Chapter Five
Cooper
Getting up at five a.m. sucks. Sure, I’ve only managed to make it to the rink a couple of times since he’s been back, but unlike those times, it’s not following a late night of letting Declan feed me Old Fashioneds while he worked.
The sun’s still down, the roads are dead, most people still asleep, drooling on their pillows. Me? I’ve been up for an hour, sitting here in three layers, coffee cup welded to my gloved hand, shivering my balls off in the Taunton Falls community rink.
But every time I look up, watching him fly up the rink, racing ghosts or taking slapshots on an empty net? Worth it.
The fluorescent lights overhead hum like they’re hungover too, glinting off the ice and casting Declan in this kind of heroic glow.
The whole place smells like stale popcorn and whatever chemical Declan swears is “Zamboni oil, don’t worry about it.
” It hasn’t changed in years, way before he played in the Juniors.
Cracks in the Plexi, duct tape on benches, rental skates I know are older than us at this point. All the same.
Except him.
I still remember the first time I came here with him.
Even then, Declan was already showing off, a fearless little missile with red cheeks, laughing so loud it echoed off the stands while I struggled to go around the rink once without clinging to the sides.
I didn’t even make it a full lap before I wiped out, my skate shooting sideways just as he swung back around to check on me.
Crashing in a heap, with me flailing and him somehow still grinning, he came up with a tiny cut at his jaw.
A thin, pale line that never really faded.
I know the shape of it now, learned it years later, tracing the scar with my tongue until he was breathless under me.
He banks around, stick catching a puck rebounding off the boards, rocketing down the ice so fast I can barely keep up. The puck goes flying, cracking into the top corner, skidding to a stop, ice shavings spraying everywhere.
“Show off,” I yell, hiding my grin behind my scarf.
Nodding to himself, he resets and does the same thing again. If I forgot that he was NHL-bound before, I’ve been reminded now.
The way he moves out there? The smooth, confident strokes of his skates, the calm he exudes like his body understands how to exist? Everyone in this town watches him like he’s a god. I just watch him like he’s Declan, my best friend.
And just like I’ve always known music’s in my veins, right now, it’s ice that’s in his bloodstream.
He coasts toward the boards, breathing hard, sweat coating his brow as his cheeks flush pink from the chilly AC pumping through the air.
Leaning over, he gestures wordlessly toward his water bottle.
Hopping up from my spot, I hold it out, tugging on a strand of dark hair curling out from under his helmet.
“It’s annoying how good you look at this time of the morning,” I say as I watch his throat work as he swallows.
“You know, you could grab a pair of skates and join me,” he breathes, a grin tugging at his mouth, brown eyes stupidly bright under the rink lights. “That’s a sure-fire way to get your blood pumping.”
Snorting, I take an over-dramatic sip of my coffee, pretending I’m not seconds away from hypothermia. “Yeah, well, I can think of another way I’d rather be getting my blood pumping at six a.m., and it doesn’t involve freezing my ass off on an ice cube.”
Declan chokes, coughing hard enough that it echoes across the empty rink.
“Fuck,” he mutters, yanking his helmet off and shoving his damp hair back. “You can’t say shit like that, Cooper.”
“What?” I ask innocently. “Ever thought about hooking up at the rink? Of someone walking in and catching you…”
Pink rises up his neck, his eyes lowering to his hands. “Can we not talk about this?”
Rolling my eyes, I lean over and bop him on the nose with the tip of my gloved finger. “Oh, I forgot, my big best friend’s a prude who doesn’t like to talk about sex.”
“It’s not—”
The scrape of the heavy metal door at the far end stops him mid-sentence, and both of us turn to see Gerard Rafferty, the rink’s owner’s grandson, trudging inside, beanie pulled low, snow dusting his shoulders.
“Hey, boys,” he calls out, tugging off his hat and shaking out his hair. “I swear it’s cold as balls outside.” Making his way toward us, he does that shoulder-clasp hug with Dec before nodding at me. “Great show the other night, Cooper.”
My chest puffs out a little on instinct. “Thanks, man.”
“You’re early.”
“Can’t have Taunton Falls’ golden boy driving my Zamboni now, can we?”
“I said I’d do it,” Declan grumbles, tossing me his helmet. Startled, I barely manage to catch it, my now empty cup of coffee clattering to the ground as he smirks. “I’m almost done anyway.”
“Take your time.” Gerard jerks his thumb toward the back office. “Gotta catch up on paperwork before the kids get in for morning practice.” Grinning, he wiggles his eyebrows. “Feel like sticking around and showing them what their future could look like?”
Declan huffs a laugh, shaking his head, his gaze snagging on me. “Can’t. Have plans with Cooper.”
Clicking his tongue, he sighs. “Damn, maybe next time, huh?”
“Sure, I’d love to.”
“Guess they’ll just have to make do with skating under your number as inspiration.” He chuckles, chin pointing toward the far wall before disappearing down the hall toward his office.
My gaze drifts over the faded banners and old team photos, doing a double take when they land on a framed jersey dead center, number twelve—the same number he has now—stitched in royal blue across the back, COHEN in curved block letters across the shoulders.
Blinking, my head snaps back to Declan, my eyes wide. “You never told me they hung up your old Juniors jersey.”
He doesn’t look at me, too busy focusing on it, too, his jaw tight, cheeks pink and not just from the cold.
“Didn’t think it mattered,” he mutters as he scrapes his stick over a patch of rough ice. But I know that tone; it’s the one he uses when he’s trying to downplay something huge.
“Didn’t think— Dec, what the fuck?” I shove at his shoulder from over the boards, mock outrage hijacking my voice and making it an octave higher.
“That’s basically Taunton Falls’ Hall of Fame.
Dude, when I become a rock star, they better hang something of mine next to it.
Maybe a golden mic, or my first guitar.”
Shaking his head, he tries to shrug it off, but I can see the grin sneak out anyway.
“Give me a sec to tidy up, then we can get outta here, okay?”
He skates off, collecting pucks and tidying up the rink. I just stand there staring at that jersey with his name on it and then at him, blades carving lines into the ice. Pride blooms in my chest until it almost hurts. He’s too humble to ever say it out loud, but I know it. He’s going to make it.
We both are.
His name on an NHL roster, mine in stage lights.