Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Roe Monroe
The Bench Social Media Group
Stan Gordon: Fox River Falls, now accepting thank-you notes from Chicago for our very own Roe Monroe.
Patti Jensen: Don’t forget who got him there—Benji, Diggs, and Jamie with those pickup drills.
Marge Calloway: I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. He came here to get back on the ice, but I think he’ll stay for something more.
The road into Fox River Falls always sneaks up on me. The turns are too familiar now. The cracked stretch past the mill. The stretch where the trees crowd too close. The corner gas station with the same neon sign that looks like it’s been half lit for years.
I roll down the window even though it’s cold out. I want to smell it . . . that strange mix of river water, woodsmoke, and ice that clings to this place. That reminds me who I was when I first got here—and how far I’ve come from that.
Benji gives me a curious glance, but he has been ever since I was skating aimlessly on the ice and then talking to Dom before the final game. Luckily his wife, Charlotte, picked us up from the airport, and she’s chatty, so I haven’t had to make much conversation.
I do have them drop me at Thatcher’s, though.
My knee aches as I step out of the car. I try not to limp. I’m tired, but not the kind of tired you can fix with a nap. It’s the kind that settles deep, that tells you something’s changing.
I knock once, even though I could just punch in the code. The door opens almost immediately.
Thatcher looks like he’s mid-project—there’s a pencil behind his ear, sawdust in his hair, a soft smudge of stain on his forearm. His shirt’s stretched at the collar, and he’s barefoot, standing in the doorway like he forgot how to breathe.
I drop the duffel.
He doesn’t say a word. Just rakes his eyes over me, confusion swirling in their depths.
I meet him halfway.
The kiss isn’t rushed. It’s not the kind of kiss you give when you’re trying to prove something. It’s steadier than that. Surer. Like neither of us has to fight anymore.
He pulls back and looks at me for a long moment, like pieces of a puzzle that he was looking at all wrong somehow slide into the right place.
Then he takes the lead, kissing me for all he’s worth.
I fall into it, savoring every push and pull of his lips. By the time we’re done, I’m so far in love with him I know there’s no turning back. It’s forever.
When we pull apart, he keeps one hand on the back of my neck.
“You came here when you got back,” he says, sort of somewhere between a statement and a question.
“I couldn’t wait to see you, baby,” I confess. Then, wondering if there’s more to the statement, I add, “I told you I would.”
“That’s a thing people say,” he agrees.
“Me.” I put my hand on his chest. “It’s what I said, Gabe.”
He leans in again—this time just a brush of lips. A promise. Then he steps back and grabs my bag like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on. Jamie will never let us forget it if you don’t see him before bedtime.”
***
Somewhere in the haze of the next day, between kisses and a thorough exploration of each other’s bodies, we talk about the bar and my plans for it. Thatcher roughs out a plan of what needs to be done to gut the place, and I wrap my head around what it means to begin the project.
I catch Thatcher looking at me sometimes, and I know that me being called up took something out of him. I’m not sure of the exact demons he wrestled with while I was gone, but I know his support came with its own sort of price.
The next week is a blur of sawdust and stubborn trim and takeout containers with our names scribbled on the lids.
Jamie wraps himself around me like I never left, and Liz, surprisingly, doesn’t complicate things.
She’s still flighty, still in one of her “trying” phases, but she doesn’t push.
Not yet. She mostly remembers her promises to Jamie, and Thatcher starts relaxing a little when she makes them.
The citizens of Fox River Falls look to see me and Thatcher together, and I see their gaze slide over her and Thatcher differently, not even registering them as a possible couple.
My head is clear on the ice, back into the feel of the Iceguard. My head is also clear on some decisions about the bar. And a good thing too, considering the work it needs and the fact I now have Thatcher’s help.
Thatcher and I fall into something quiet and sure. We don’t call it anything. We don’t need to.
He lets me help in the bar in the late afternoons and weekends. I’m terrible with measurements, but decent with a sander. We talk while we work—about bar layouts, liquor licenses, salvage lumber. About real things. Grounded things.
At night, he doesn’t send me home. The sort of half-in half-out existence goes from me bringing an overnight bag to him putting my clothes next to his in the closet.
He carves the shelves for the back wall of the bar one slat at a time, refusing to accept anything less than precision. I start drafting drink menus on my phone and putting my business plan into something cohesive, not just a mess of notes. It feels stupid. It also feels like a future.
Two weeks later and I’m at the kitchen counter pretending I know how to make pasta sauce—I don’t, but I’ve gotten pretty good at following a recipe if there’s a video—when the phone rings.
Jerry.
I suck in a breath, dry my hands on a towel, and pick up.
“You’re still looking good with the Iceguard,” Jerry says by way of greeting.
I smile. “What’s going on?”
“Chicago wants you back,” he says.
