Chapter 2
Chapter two
Gabe Thatcher
The Bench Social Media Group
Patti Jensen: Not to add gossip, but Gabe Thatcher ended his date outside the diner early, and let’s just say it did not go well.
Ash Patel: Another one bites the dust, and he hardly ever dates.
Patti Jensen: The date was good looking enough, but rude to my waitresses. Thatch wasn’t having it.
Riley Novak: Someone better scoop up that man.
“Morning, kiddo.”
Jamie side-eyes the omelet I set next to his high-protein yogurt parfait and a peeled orange.
“Spinach?” he asks warily as he stumbles to a stool at the kitchen island.
“Yep. But enough ham and cheese to drown it out.”
I get half a smile. When was the last time I got a full one? A real one from my twelve-year old?
We’re as close as can be, as close as I can imagine, but middle school is rough.
Jamie’s not a morning person—never has been.
Maybe that comes with a coffee addiction later in life.
Still, he digs in, and I let out a quiet breath.
It’s taken years of negotiating over mac and cheese and chicken nuggets that his friends ate, and politely declining the kids’ menu at restaurants to get him to embrace salads and veggies, but he’s come around. Almost.
These days there’s a different problem. Is it even possible for a twelve-year-old boy to eat enough when he plays competitive hockey? I toss an extra sandwich into his lunch bag. Just in case.
While he eats breakfast, I glance over at the pile of hockey gear by the hall tree I built back when Jamie started Kindergarten.
The cherry wood used to loom over his tiny backpack and rubber boots that looked so alone on their hook and shelf.
Now that same piece of furniture barely holds his hockey bag and pads.
Gear threatens to break out of the confines of the cubby shelf, and it looks like three players live here and not just one.
I gulp my coffee to push down the lump in my throat and start steeping some green tea for him to drink on our morning drive to school.
“I’ve got practice after school,” Jamie says around a mouthful. “I’ll walk over with Arch.”
“Will you be done by six?”
He nods, taps his foot, and chews too much food at once. I hold back from etiquette criticisms this early in the day.
“Just be there by six-thirty if you can,” he says, voice a little off. Guarded. Not unlike how he’s been the past few weeks when I pick him up.
Ever since I found him running drills with that new coach I don’t know. The smirky one with the full lips and piercing blue eyes. Montana-sky blue. The one who is too damn handsome to be a hockey player.
Something in Jamie’s tone makes me pause and pulls me from my wayward thoughts. “Alright. We’ve got town council after, so you’ll need to shower at The Keep. We’ll grab dinner somewhere in town.”
He nods again, still chewing, still quiet. I wipe down the counters and load the dishwasher.
“I’m finishing the staircase at the Fox River Falls Inn—the Calloways’ place. You’ll like it.”
Jamie hops up, plate in hand. He’s still chewing when he cuts me off. “Can I see it this weekend? Their brunch is really good,” he asks, with a suggestion, and I nod a yes back to all of it as he keeps talking. “And I know. Don’t get up until I’m done chewing. Sorry, Dad.”
He comes in for a hug, and I squeeze him tight, breathing in the scent of his shampoo as I kiss the top of his head.
“Go brush your teeth. I’ll be in the car.”
Later, when I’m sanding down the banister’s final edge at the Inn, I realize I’ve spent the entire day thinking about Jamie’s cagey tone at breakfast. He’s been cagey for a couple of weeks now. Staying late at practice too.
I tried—last night, actually—to ask him what was up, but he blew me off, as if there was nothing wrong.
My hands move by instinct, as the repetitive rhythm of the final touches lets my mind wander to Jamie.
Is there something up with this new coach?
My gut clenches at the thought of needing to interfere with Jamie’s hockey. I’ll do it, of course, because it’s for Jamie. But I sure as hell would rather not.
“Thatch?” Marge Calloway’s voice calls down the hallway.
“I’m finishing the banister,” I call back.
She pokes her head into the doorway, giving me that trademark smile. “This looks so good, Thatch. You know Gregg and I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I smile, wiping down the curve of the finished piece. It’s one of those solid wood banisters that feels like it’ll last a hundred more years. The kind of work that stays long after you’re gone. I feel proud of it. Really proud.
“You two needed a retirement project, I guess. Restoring this grand old place has been an honor.”
