Chapter 6
Chapter six
Gabe Thatcher
The Bench Social Media Group
Riley Novak: Saw Roe Monroe and Gabe Thatcher sitting side by side at Jamie’s game last night. Again. No buffer seat.
Patti Jensen: And Roe leaned in to say something. Thatcher laughed. I saw it. With my own eyes.
Marge Calloway: We have seen Thatcher laugh before, right?
I adjust the level and sink the last screw into the new handrail at the edge of the church steps.
This job isn’t big—maybe an hour’s worth of work if I don’t get interrupted—but Miss Eleanor had tripped there last week, and word had gotten around like it always did, since the fall was enough to send her to the hospital.
I still won’t be late to get Jamie even if I stop and fix it.
“You fixin’ things for free again?” came a voice from the sidewalk. Marge Calloway of course, leading a line of ladies from some church function. “You know you’re wreckin’ the going rate for every handyman in town.”
I don’t look up from the drill. “They can fight me.”
Marge chuckles along with her group.
She wanders off, hopping into her SUV, satisfied to know who was doing the fix although she would likely have guessed it was me, and I lean back, looking at the solid lines of the railing.
Then a voice behind me almost has me dropping the drill. “You always this noble, or does Fox River Falls only have so many causes?”
I stand and turn toward the voice—and there’s Monroe, leaning against the fence with that damn crooked smile. No jersey, no Iceguard gear. Just jeans and a hoodie like he has nowhere better to be.
I feel my jaw tighten before I can help it. “You followin’ me?”
“Nope. Just walking by. Saw a guy saving the world one stair at a time and got curious.”
“You got a lot of free time.”
Monroe shrugs. “Guess so.” He nods to the railing. “Looks like you do too.”
I huff. “Miss Eleanor fell due to this.”
“Yeah.” He scratches his dark stubble. “Strange thing is that although I have no idea who that is, I did also happen to hear that news. This town is a trip.”
I laugh out loud at his dry humor, and our eyes catch. It reminds me a bit of the other night at Volpe. I look away.
“Want to hold this piece for me?” I ask, not looking his way. “Since you have the time.”
“Alright.”
There’s something in his voice I don’t want to name. Admiration, maybe. Interest. Something under the teasing.
“Miss Eleanor owns the nursery right out of town. They sell plants to locals and commercial landscapers. A hell of a business she built herself.” I find myself telling him, although I doubt he cares.
“Sounds like a hell of a lady.”
I try for a smile. “She does like hockey, so definitely questionable taste, but . . .” I trail off with a shrug. No use trying to end a sentence that has no good end in sight.
Monroe comes closer and does as I ask, handing me a few tools and holding things even, allowing me to reinforce my work better than I could do alone. I can’t stop myself from glancing at Roe’s mouth when he smiles again, quick and sharp like a spark catching on dry wood.
And damn if I don’t feel that smile somewhere low in my spine. Shit. Attraction to Roe Monroe will lead to nothing but complications. And I don’t do complicated.
I pick up the drill and start packing up, looking anywhere except Roe’s teasing smirk. He moves back to the sidewalk now that the job is done. “You got something you need fixed?”
“Nope,” Monroe says. “Just passing by. Like I said.”
I don’t answer, watching him walk off out of the corner of my eye. I may have just drilled the last screw harder than necessary, and I’m trying not to think about how warm my ears suddenly feel.
***
“What’s all that?”
I finish stacking the wood I’m reclaiming from the rink—including a bunch of old hockey sticks—into my truck before turning around to speak to Monroe.
It’s been a whole two days since I ran into him fixing the church railing, and I start to wonder if he’s going to keep turning up like a bad penny.
It only serves to underscore how often I think about him. Too damn often.
“Old wood from where we put in the new locker room and some hockey sticks that are no longer in use.”
Monroe leans an elbow on top of my tailgate when I shut it. “Yeah, ok. But what are you going to do with it?”
I shrug, tugging off my gloves, something I notice he watches closely for some reason I’m sure only makes sense to him.
“I don’t know yet, Monroe.” He waits for me to say more, as if he knows I can elaborate, I’ve just chosen to use the fewest words it takes to respond.
“People in Fox River Falls love The Keep, they love the Iceguard. I figured somewhere down the line there’ll be a project that needs to be made out of the old Iceguard penalty box or the Juniors’ old lockers. ”
Monroe smiles, like he’s lapped me in some race I didn’t even know I’m running. “Cool,” is all he says, but the smirk on his face says more.
