Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Ash Patel: Roe Monroe was back at The Blue Line again this morning. Third day this week. Same booth. Hoodie up.
Riley Novak: If he’s trying to hide, he picked the one coffee shop in town and sat under a damn window. Bless.
Patti Jensen: What is his obsession with the old bar on the square? Hockey superstition?
I reluctantly take Thatcher up on his offer for a ride home.
Close confines with him might not be the best idea I ever had, though.
Thatcher’s truck smells as good as his lasagna. Maybe better. It’s a faint smell of fresh wood and something comforting underneath. Vanilla maybe.
“Where am I headed?” he asks, putting the truck in reverse.
I tell him and he doesn’t need more than the name of my townhouse complex. Fox River Falls is a small town, after all.
“Thank you, for today,” he says, his voice rough with emotion, but only enough for the words to be heartfelt.
“Jamie’s a good kid,” I tell him. “And thanks for dinner.” I clutch the leftover lasagna close to me. I truly hadn’t had a home cooked meal in years, and something about being part of Jamie and Thatcher’s domestic scene had been nice. Unexpected, but nice.
“Look,” I begin, not really thinking ahead about my words, although they need to be said. “I don’t want to overstep my place here.” Thatcher gives me some side-eye. “But for what it’s worth, Jamie doesn’t feel as though he can talk to you about hockey.”
I can see the corded muscle of his arms flex as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. I think he’s going to ignore me, but instead he nods.
“I am aware.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Jamie knows why.”
“Maybe I want to know too. And maybe Jamie isn’t as clear on it as you think he is.” I don’t know why I want to know, but I do. Gabe Thatcher is a mystery to me, and I want to figure him out. Even just a little bit.
Thatcher sighs and a long pause stretches out between us. It’s well past dark and the lights from the parts of town that are still lit play off Thatcher’s handsome face as we drive by.
“My dad played hockey,” Thatcher finally says. “He was good, I guess. Just not good enough. He spent his entire life chasing a hockey career that never happened. Still, it was the most important thing in his life.”
Something clicks and I think I get it. I’ve seen guys do that, chase their hockey dreams instead of taking care of their kid or their home.
Sacrificing a full life for some half-life long after it should have been over.
Seeing that is a part of why I want to end my career on my own terms, not have it ended for me.
“I don’t want that for Jamie,” Thatcher continues.
“I want him to know he has more than hockey.” He sighs after another long pause.
“It’s hard to straddle this line, to support him—because of course I do—but to also try and have him see there’s more.
I don’t want to be unsupportive, but at the same time, I can’t let hockey be his entire life. ”
“Tell me if I cross a line here, but what about his mom?”
Thatcher gives me a side-eye once again, and I smirk in return. It’s funny how the subject of hockey seems to be one I have to step around carefully—almost tiptoe—but Jamie’s missing mom has Thatcher damn near relaxing in contrast.
“His mom—that’s Liz—she loves hockey or whatever Jamie’s into. She’s supportive from afar.”
I nod. “So the divorce wasn’t—“
Thatcher cuts me off, which is good because I wasn’t sure where I was going with that. “There was no divorce; we weren’t married. Jamie’s always been with me, and she comes in and out of his life when she decides that’s what she wants— with the most minimal negative impacts I can manage.”
We’re entering the townhouse community, and I direct him to mine.
“That seems like a lot,” I tell him as he parks.
“Managing all of that.” And doing it alone.
I may only have been in his house for a moment, but I peeked into his bedroom when I went to wash my hands for dinner.
It’s clear it’s just him and Jamie. I wonder why, and how, a guy like Thatcher is alone.
His hand rests on his thigh, and I wet my lips without thinking.
Jamie’s dad is damned attractive. His thigh is lean but muscled, and even from my side of the truck and in the low light I can tell that, but his hands are something else—able to hold a child, make lasagna, to build things.
Capable fucking hands that I wouldn’t mind having on me.
The tension that always seems to exist between us is still here in the cab of his truck, and my dick takes notice that this time it’s different. Thicker. Closer to snapping in a way. I wouldn’t hate a rough makeout session, or more, if he needed to blow off some steam.
Thatcher’s eyes meet mine and the air in his vehicle has changed. Did he see me checking him out? Was it that obvious? Something has the truck cabin charged enough that I wonder what it would be like to lean across the console and brush my lips across his.
The idea has my dick hardening in the confines of my jeans, wanting to remind me how long it’s been since I’ve had sex. Not only that, but Gabe Thatcher’s brand of sandy, almost-blond, scruffy sex appeal is only enhanced in this light, and the enclosed space has my mind going places it shouldn’t.
“I’ll just grab my things from the back,” I quickly say, reaching to release my seat belt, and then I’m out the door faster than is warranted.
My fantasies want to play out at a million miles a minute, just like they have since the local gossip made sure I knew that Thatch dated both men and women.
