Chapter 12 Gabe Thatcher
Chapter twelve
Gabe Thatcher
The Bench Social Media Group
Stan: Yeah. They got this.
We end up on my back deck. I found bottles of water and a quilt, and now we’re sitting in the quiet while the snow melts slowly along the edge of the deck railing.
Everything’s still—no cars, no town gossip, just the quiet hum of night in Fox River Falls.
My yard faces the woods, so it gets still and quiet back here.
Roe’s sitting next to me on the porch swing I built three winters ago.
It’s piled high with cushions and mismatched pillows because Jamie is known to nap out here.
Roe has one foot tucked under his knee, hair still a little messy, and his hoodie is zipped, but not all the way.
He looks comfortable. Like he belongs here.
It guts me a little, how good that feels. As if maybe I’ve been wanting this, or something like it, longer than I realized.
I don’t say anything at first. Don’t want to break the quiet. I don’t want to look too hard at it.
Then he shifts slightly, just enough to brush his shoulder against mine, and says, “So . . . what are we doing?”
I set my water down, rest my hands on my thighs. “You want the polished answer or the real one?”
“Real.”
I nod. “I don’t know.”
He snorts softly. “Great start.”
I glance over. “I know I want this. You. Whatever this is turning into . . .” I sigh.
“Actually, you want honesty? I didn’t want this.
But now? Now I can’t imagine not trying to see where it goes.
” I take a breath. “But I also know it’s messy.
You’ve got one foot out the door of a place like this—maybe not now, but eventually. ”
He’s quiet.
I keep going.
“So it’s got some sort of limited shelf life. I get that. And I’ve got a kid. So no, I don’t have a name for this. You just sort of happened, Roe.”
He’s still for a second, then says, “I’m not good at the long-term thing. Every time I’ve tried, I end up being the guy someone regrets letting in.”
“You’re not him with me.”
That gets his attention.
“I mean it,” I say. “You don’t scare me off. You don’t make me doubt this. I’ve just never done something like this.”
He lets out a slow breath. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I want this too,” he says. “Even if we don’t have a roadmap yet.”
We sit with that. The quiet agreement of it.
Then he adds, “And for the record? I’m not planning on leaving.”
I turn toward him. “You sure? You could get called up at any time.”
“True.” He grins. “Is that a deal breaker? To me, getting called up to the Knights isn’t me leaving. But I’m not looking for a way out either. That’s new.”
I nod. “We can figure it out.”
His hand finds mine—calm, certain. No rush. Just here.
He gives a laugh into my neck, kissing where his puffs of breath land. “Sounds like some ground rules were just established.”
I try and glare at him but fail and end up just rolling my eyes.
Long moments pass.
“Why can’t Jamie talk to you about hockey, Gabe?”
I sigh, struggling to find the words as I let a bare foot sneak out from under the blankets to push off from the decking and keep us in a slight swing.
“I told you my dad played . . . and like I said, it was the most important thing in his world. When I played . . .” I shrug. “He loved me. And then I decided to test whether that love went beyond hockey. I stopped playing. It wasn’t hard. I didn’t really love it anymore at that point. Not like—“
“Jamie,” Roe finishes and I nod.
“Yeah, not like that.”
“Go on.”
“My dad always pushed hockey. Everything else was nothing—wind—compared to that.”
“That’s hard.”
I nod. “Yeah. It was the ultimate barometer of who you were. As a son. As a man. So, hockey and I have an uneasy truce. We coexist. I push back every discomfort for Jamie, and I’m still fucking it up.”
Roe’s hand slides up my arm, and it feels so good just to be near him, touching each other in these little ways.
“I can guarantee that you are not fucking up with him.”
“I want . . .” I trail off, trying to find the words. “I don’t want Jamie to know how much it costs me. Hockey, I mean. I just want to support him and be there and keep all that other shit packed firmly away. Or get past it all and not have it cloud my relationship with him.”
Roe gives a little laugh. “Yeah, I may know a thing or two about that feeling. Wanting to bottle up the bad and only let people see the good.” He shifts his weight, getting closer still to me. “It never lasts, Thatch. Trust me. You can’t kick the can down the road indefinitely.”
I nod, knowing Roe has some hard-won wisdom here.
“I haven’t talked about my dad in years. He passed well before Jamie was born.”
Roe doesn’t move. Doesn’t press. Just waits.
“He was a star,” I say. “Not just local famous. He played Juniors, got close to a shot at the big leagues. Then he tore up his leg in a car accident, and came back here bitter as hell. Played for the farm team and lived in the land of what if.”
Roe shifts just slightly closer, still not speaking.
“Everything in our house revolved around the game. How you skated, how you passed, how you got hit and didn’t cry about it. And if you didn’t live up to that? He found ways to make sure you felt it.”
I flex my hand without thinking. Some bruises never made it to the surface.
“I quit at seventeen. Told him I wanted to work with my hands, not break them for someone else’s approval. He called me a coward. Told me I’d waste my life just making things for other people.”
Roe’s jaw tenses, but he stays quiet.
“I told myself I’d never let Jamie go near a rink.
I didn’t want him growing up thinking his worth had anything to do with points or penalty minutes.
I was going to shield him from the locker room idea of what a man could be.
I forgot that would be impossible in Fox River Falls, so I caved when he was still too young to catch on. ”
“But he loves it,” Roe says softly.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “And he’s talented. And I’m trying not to ruin that for him. Even subconsciously.”
Roe reaches over, not for drama, not for show, just to hold my hand, steady. “You didn’t ruin it. You support him. That’s what good dads do.”
I nod. Look down. “I guess I just don’t want him to think I hate what makes him happy.”
“You don’t,” Roe says. “You just hate what it did to you.”
That lands harder than I expect.
And then, after a beat, “We should tell him about us.”
I look over. “Jamie?”
Roe nods. “Before anyone else does. Before it ends up on The Bench again with a badly photoshopped engagement ring and a soft-focus filter.”
I huff a laugh. “Yeah. You’re right. They are relentless.” I close my eyes. “Or someone asks him at school.”
“You okay with that?”
“With telling him?”
“Yeah.”
I nod. “He deserves to hear it from us.”
Roe leans back, shoulder brushing mine. “I’m nervous.”
“Me too. But, with everyone else . . .”
“Gabe, I’m perfectly fine with you and me doing whatever the hell we want and letting the gossips of this town try to sort it out. We’re dating.”
“There’s one thing, though,” I start, not sure how to say this. I never asked Liz about it, and maybe that’s pretty telling. “When you say dating, I think about being exclusive, and you might not, but—“
I don’t get another word out before Roe’s lips are on mine.
“Oh no,” he says, pulling back. “You’re all mine, Gabe Thatcher.”