She hands me a check, which I fold into the pocket of my flannel.
Gregg made his money in petroleum engineering, and Marge .
. . Marge was the receptionist at Fox River High.
She still knows all the old senior pranks we pulled, even the ones our parents never did.
And since retirement? She’s become the town’s unofficial gossip queen. Online now, instead of behind her desk.
Marge leads me into the newly redone kitchen—my handiwork—and hands me a hot cup of coffee, even though it’s afternoon.
“So, Thatch. Patti said you had a date the other night. Pie at the diner?”
I wince. “Just coffee. An interior designer I met on the Crofton job. Nothing came of it.”
She tsks softly, pats my hand. “You’ll find someone. You’re too good a catch not to.” Then, as casually as breathing, she asks, “How’s Liz doing these days?”
One thing about Marge—she doesn’t avoid sensitive topics. Someone dies, someone divorces, she’s in it with both feet.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “She talks to Jamie from wherever she is in the world.”
“I hoped as he got older, we’d see her around more.”
I try to smile, but I’m sure it’s more of a grimace. “She’s where she wants to be. Jamie and I are fine with that.”
She nods, eyes twinkling. “Still, we need to find you a man—” She catches herself, since I date men and women and that’s not something that stays behind closed doors in a small town like Fox River Falls.
But I have been dating men recently, and Marge would pick up on that.
“Or woman,” she diplomatically tacks on to the end.
I rinse my cup and set it in the sink before she can press further. The last thing I want is to become Marge Calloway’s matchmaking mission, or to get dragged into a conversation about the finer points of bisexuality over the countertops of her cinnamon-scented kitchen.
Dating, even as infrequently as I do it, has been the best defense at keeping Marge’s gossip—or plans—far away from me.
It’s like that trick I learned back when I was young enough to think parties were fun.
If I just took whatever alcohol-based beverage was in the Solo cup, it was a lot less hassle than declining and having people push it on me all night. Or commenting on it.
All I had to do was just carry the cup, and no one noticed if I never actually drank from it.
Or refilled it. I’ve found that the same trick works in Fox River Falls.
If I didn’t date anyone, Marge and her crew would be in my business down to the weeds.
But if I keep up the appearance of a random casual date, I stay safe.
The staircase is done when I next glance at the time . . . 5:15 p.m. Not enough time to start anything new, so I head home for a quick shower and change before town council.
Except, I move fast—too fast.
Something is circling in the back of my mind, and I finally realize what it is. Jamie’s been off, and I think I know why. And I think I’d already decided to get to The Keep early, before I even realized it.
Hockey and I have history, always have. I would say I hate it, but I’m not sure if that’s true. It’s more like I don’t trust it. But Jamie? He loves it.
And I’ve done everything to support him—driven him to every practice, built a warming shed for our pond, even constructed a rollout net so he and his friends could block off the street and play on rollerblades in the summer.
I’ve paid for camps and training and agility coaching.
I’ve made my schedule work to get him to all of it . . . all of it.
But now? Now we’re in that in-between stage. That age where kids start dreaming of the NAPH. And I hate it.
He’s smart. His grades are stellar. He has a college fund locked away, thanks to Liz’s family. He’s got options. He doesn’t need to chase this.
I thought the allure of the ice would have faded by now. And I was very wrong about that. I just never thought I would have to deal with the issue, so I ignored it.
And now I’m in it. Our lives revolve around hockey in many ways.
I pull into The Keep just after six. Practice should be wrapping up, and I see kids from his team leaving even though I’m still a solid thirty minutes earlier than when Jamie told me to pick him up.
I feel like a jackass sneaking into my own kid’s rink, but I need to know what’s going on.
From the upper deck, I spot Jamie immediately. Running drills. Alone. Except . . . he’s not alone.
He’s with the same guy I saw before. Same build. Same posture. Same confidence. Even more so now because the guy isn’t flat-footed from being in sneakers on the ice. This time he’s in skates, flowing like water with incredible speed and control.
I watch. And I see something that tightens my chest.
Jamie’s not running simple forward drills.
He’s running center drills. Position play, and that’s a year or two off at least. He may not even want to play hockey by then.
What the hell?
I’m halfway down the steps before I even realize I’ve moved. My jaw is tight, the muscles aching from how hard I’ve been clenching it.