“Jamie okay?” he asks as we make our way into the rink. “Game yesterday was rough, I heard.”
I shrug. “He wasn’t happy with how he played. It wasn’t his best game, but still decent hockey for most kids.”
“Sorry I missed it. These last few away games make me glad we found time to keep up practices.”
“I’m sure it’s just a slump. He’ll pull out by Saturday’s game.” I pause when we get to where we should part ways. “The Iceguard held their own on the road.” That’s begrudging. Monroe has shown himself to be a solid player, not as flashy as he used to be in those clips that Jamie watches.
A winning smile lights up his face, all the way to his eyes, “You keeping tabs on me, Thatcher? Watch every game? Want to join my fan club?”
I narrow my eyes at him, something feeling off inside with his teasing. “No.” I turn to go, irritated that I bothered to give him the compliment in the first place, when something hits my shoulder. I lift it off and turn to stare at him.
“Your jersey? Really?” The words are clipped but my stomach churns a bit at the jersey in my hands. At the ridiculousness of it. As if I would ever wear Monroe’s jersey. The idea makes my face heat.
I most certainly do not catch the scent of Roe’s spicy soap, or something rawer, and draw it into my lungs. That would be weird.
Right?
“Only the best for my number one fan,” he says, smirk fully in place as he ducks his head, turning toward the entrance to the Iceguard’s locker room. “See you Saturday.”
By the time Jamie’s game on Saturday rolls around, I’m hopeful his slump is over. He and Monroe had a good practice this week, and his team practice was solid.
I made all his favorite meals, and made sure the week went smoothly. I even did a few extra things I usually expect him to do, like starting his laundry for him. Anything to make his life a little bit easier.
But by the first five minutes of the game, I know Jamie’s too in his head. All I can do is watch as he hesitates with every move. Hesitating when he should be leading. I see Arch give him a concerned look when they come off for a line change, and Jamie’s face is as pale as the ice.
Coach benches him at the next line change and I think I forget to breathe. Jamie’s never been benched.
I can feel Monroe side-eye me, but I ignore it, waiting for him to say something so I can be mad at him at least.
He doesn’t. When Jamie takes the ice again, Monroe cheers him on, and Jamie makes a great play that morphs into a few minutes of solid play time before he’s back in his head again.
Jamie rides the bench into the third period.
They lose by one, and I can feel the tension roll off my son as he skates off the ice with his team to head to the locker room.
“You okay?” Monroe asks, and when I turn on him he’s so close he’s surprised, but he doesn’t move out of my space. The space he already spends too much time in. Popping up around town. Sitting next to me at games. The amount of real estate in my mind he occupies.
“I’m not falling apart because Jamie didn’t have the best game today, if that’s what you are asking.” My tone is tight and clipped, but not because Jamie had a bad game.
No, at some point Monroe got under my skin and in my head. I need distance from his distracting, smirky mouth, especially with all this worry about where Jamie’s head is at running through me.
I don’t know how to be a hockey dad. Not a good one. And that’s what Jamie needs.
The corded muscle in Monroe’s arms shows as he crosses them over his Iceguard T-shirt that stretches across his broad chest. “That wasn’t what I was asking.”
I close my eyes for a moment. I’m not sure how to feel right now. There’s just a lot of noise in my head. Too much to sort.
Monroe’s hand wraps around my elbow.
“He’s okay, Thatch. That’s what I’m saying. He’s got the fortitude to have a bad game and move past it.”
I nod, because somehow his tone and his touch are making my throat close up. I couldn’t care less about a hockey game, but Jamie being okay is my life’s work.
“I can’t fix it.” The words are pulled from me, but somehow I say them to Monroe.
“Okay,” Monroe says. “So you can’t fix it. He will be okay, though. I promise.”
I nod, unable to add any words to that.
Monroe gives me a long look and then heads out to his usual post-game meetup with the coaches and Alex.
I wait for Jamie by my vehicle, safely away from everyone in the parking lot. He’s the last one out, and he says nothing, a thousand-yard stare on his face as he makes his way to my truck.
“Listen, kiddo,” I tell him, lowering the tailgate for his gear. “Everyone has an off game. You—”
I’m interrupted by Jamie throwing his gear into the truck with a rare showing of violence, then slamming the tailgate shut, the sound loud in the nearly deserted parking lot. I step back, because of all the emotions I usually get from my twelve-year-old, anger isn’t one of them.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A string of bad games. Maybe I’ll just give up hockey altogether, which we both know you would love. Maybe then I can hate hockey as much as you!”