falling on the floor, as he rearranged his gear for the tenth time. "Dad! Dad! Did you know Ziggy Knickerbocker set a UMaine record for goals scored by a first-year student? Like, more than anybody else ever!"
I smiled into my coffee mug, watching him bounce on his toes while I stirred hot chocolate on the stove. "Are you aiming to beat his record? Does that start with the shootout?"
"Yeah! Well, duh." He flopped onto a stool and then propped his chin on his hands. "Everybody at school's gonna be at the shootout, and they're all super good, and I just got here. What if I mess up, Dad, what if I—"
"Whoa, whoa. Take a breath, bud." My wooden spoon clinked against the pan as I added another splash of milk. Edward would have bought the instant packets, but some things were worth doing right. "You've been practicing like crazy. You're ready."
"But…" Cody's forehead hit the counter with a soft thunk. "What if I shoot and totally miss the net? Like, not even close? That would be so embarrassing!"
I poured the hot chocolate into Cody's favorite Canadiens mug and watched wisps of steam curl upward. "Hey, you know what? Even Ziggy Knickerbocker misses shots sometimes."
"Really?" He perked up, wrapping his hands around the mug. "Thanks for making the good hot chocolate. But um... Silas's is still better."
"Oh yeah? What's his got that mine doesn't?"
"He has those super cool marshmallows that look like hockey sticks! And he makes pictures in the chocolate part, and he always remembers to put extra whipped cream, and—"
I held up a hand. "Okay, yeah, I get it. I've been replaced by a barista with fancier marshmallows."
"No way!" Cody giggled. The sound echoed off mostly empty walls. We'd downsized dramatically from our Manhattan brownstone, but the rental house still felt too big for just the two of us—like we were rattling around in someone else's home.
I spotted Cody's winter hat tucked behind the coffee maker and grabbed it. "Here. Don't forget this."
He tugged it on, and then he crashed into me with a surprise hug that knocked the breath out of my lungs. "You're the best dad ever. Even if your hot chocolate's not the best. It's still pretty good. Like, maybe second best in the whole world."
I ruffled the hat, making him squeal in protest. "Get your gear together, kiddo. Carnival starts soon."
"Oh man, I gotta find my lucky socks!" He thundered up the stairs.
I leaned against the counter. My coffee had gone lukewarm, but I sipped it anyway, trying to silence the voice in my head that always seemed to whisper: Are you doing enough? Are you doing this right?
***
The Whistleport Ice Arena parking lot had transformed into an impromptu winter village. Strings of white lights zigzagged overhead, casting a gentle glow on a fresh dusting of snow. Kids in puffy jackets darted between cars, their laughter mixing with the distant scrape of skates on ice.
"Look, look!" Cody pressed his nose against the passenger window, fogging up the glass. "They've got an ice maze! And those statues—Dad, that one's a giant lobster! Can we go see it? Please?"
"Let me park first, bud." I guided our SUV into one of the few remaining spots, grateful we'd arrived early. "Then we can—"
"Jackson St. Pierre!" A woman in a violet cardigan materialized at my window before I could kill the engine. "And young Cody, too! Wonderful, wonderful."
It was Dottie Perkins. She'd already cornered me three different times to ask about "life in the city" as she called our New York experience.
"Hi, Mrs. Perkins!" Cody called to her as soon as he opened his door. "Are you judging the ice sculptures? That lobster is super cool!"
"Oh, sweetie, I'm coordinating the whole sculpture garden. Did you know our own Brooks Bennett donated the ice blocks? Such a generous boy, always was, even before the NHL..." She peered at me through her glasses. "You simply must see the seahorse near the hot chocolate station. Reminds me of the summer of '82 when my Harold—"
"Dad! Can we go now? Please?" Cody was already halfway out of the car, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Sorry, Mrs. Perkins." I managed what I hoped was a polite smile. "Duty calls."
"Of course, of course! But do stop by the Legion Hall later—Vi's organizing a wonderful chowder contest..." Her voice faded as Cody tugged me toward the carnival entrance.
The combined scents of woodsmoke and chocolate hit us first. A massive fire pit crackled near the arena doors, surrounded by families warming their hands and toasting marshmallows. Paper lanterns shaped like snowflakes swayed in the breeze, and someone had carved an intricate map of Whistleport's coastline into a wall of ice.