My heart doesn’t drop. It doesn’t leap either. It just . . . steadies. Like I was already expecting this call. Like I’ve been waiting to know what it means.
“Just for a few games?” I ask. The Knights aren’t expected to get too far in the playoffs, so it makes sense with the timing.
“No. This is a different offer, Monroe. Next season. The full year, at least. You’ve seen Dom play. Coaching staff thinks he needs a veteran next to him. Somebody calm. Somebody who knows how to steer the bench, and they liked your chemistry with him.”
“And they want me for that?”
“They want the Roe Monroe they saw in Boston. The one they see with the Iceguard and the youth teams down there. You were a quiet storm. You know what that means?”
I lean back against the counter.
“Means I’ve got leverage,” I say.
Jerry chuckles. “I’m listening. But you might want to call your agent first.”
“Regular season contract. No trade clause.” I shoot back. Something my agent would dither about even though I’m serious about it being a deal breaker.
“You serious?”
“As a pulled groin in January.”
Jerry snorts.
“You’re asking for no movement on a fourth-line stabilizer slot.”
“I’m asking for one team. You want one year? Promise me one city. For one season. If they want me to settle that kid down and hold the line, they need to let me be confident that I’m not about to be traded away when someone comes asking.”
Jerry sighs. “They’re already asking. Did your agent tell you?”
He sent over a few offers after my NAPH comeback games, but I’m not an idiot.
I know how this game works and I know I got lucky with the team believing in me by sending me to rehab and the Iceguard.
But I also know that if I come back playing well, my value proposition starts to change, and at some point the potential liability of the bad boy of hockey starts to outweigh the comeback story.
And solid veteran players are their own commodity in the NAPH.
“I read some offers. All I’m asking is the freedom to build something when I’m off the ice. I can shepherd a rookie. We also all know that my knee and my age put limits on my usefulness.”
“No one is saying that, Monroe, Jesus.”
“Maybe they should be,” I counter. “It’s the truth. My contract is almost up, that’s part of why I’m at the Iceguard. If I come back, it’s on my terms. My swan song, Jerry. I’ve got a bar to open. I’ve got someone waiting. I don’t have the spoons to pretend otherwise.”
He’s quiet before I hear that familiar chuckle again.
“Roe Monroe just had to go and get his priorities straight. You’re gonna make me earn this one, huh?”
“Isn’t that what they pay you for?”
“Have your agent send me the specifics of what you want.”
“You first. Send me what the offer is and you can anticipate my counter. I’m not playing, Jer. These are my terms.”
Jerry sighs, but it’s affectionate. “Alright, Monroe. I’ll have it to your agent and you by Monday.”
Later that night, I wait until it’s that quiet time of the evening when Jamie is occupied upstairs and dinner is finished and put away before I go find Thatcher in his workshop.
I watch him for a while before I speak. His movements are slow. Careful. There’s music playing low—some bluesy instrumental track I don’t recognize.
He pauses. Looks up. Doesn’t speak.
I move closer, enjoying the way his eyes darken as I get closer to him. There’s something heady about knowing I turn him on by my mere proximity.
“I got some news today,” I say, and he stills.
“Good news?” he asks, wiping his hands to give me his full attention.
“They want me back. For next season.”
Still nothing. Just that steady, unreadable Thatcher stare.
“They’ve got a hotshot kid they think I can stabilize . . . Dom. It’s basically a year. I said yes, on one condition.”
He picks up and then sets the brush back down.
“No trade clause,” I say. “One team. One city. No bouncing. No bullshit.”
A long silence.
Then, quietly.
“This is what you want? You’ve got more than a year in you, Rory.”
“I want to finish this the right way,” I say. “I want to give them everything I’ve got left and then come home to you. I want a full life after the NAPH.”
His breath catches, just a little.
“I want you. I want the bar. I want Jamie. I want all of this. But I also want to walk away from the game knowing I didn’t quit before I was done. I want to make that call, not the game.”
He nods once. Then again, slower. If anyone can understand where I’m coming from, it’s Thatcher.
“Then go,” he says.
I cross the room, reach for his hand, and pull it gently from the lacquered wood.
“I want you, Thatcher. We can do this. If you want to.”
Thatcher’s gaze melts and he cups my face, a thumb brushing close to my lips.
“Of course I want to, Rory.”
“I love you,” I tell him, feeling wet tracks down my face. I’m not sad, just overwhelmed by emotion.
His lips are shaking as they brush over mine.
“I love you,” he answers back, the words skating across my lips.
We stay like that for a long time, kissing, vulnerable, too many emotions for words.
“When I come back,” I finally say. “I want the bar to be everything we imagined.”
He holds my gaze.
“You’d better,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not doing the drywall twice. Not to mention the custom builds.”
We laugh. It’s small. Quiet. Real.
And I kiss him as he runs his fingers through my hair with sawdust on his hands.