That doesn’t mean he’s interested in me, though, and given his story about his dad and my own past. Well, I can see why he didn’t want me around Jamie.
Making a move would be pressing my luck for sure.
Before I can reach into the back of the truck and grab the bag I left with him when I took off after Jamie, Thatcher is there, his strong body next to mine, moving to drop the tailgate, but still so close my blood heats.
The smell in the truck is him, and I can smell it now, clean wood that’s just been cut and vanilla.
I almost groan out loud at the thought of that intoxicating smell on Thatcher’s golden skin.
I want to run my nose along his neck, pull him and that smell close to me, feel his lean body against mine.
I want his solidness, his warmth. His attention.
His eyes are dark, searching, when he silently hands me my bag. Time seems to stop for a moment as my heart races and breathing seems difficult.
Right at the moment I’m about to say fuck it and go in for the kiss I want, his sexy bedroom eyes stop shining, stop searching mine, and confusion washes over his face from eyes to mouth. Just like at the hockey game, there isn’t an easier book to read than Thatcher’s face.
And that look says Thatcher is confused as hell.
I step back with a sigh before he’s the one to break the moment. He turns to put the tailgate back up and I head for the sidewalk.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say over my shoulder. “And for dinner.”
He stands beside his truck door, watching me as I move toward my townhouse.
“Thank you, Monroe.”
There it is. No more “Roe.” I’m back to Monroe now. It’s an obvious distance he wants to place between us, and I just nod back to him.
Still, when I get to my apartment, I can’t help but look back. Thatcher’s just sitting in his truck, and I swear he is watching me.
***
I think more about Thatcher than I should for days after that ride in his truck. There’s just something endearing about a guy who has the capacity that Thatcher has. Maybe I have a competency kink.
Not just that, but I’ve been in the man’s home. It’s clearly a sanctuary where he focuses on the work of raising his son. But who focuses on him? Does Thatcher have anyone? The more I think about it, the more I think he’s not just a loner, but maybe a bit lonely too.
I also think about the beautiful wood cabinet that sits to the side of their foyer. Thatcher made it. Somehow I know he did without being told. I think about what it must be like to have that kind of talent, to make things with your own two hands.
Two strong hands, with almost artistic fingers. Skilled.
I’m practically obsessed with what they might feel like on me.
“Monroe!”
Coach is looking at me, red in the face as though he’s been yelling, and the Iceguard’s locker room is too quiet, making me think the yelling had been going on longer than I realized. Montrose is laughing his ass off, and Benji won’t meet my eye. Diggs mumbles something I can’t hear.
“Coach?” I ask, turning my attention to him.
“You better be spaced out because you’re thinking about the next game, Monroe. Or is my talking getting in the way of your daydreams, princess?” Coach asks and the room snickers. I nod along, taking the hit I deserve for letting my mind wander.
“Sorry, Coach.”
Coach snaps his attention back to the room.
“The next thing I needed talk to you all about was The Freeze. It’s an even bigger deal this year .
. .” Coach pauses as the guys do some general mumbling and shit-talking about the skills competition.
“I know you all want to show off your skills, and the Iceguard have a strong tradition of putting up impressive numbers each year, but this year will be about more than just the skills portion.”
“As you know . . .” Coach’s eye lands on me and I do not like the look he’s giving.
“We’ve been focused on community. And as you also know, a big part of The Freeze is hosting not only a local collegiate match on the outdoor rink, but also the tournaments for the junior teams, and the annual charity game the Fox River Falls residents play in each year. ”
His gaze lands on me again, and this time I’m sure I’m about to be nominated for something I don’t want.
“I think Roe Monroe will be a great choice to represent the Iceguard at The Freeze as our ambassador. It’s going to be a long day, Monroe, but you can handle it.”
Benji snickers, and Diggs quits trying to hide his laughter.
“Monroe, I’ll give your contact information to the coordinator for The Freeze.
Generally, you show up, look pretty, play in the community game, and announce the events.
Maybe coordinate some of the chaos. Whatever they need.
I hope the rest of you take part in the festival too, beyond the skills challenges, of course. I recommend the ice sculptures myself.”
Coach gives me a devious look and I smile in return. He acts like he just handed me the worst assignment of the day, but how hard can smiling and being an ambassador for the team really be? It makes me feel like I’m earning something, maybe even a “C” on my jersey right above my heart.
Coach pivots from that to getting serious.
We have a long road series ahead of us—about two weeks—and then another similar stretch later in the season.
Two weeks on the road with only a few of those days being without a game, and they’re usually travel days.
It’s a grueling schedule, but I’m playing solid hockey right now, so my goal is to stay in the crease and keep things going.
And I do. From the moment we hit the bus, I can feel that I’m in the zone.
By the second game I’m getting a few questions from the press.
Of course, the press is never like it is in the NAPH—there are no after-game press conferences, only yelled questions on the way to the locker room—but it’s not nothing.