"Jack! Cody!" A familiar voice cut through the crowd. Silas appeared, balancing a tray of steaming cups, his Tidal Grounds apron, worn over a winter coat, dusted with cocoa powder. "Perfect timing."
He handed Cody a hot chocolate topped with those famous hockey stick marshmallows plus a generous swirl of whipped cream. "Special order for my favorite future NHL star."
"Yes! Dad, look! He even put the little chocolate sprinkles on top!"
Silas passed me a coffee—dark roast with a splash of cream. "Figured you could use the real stuff, not that arena coffee they're serving inside."
Our fingers brushed during the handoff, and I found myself noticing how the winter air had painted his cheeks pink above his beard. "You didn't have to—"
"Dad! Come on!" Cody was already racing toward the ice maze. "I bet I can find the middle before you!"
"Duty calls," Silas echoed my earlier words with a grin. "Better hurry—he's got that determined look."
I hesitated, surprised by how much I wanted to stay and ask Silas about his day, but Cody's voice rang out again. I nodded at Silas before jogging after my son.
The coffee warmed my hands as I followed Cody's path through the ice walls. It was perfect—exactly how I liked it. I wondered when Silas had noticed, how many morning coffee runs it had taken for him to learn my order by heart.
***
"Keep your blades straight. Like this, see?"
Cody shared some unsolicited advice as we took part in a free skate inside the arena. I wobbled slightly on my rental skates, feeling every one of my thirty-five years. "Some of us didn't learn to skate before we could walk, bud."
The carnival had hit full swing. Music drifted from speakers hidden in the snowflake lanterns—a current hit song that Cody hummed along to while circling around behind me.
My son, the show-off. I chuckled softly. On the far side of the rink, younger kids clung to orange skating aids shaped like seals while their parents captured wobbly first steps on their phones.
"You're too stiff," a voice called from behind me. "You're thinking about it too much."
I turned—too quickly—and nearly collided with a woman skating past. Silas glided to a stop beside me, his Tidal Grounds apron replaced by a well-worn Whistleport High Hockey jacket.
"I didn't know coffee shops had a skating division." I tried to hide my balance issues with humor.
"Varsity team, class of '09." He shrugged, but I saw the flash of pride in his eyes. "Nothing special, but—"
"He was good," Cody piped up, executing a flawless stop. "I saw him in his team photo in the trophy case. He scored like a million points!"
Silas laughed. "More like twenty, and the scorekeeper was very generous." He turned to me. "Here, try this—bend your knees more, and stop watching your feet."
"If I stop watching my feet, I'll end up wearing them as a hat."
"Trust me." He held out his hands. "Cody, come show your dad how it's done."
My son beamed, puffing up with ten-year-old authority. "First, you gotta get lower, like you're sitting in a chair. And don't be so scared—the ice isn't gonna bite you."
"The ice might not, but the ground sure will." I let them position my feet, adjusting my stance until Silas nodded in approval. I'd played hockey in high school and skated with Cody, but I was out of practice.
"Better. Now push to the side, don't try to walk. Like this..." He demonstrated with casual grace, then circled back. "Your turn."
I managed three decent strokes before my edges caught. I grabbed for the nearest support—which happened to be Silas. His hands closed around my forearms, steady and warm through my coat sleeves.
"Sorry," I mumbled.
"Nothing to apologize for." His voice dropped lower, almost lost under the music and chatter around us. "Everyone needs a little help finding their balance sometimes."
A shriek of laughter broke the moment. A group of Cody's teammates had started a game of tag, darting between other skaters with the agility of young cats.
"Dad! Silas! Come on!" Cody waved from the growing circle of kids. "You have to play, too!"
"Oh, I don't think—" I started, but Silas was already tugging me forward.
"Come on, city boy. Live a little."
Maybe it was the coffee still warming my stomach, Silas's eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled, or the infectious joy radiating from my son—but I found myself nodding. "Fine. But I'm blaming you when I fall and make a fool of myself."
"Deal." He winked. "I'll even throw in a muffin on the house after."
We joined the kids' game, and to my surprise, I started to find my rhythm. Sure, I was slower than everyone else, and my turns were more geometry than grace, but with Silas on one side and Cody on the other, I felt... solidly in place. Like maybe I didn't have to have everything figured out to enjoy the moment.
Ten minutes in, I even managed to tag Silas, though I suspected he'd slowed down on purpose. Cody's look of delighted shock made my questionable victory even sweeter.
Half an hour later, it was time for the shootout to begin. I crouched next to Cody, who sat on the players' bench, adjusting his helmet strap. "Remember to breathe, bud. Just like practice, okay?"
Around us, the carnival crowd pressed against the boards, their excited chatter echoing off the arena ceiling. Someone had dimmed the regular lights, leaving only the snowflake lanterns and a spotlight on the goal where Ziggy Knickerbocker—Whistleport's own UMaine living legend—waited to announce each shooter.
"What if I mess up?" Cody's voice wavered. "Everybody's watching."
"Hey." I turned his chin toward me, our eyes locking. "You've got this. And no matter what happens, I'm proud of you for trying."
"That's what Papa said on the phone last night, too." He swallowed hard. "But I think he was just being nice."
The mention of Edward stung slightly, but I pushed past it. "You know what? Watch the goal, not the goalie. Pick your spot early—"
"—and trust my instincts." Cody nodded. "Like you always say."
"Next up," Ziggy's voice boomed through the speakers, "number eleven, Cody St. Pierre!"
Silas appeared at my shoulder, squeezing Cody's arm. "Show 'em what you can do, buddy."
Cody's skates hit the ice, and my stomach did a slow roll. The crowd's murmuring faded as he collected his pucks at center ice. Three shots. Three chances to prove—to himself, more than anyone—that he belonged here.
His first attempt caught the post with a hollow clang that made half the crowd wince. But Cody didn't hesitate. He lined up his second shot, stick tapping twice against the ice—his good luck ritual. The puck zipped past the goalie's blocker, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying snap.
The audience erupted. I joined in the celebration, throwing my arms in the air. Beside me, Silas bounced on his skates like a kid himself.
Cody's final shot wasn't fancy. No deke, no flashy moves. It was a simple, straight shot that found a tiny gap between the goalie's pads.
Two out of three.
Cody spun toward the bench, both gloves thrust skyward. I hadn't seen him smile like that since... since before the divorce, maybe. It was pure, uncomplicated joy.
"Dad! Dad! Did you see?" He crashed into me, smelling of fresh ice and winter air. "I scored! Twice!"
"Saw every second, bud." I hugged him tight. "You were amazing."
"Most impressive shooting I've seen today," Ziggy said, skating over with a bronze medal. He hung it around Cody's neck with ceremonial gravity. "You've got great hockey sense, kid. Keep working on that quick release."
Cody stared at him with such awe that I had to bite back a laugh. I fumbled for my phone, wanting to capture this moment—my son, face flushed with victory, with a local hockey legend's hand on his shoulder.
"Your boy's got talent." Silas brushed his shoulder against mine as he helped me frame the shot. "But more importantly, he's got heart."
"Yeah." I lowered the phone, watching Cody show off his medal to his teammates. "He does."
There he was—confident, surrounded by new friends, already trading jokes about whose shot was better. For the first time since our arrival, I knew I'd made the right choice. Whistleport might have been small, fueled by gossip and hockey scores, but it had given Cody something we'd never found in New York.
It had given him somewhere to shine.
The fire pit cast dancing shadows across the snow as families clustered around its warmth. Cody joined his teammates on a nearby bench, their medals catching the firelight as they shared a plate of s'mores and traded exaggerated stories about their shots.
"Hot chocolate?" Silas appeared beside me, offering a steaming cup. "No hockey stick marshmallows this time, but I added extra whipped cream."
"Starting to think you're trying to put yourself out of business." I accepted the cup, sinking onto one of the weathered benches. "How many free drinks have you given away today?"
"Who says they're free?" He settled next to me, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. "I'm building customer loyalty. Very sophisticated business strategy."
"Ah, of course." I grinned into my cup. "And here I thought you were only being nice."
"That's the problem with you city folks." Silas drew a fleece blanket across both our laps with casual ease. "Always looking for the angle."
Around us, the carnival hummed with life. Kids chased each other through the sculpture garden while parents captured photos on their phones.
"So." Silas's voice dropped lower, meant just for me. "What really brought you to Whistleport? Besides the incomparable pastries?"
The question should have set off my usual alarms. In New York, personal questions always came with an agenda attached, but something about Silas's quiet presence made me want to answer honestly.
"Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?" I watched Cody demonstrate his winning shot for the fifth time, his new friends hanging on every word. "After the divorce... everything in the city was too loud. It was suddenly too crowded with too many people asking if I was okay and offering advice I didn't want."
Silas nodded, waiting.
"Then Cody made the travel team, and suddenly we were driving to all these small towns for games. Places where nobody knew us or our story. He seemed... lighter. Started talking more, laughing more." I traced the rim of my cup.
"One weekend, we played in Portland. On the way back to New York, I took a wrong turn, and we ended up here. There was this kid practicing shots against the arena wall, and Cody just... lit up."
"Must have been Tommy Martinez." Silas smiled. "He's out there every morning at dawn. Drives his mother crazy wearing through all his stick tape."
"Cody talked about him the whole drive home. Next thing I knew, I was negotiating with my company about remote work and looking at rental listings in Whistleport." I paused, realizing how impulsive it all sounded. "Probably seems crazy, uprooting everything on a whim."
"Doesn't seem crazy at all." Silas's hand found mine under the blanket, a gentle pressure that sent warmth spreading through my fingers. "Seems like you knew what Cody needed. What you both needed."
From the bench, Cody's laugh rang out—clear and uninhibited. "Maybe. Still feels like I'm skating blind most days."
"That's not always a bad thing." Silas's thumb traced circles on my palm, setting off sparks under my skin. "Sometimes you have to trust the ice beneath your feet, even when you can't see where it's leading."
I turned to look at him, struck by the quiet certainty in his voice. The firelight caught in his beard, highlighting strands of copper I hadn't noticed before. He met my gaze steadily, and I forgot about the crowd and the cold for a moment.
"Dad!" Cody's voice broke the spell. "Tyler says there's gonna be a three-on-three tournament next weekend. Can we come? Please?"
I reluctantly pulled my hand from Silas's as Cody bounded over. "We'll talk about it tomorrow, bud. How are those s'mores?"
"So good! Here, I saved you guys one." He thrust a slightly squished marshmallow sandwich at us. "You have to try it. Silas, you can have half of Dad's. He's not really a chocolate person anyway."
"Is that right?" Silas raised an eyebrow at me. "Guess I'll have to work on converting him."
The carnival lights cast long shadows as we made our way through the thinning crowd. Cody skipped ahead, his medal catching the glow of the paper lanterns, its soft clink mixing with the crunch of snow under our boots.
"And then—and then—" He spun around, walking backward to face us. "When Ziggy said I had good hockey sense? That's like, the best thing ever. Tyler said he never tells anyone that!"
"Watch where you're going, bud." I nudged him before he collided with a sculpture. "And yes, that was pretty special."
Silas walked beside me, our steps falling into an easy rhythm. He'd insisted on helping carry Cody's gear bag, claiming it was his "civic duty as a former hockey player."
"You know," Silas said, "the youth league could use more parent volunteers. If you're planning to stick around Whistleport."
The question beneath the suggestion hung in the crisp air. Ahead of us, Cody had stopped to examine his medal under a streetlight, his breath forming little clouds as he polished the bronze surface with his sleeve.
"Actually," I found myself saying, "I signed a year-long lease yesterday. It's a house on Maple Street, the blue one with the wraparound porch."
"No kidding?" Silas's smile spread slowly, like a sunrise over the harbor. "That's four blocks from Tidal Grounds."
I blushed. "Is it? Hadn't noticed."
"Liar." His shoulder bumped mine, playful and warm. "You mapped the walking distance to your morning coffee, didn't you?"
"Dad!" Cody called before I could answer. "Can we get hot chocolate from Silas's tomorrow, too? To celebrate?"
"Pretty sure Silas needs a day off sometimes, bud."
"I don't know," Silas said. "Celebrating sounds important. Very serious business." He winked at Cody.
We reached the car too quickly. Cody immediately climbed in, busy texting Edward about his medal. I loaded his gear in the trunk, very aware of Silas standing nearby.
I spoke softly. "Thanks for everything today. The coffee, the skating help—"
"The superior marshmallow selection?"
"That, too." I closed the trunk, turning to face him. "It's been... nice. Having someone to talk to who gets it."
"Whistleport's good that way." He took a half step closer. "Once you let it work its magic."